Preach The Gospel At All Times, and Not Only Are Words Necessary, It's Important That They're Specific

Around this time five years ago, he and I were committed to each other in as many ways as two can be except by way of ring or covenant. In hindsight, the youngest and most dangerous of all the ways. We were fighting already like old people – a lot over schedules and semantics then, and we both hated pornography. He loved me and I loved him, and we knew from the humble beginning that we’d end up together, rounding out those last and final stages. I’d hear his same profession, let it sink impatiently deep, try with all my might to value its simple three-word form, and then I’d ask him for the first time, “But what do you love about me?”

We’d released our good and ready phrase into the atmosphere with an adolescent force to be reckoned with, and as many of you know, you’ll never get that bird back in its cage again. It flits and flutters about, intentionally careless, landing when it needs to or when it doesn’t, singing soft and loud, never enough times. And it’s true. Just when you think the love well’s run dry or it’s at least losing tread, there are days when it’s uttered between every literal breath and even then it’s still too few. So when, then, did I start needing more?

But what? He’d say well, of course your blue eyes and your family and our very common interests. I’d look at him – a stranger – my eyes drifting for his phone, and I wondered about who else he might know with blue eyes, a family, and similar favorite things.

. . .

I was scrolling through Instagram the other day, and this happens to me sometimes – I’ll go from zero to irked with not much context for the trigger that brought me there. I’m sure social media is a contributing factor, but it’s not the only one, and I won’t resign to an eternal temperament that’s just annoyed at the wind. With the help of the Holy Spirit who convicts with immediacy, I’m getting to the bottom of the provocations and the reasons they make me utterly out of control. Sometimes all-day irritable, sometimes more. Like rolling your windows up, locking your doors, and – only until your voice breaks and betrays you – suffocating a whole car with the devil’s dictionary of expletives and not a sin in sight to blame it on. Anyways, we’re working on it, sanctification and me.

That particular day, I’d come across some fluffy account (that’s what I call them) and behind this one, another blonde preaching from her impressive platform about dreams and margin and the ethereal lies that whirl around a misshapen identity. Throw in a few kitschy phrases about what to do when God says no and you’ve unlocked the winning formula. An anemic, scripture-based message and a thousand-person chorus amen-ing in unison. About what? She hadn’t risked a thing speaking in platitudes, she received the applause she had hoped for, and her blind affiliates can say they sort of feel better about themselves. Maybe it was a win-win all along.

He tapped me gently and told me that this was one of those times. Caught in the unbecoming web of judgment, condescension, and a gnarly assumption that her empty, loose words couldn’t possibly resonate with another human soul. It was a vulgar response, and a wrong one, but it was an assessment I wanted to come back to because it wasn’t new to me. I didn’t have pen and paper handy, so I scribbled down what notes I could quickly into my phone before the free thought vaporized and became bitter like it’s done before.

Vulnerability is specific and should be practiced without restraint – In relationship, in faith, in writing. Including detail and pointed repentance will highlight the character of the Lord more than vague representations of openness will. How much is too much to share or is that the point?

I collapsed it down and put the phone back snugly in my pocket, recognizing good and well that my opinion is only that, and I’ll need One more knowing to really get at what’s true. But with a swift and single pivot, I was at least able to catch it in a jar and examine the bug more clearly from above than from inside, slamming our heads into glass.

It really bothers me when I see a writer beat around the bush and call it honest. In fact, I think to name yourself a writer at all, you must be willing to learn more words and stretch them out to describe a thing well and you must be willing to suffer twice, making a reader live through the very affliction that made you tear the page up in the first place. I’m not trying to hear about your tiff with anxiety, which has you beat down. I want to see the color of the hives that cover your chest when you take your shirt off at night and know if they feel like bubble wrap as you press your fingers in. I’m not concerned with how inadequate you feel as a wife unless I know about the way you situated both soapy hands against the kitchen sink and with your neck strained out long you cry out to him that you don’t quite care what he has to say. And when you talk about apathy, try not to use the word more than once. Instead, tell me how scary it is to sit around a table eating chicken with the five people you love most and to still feel nothing, much like how someone might react after they’ve lost sight or sound or touch or taste.

