Learning to Avoid Short-hand

In high school I remember taking a course in short-hand. Beyond that, I don’t remember much. I do recall that short-hand consists of a series of odd squiggles and lines and dots that are supposed to represent different letters and words. Learning to use it was supposed to help us take notes more quickly—though I have no memory whatever of actually using what I was learning in this course. So I guess it wasn’t so helpful at all, except perhaps in keeping my GPA nice and steady.

Thinking about it now, I’m sort of glad that I have long forgotten how to use it. I also don’t have any evidence that I actually took the course, no notes filled with tests and quizzes and assignments on short-hand. And again, I’m glad. If I were to find them now, I’d have no way to read those notes shy of re-acquainting myself with short-hand. The notes would be useless to me and indecipherable to anyone else—unless they happened to be adept at this particularly arcane skill. But, honestly, unless you’re in need of some sort of code language to hide secret messages, why would you want to know how to use short-hand?

It strikes me, though, that in our world people use all kinds of short-hand, even if not of the formal sort that I once learned in high school. Being able to use a form of short-hand is basically about being able to say more with less or at least the same with less. It’s a language, a way of communicating without having to have an abundance of explanation. To that extent, it’s not necessarily a bad thing. Sometimes it’s helpful to be able to make yourself understood with minimal verbiage or by using mutually understood terms and references that get the point the across between parties that already understand the terms and references.

Often organizations and groups and limited networks of people develop forms of short-hand. This is even true in churches. As Christians we use all kinds of terms and references that are a form of short-hand. (Check this post for instances of this—see what number you come up with!) For instance, we will ask a fellow Christian about a third party, “Is he born again?” or “Is she saved?” This is short-hand for asking if the person has placed their trust in God, asked him to forgive their sins and has entered into a personal relationship with Jesus Christ and has confessed him as Lord and Saviour.

As you can easily see, asking if someone is born again or saved is a lot easier than asking if they have placed their trust in God, been forgiven, has entered in a personal relationship with Jesus Christ by confessing him as Lord and Saviour! But even in the longer form of the question, there are terms and references that could be considered a form of short-hand, such as “a personal relationship with Jesus Christ.” What does that mean?

Some of the short-hand in the church is straight out of Scripture and most of it is at least biblically based. It’s a form of quickly summarizing what we believe and what we want to say around people who already have something of a grasp of the in-language. I would never suggest ridding our vocabulary of these terms or our conversation, prayers, sermons, and studies of these references. Especially when it comes to the terms that come right from the Bible, I would argue that we need to retain them. But we do need to realize that as a form of short-hand, using such terms and references thoughtlessly comes with a few difficulties and pitfalls, both for us and for those outside the church.

First, us. One pitfall about such short-hand or in-language is that when using it we often, even in churches, assume we mean the same thing by the same terms. We’ve all heard about the danger involved when we assume something (or at least I assume you have. If not, break down the word into three parts and see what the two parties become who make assumptions in conversation!).

Seriously, this probably happens more than we think. Words carry loads of meaning, even beyond their biblical intention (that is, when they are biblical terms). People bring to the words they use wads of associations and experiences that may or may not be shared with the person they’re talking with over coffee after the church service, colouring the meaning such that, were the persons to carefully define their terms, they would realize that they were not on the same wavelength at all.

I know that certain terms and references some Christians use cause a certain reaction in me, not based on what they might mean by those terms but by what I have come to associate with those terms. One of those, just as an example, is when someone refers to another Christian as anointed, meaning that said individual is specially used or gifted by God to speak or minister in an especially powerful way. Usually the term is used of leaders in the church, pastors or teachers or sometimes people who minister through music.

Now when I hear the term anointed, what it says to me has something of a Pentecostal ring to it. That is, for a preacher to be anointed his preaching, both through content and delivery, has to result in a lot of amens, tears, and even conversions. It suggests to me that the response to the sermon is immediate and emotional and direct. You know as you preach how people are responding to your preaching.

One the flipside, it suggests that preaching that is not like this, not anointed, is somehow inferior preaching. It may have been a good message, but it was not one that moved people. It wasn’t Spirit-filled even if it was Word-filled. Now there may very well be lots of sermons that have great content but perhaps aren’t very inspiring—and don’t result in emotional responses in the congregation—but I wouldn’t limit the power of a particular sermon to this understanding of anointed.