Now, there’s a bit of controversy surrounding this one, but it might behoove the church to come out and just stand by something. Rather than covering its bases with a brush of generalities, I wonder how many might actually be comforted by the force in which a leader admits that he wishes they’d not split families up at the border. We’d nearly eliminate congregational phrases like, I know you didn’t mean to say it this way or what is he/she really trying to get at? You don’t have any reason to listen to me because I don’t know the first thing about stewarding a local body and I’m closer to apolitical than anything, but it’s just tiring to hear an authority voice in whatever capacity be mild and agreeable. Ask the spirit to correct, of course – and He will – but then find your convictions and don’t let them down, because the godforsaken name of authenticity depends on it.

If you’re familiar with any of my other ramblings here or elsewhere, you know that the Lord’s been teaching me for some time about my words. They trip me up and come out wrong and have been the cause of a handful of hurts over the years. It was a cruel irony when the Lord fashioned me with a penchant for writing and an unkempt tongue, but we’re working through that. And regarding the tendency to spill my guts all over the floor, there are moments where I’m certain I’ve let people in on way more than they bargained for with no way to take it back and no way to rearrange the story. But He’s quick to remind me that the word of God is specific and that when understood rightly, specificity is a gift too often snubbed and turned away as baggage. God was clear in his commandments, Jesus clear in his preaching of the gospel, and the Holy Spirit clear in his prompting and direction. The enemy tends to crouch near specificity and offer that they didn’t ask for this, and when you notice that, push further and you’ll hear the truer voice offer that maybe it’s surely what they need.

Ryan and I have spent all of our subsequent years in the throes of intimacy and the compounding specificity required to stay there. Say what you will about the Enneagram, but it’s a recently trendy tool that wasn’t as trendy four thousand years ago. Studying it closely has defogged a world of frustration for us. It doesn’t fix marriages or make you a perfect companion, but it encourages purposeful communication and comprehensive understanding – both ideas that demand precision.

We’ve learned to be specific in our praise and intentional with our questions. I don’t notice a fridge full of groceries and tell him thank you anymore. I go to him and say hey, I appreciate you going to the store. That’s really freed me up to rest, finish my work well, etc. Used to, he’d ask me what in the world is wrong, and I truly, madly wouldn’t know. I’d tell him nothing and neither of us was happy with that half true response. Now, because he knows that the shame-game is a 4’s broken heel, he’ll lean in and say that he knows I’m embarrassed for blowing up unfairly earlier and is that what’s bothering you? And the fact that he knows me well enough to direct his language accordingly is what separates shallow, self-serving openness from risky, self-sacrificing vulnerability.

After all this time, it’s not what he loves about me that’s changed, but the scope with which he shoots has become smaller. But what, I’ll say. And it’s something silly like how my nails click against the iPhone gorilla glass when I’m typing a message. He can hear it from a mile away. Most people use the pads of their fingers which produces an entirely different sound. Or when you’re primping in the mirror, he says, you make this same face. He demonstrates. Your lips purse and your eyes are like almonds, but you don’t know you’re doing it and no one would notice unless they’ve admired it for many, many mornings.

With such specificity, he’s captured my attention, and I believe anything he’ll say.

It’s not like we have nothing to lose in doing so, because I’m sure there are plenty of things. Reputation, perception, followers and fame. There’ll be backlash and possibly extreme opposition. But what if we dug all the way down and reached the guilty ground with signs that show we’ve said too much only to find that there’s more to go. More to uncover, more to feel, more to say. What if we risked over-sharing, misunderstanding, and being exposed for the sake of real rock-bottom depth and communion. I think we’ll find there’s freedom in saying exactly what we mean and consequently meaning what we say. Be diligent to pray against shame once it’s out there, and ask the Lord to do what only he can do when you’ve emptied yourself of everything. Go further than you’ve gone and expect quite a new thing to well up in you.