For me to associate all of this with the word anointed may or may not be right. But all I have to hear is the word—“That pastor is anointed!”—and that’s what immediately comes to my mind. And, subsequently, I wonder what such a person would make of my sermons, which hardly ever result in noticeable emotional responses. What does it say of my preaching? In my worst moments, when I hear such language, I question whether I am anointed in any sense of the word!

Another problem amongst Christians when it comes to in-language is that when we become too accustomed to such terms and easy points of reference, we run the risk of not thinking more deeply about what we’re saying, about the words and language we use. If our thinking doesn’t go deeper than the formulaic terms we use, that is a definite problem.

But we don’t only misunderstand and confuse one another with our in-language. We confuse non-believers, people who don’t have the advantage of having some familiarity with our way of using what a friend of mine used to call “Christianese.” People who aren’t believers also bring a bunch of baggage to some of the terms and references we use—just think of what more liberal Americans think when they hear the terms “evangelical” or “born-again Christian.” They hear things, in some cases, that we don’t want them to hear.

For someone to use churchy-talk with a non-Christian is just as problematic as me using academic theological language with other believers. So, for instance, while some might know that soteriology is the study of the Christian doctrine of salvation, many if not most Christians would not—but they don’t really need to since to understand salvation knowing such a specialized academic term is unnecessary.

To that extent, I would not use a word like soteriology in everyday conversation and if I ever did use it in a Bible study or sermon, I would carefully define it so people would understand—never use such language simply to impress people, to let them know that you know what it means even if they don’t. The problem, though, is that we don’t have to use a word like this to confuse or mislead someone outside the faith—just saying so and so is “saved” might be enough. Depending on the person, what we say might be no more decipherable than those short-hand squiggles and lines I learned in high school!

This kind of thing occurs to me when I’m preaching or leading my congregation in prayer—because I can sometimes catch myself using words and phrases that are essentially short-cuts, especially when in the moment no other words or phrases come to mind! So I’m guilty of this too!

But if instead we intentionally steer away from using short-hand in-language or at least become more accustomed to articulating our beliefs using language the person on the street can grasp, not only will we be better communicators to those around us who aren’t Christians but we will also be challenged to think more deliberately about the faith we profess. It does us good also.

We should—once in awhile—stop and think about how we express our faith to those around us. We should consider our words, and understand that our words matter. Because if our goal—or one of our goals—is to proclaim our faith, to communicate it clearly, and articulate it in ways that people can understand, then we should make the effort to ensure that people’s first-hand experience of our faith is not our short-hand.

The silliness of preaching?

I was just sitting here working on my sermon for Sunday, and a thought occurred to me. It's not the first time such a thought has occurred to me either. That thought is this: isn't there something particularly silly or odd about preaching?

In no other setting can I imagine a group of people willingly (more or less!) listening to me talk about something, anything, for anywhere between 20 -- 30 minutes. There are other settings when in the middle of a conversation I find it hard to get a word in edgewise. And there are definitely times when I feel distinctly unheard by those around me. But here, for that brief time on Sunday mornings, people sit respectfully, quietly, attentively (this last one is harder to measure!) while I share what I have learned from God's word. Where else could this happen?

I was reading recently David Murrow's book, Why Men Hate Going to Church, and one of the things he said resonated a little bit. He questioned the whole standard format of the sermon as a 20 -- 30 minute lecture-style presentation of biblical truth, asking why it is that this form dominates when there is evidence to suggest that it's not the most effective means of communicating truth. Murrow argues that this is especially true for men, that men do not generally respond well to this style of presentation.

I said this resonated with me somewhat. I guess this is because sometimes when preaching I can feel this enormous gap between myself (when at the pulpit) and the congregation. Or perhaps it's better to say that I can sense a barrier. I feel set apart in a way that makes me uncomfortable and that seems to create a performer-audience dynamic. I'm on the platform, they're in the chairs, and there is this uncrossable space in between.

Preaching, however defined and executed, should ideally be done in such a way as to eliminate this barrier and bridge this gap as much as possible. All I know is that I want there to be a connection between myself and the congregation. Lots of things factor into this from style of preaching to the physical layout of the sanctuary, but if I'm going to have their attention for that amount of time I want it to be as personal an experience as possible. I guess you might say that I want my style of preaching to exemplify as much as possible the fact that faith is personal, relational, and livable. Not that I always, or even often, get there but it's something I want to grow toward.

How I preach and what I preach ought to be related. This is so because as silly as preaching may seem in some ways, it's an invaluable opportunity, an enormous privilege, and a humbling responsibility. While Christ's choosing us to bear his message may have a ring of ridiculousness about it (considering who we are), there is nothing ridiculous or silly about the message itself (considering who Christ is).

So, to return to my original thought and question: isn't there something particularly silly or odd about preaching? Yes. And the silliness, foolishness, and oddity of preaching really points to the heart of the message in a way: that God chooses and wills to redeem us, foolish and sinful and wicked as we are, and that he then chooses to use us to carry that same message to others. There's something silly about me preaching because it's me preaching.

Me.

The only thing that qualifies me for preaching is God's call and will to use me. Who am I to tell others to repent when the need for repentance still clings to me like dirt? Who am I to exhort others to live lives of love when I still put myself first in countless ways each day? Who am I to explain the truth of Christ to others when my grasp of it remains so feeble and incomplete? That I am called to preach points to the heart of the gospel. That any human being is called to preach points to the heart of the gospel. And this is why the power of preaching lies not in human words, speaking techniques, or communication skills (good and useful as all these are), but rather in the power of God himself, in his Spirit, to take whatever silly and weak words I have strung together into sentences, paragraphs, points, and punchlines, and use them to change hearts, minds, and lives. In other words, nothing is impossible with God. Even so, Sarah laughed. Sometimes we do too.

Expectations vs. Reality

Sometimes it seems as though nothing goes according to plan. For instance, after three weeks of having to postpone our daughter's homeschooling (vacation, illness, etc.), my wife was supposed to start it up again this morning. But they're both still asleep after what was a long, not very restful night. Once our little girl came into our bed sometime in the middle of the night, she woke up several times upset and crying, either at still having a cold and feeling stuffed up or because of nightmares. Either way, it means that the plan for today was de-railed even before the sun came up.

Even I didn't get up until around 9am. I went to bed around half-past midnight, but didn't actually fall asleep until after 2am. My mind was wound up, I guess. I was thinking about church stuff. And I was worried that my wife was still up and awake even though she had preschool with our daughter in the morning. Now thankfully, since it's just the two of them, schedules are pretty flexible. And though I slept in, Monday is normally my day off anyway.

Last night while lying in bed, I happened to say to my wife something along the lines that I wish things could go completely right and as planned even for just a few days. And she, though still struggling with depression, was able to say that our life was still pretty good. She's largely right about that. It seems quite a lot has to do with our perspective on things. I find that I'm becoming more self-conscious about my own moods and attitudes, and that a lot of the problem when I see things going astray or just plain wrong is me.

It's all about the difference between expectations and reality. How do I expect our life as a family to be? Or more simply, what do I expect to accomplish this morning? Or what do I expect of my wife this afternoon? And which of these expectations are actually realistic? Do I sometimes have unrealistic expectations for us? I'm guessing yes. Sometimes these expectations are pretty conscious--I know I have them and find myself frustrated when they aren't met. But sometimes expectations can be unconscious. I get frustrated but don't know why. I find myself in a sour mood but can't pinpoint the reason. I get irritated at my wife but am unable locate the source of the irritation. Or even if I think I have, it may turn out to be more than what I thought. So there are conscious and unconscious expectations that may or may not match up with reality.

But there's another kind of expectation that can cause even more difficulty: unspoken expectations. This is when I expect my wife to read my mind and understand what I want from her even if I haven't verbally communicated it. There's a certain self-righteousness that rears its ugly head here. "She should know that I would want this," I think. And then I blame her for lacking psychic abilities. We can all deliberately remain non-communicative about these expectations because we truly do believe that our spouse's ability to understand how we feel without our having to spell it out is part of the point. The hiccup in thinking this way, of course, is that we would never reverse the logic. I know I can't psychically intuit what's going on in my wife's head. Heck, even when she spells it out sometimes I still don't get it! Expectations need to be spoken, at least if you want the other person to know what they are.

Such expectations apply to relationships, and they apply to plans and life in general. I expect things to go this way or that way. Then they don't. I expect my wife to do this or that. And she doesn't. I expect to get this or that accomplished. And then I don't. Life doesn't always go as planned. And sometimes that's because we have unspoken expectations and sometimes it's because of unrealistic expectations. I guess that means I have to do a better job either of communicating my expectations or of measuring them and setting them in such a way that they come closer to reality and take what might happen and what might not happen into account. And that's one thing life is teaching me--through marriage, parenting, and ministry: be realistic.