Fourth Sunday of EASTER (Written on April 21, 2009)

For the Lectionary (what's a lectionary?) of May 3, 2009: Psalm 23 & John 10:11-18

 

The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want.

 

SHOW SHEPHERD, DON’T TELL by Larry Patten

On most Wednesdays I attend my writers’ group. There are anywhere from five to fifteen of us, gathered in the back room of a local library.

Some are published. Some not. Some are eager to be published (or to be published more), and some harbor no interest in ever seeing their name in print but claim a lifetime love of books.

We read raw or polished material, but it’s all our stuff. We don’t bring in John Grisham’s latest mega-seller about heroic or scheming attorneys or Flannery O’Connor’s classic southern gothic tales about wounded humans and a wonderful God. Wednesday is about us. We critique each other. One of our few rules is to avoid criticizing content. Which is also like learning to love your neighbor as yourself, thank you Jesus. Which is also to say that if I write a sentence like—

The kid ran as fast as the wind to catch the weeping, sobbing, teary-eyed Gertrude before she boarded the plane and left his life forever.

—my fellow writers might comment on the cliché or redundancy, but not about my sentence or story’s worth.

As a writer, I need to be challenged to see that “fast as the wind” is a cliché. And my Wednesday night critics likely won’t question Gertrude’s emotional water works, but one descriptive adjective may be better that three redundant synonyms. It is easy to criticize content: your novel stinks. It’s harder to provide helpful feedback: what if you chose one word to describe Gertrude? An honest, empathetic critique makes me better. Love your neighbor. Love yourself. Tough work.

Much of what I bring to the group involves Christian faith. Not long ago I shared a scene with my novel’s main character reading Psalm 23 at a graveside service.

(Before I go further . . . yes, yes, the writer’s cliché is “write what you know.” I’m writing a mystery novel. My protagonist, like me, is a pastor. But my made-up minister is not like me at all! He’s taller, younger, smarter, skinnier, and more damaged. Gotta love fiction!)

Back to the real story. Since I assume everyone knows Psalm 23, I don’t have my character speak any of it. My story’s hero said he read Psalm 23, and then I moved the story along to the next moment.

Why did I make that choice? My assumption: everyone knows Psalm 23. I’ve seen the faces in the pews on Sunday morning when the Psalm between 22 and 24 happens to be read. Eyes glaze. Minds wander. Ho-hum. They’ve heard it a zillion times.

I’ve visited hundreds of families to help them prepare for a loved one’s memorial service. Many of those families were part of the church I served. But, like most pastors, I’ve also done funerals for non-members. With either, I’ll usually ask, “Is there any scripture you’d like read at the service?” Church member or not, a huge percentage respond, “Please read Psalm 23.”

And so I do. And yet, just like Sunday morning, whether I read the familiar Psalm outdoors at the grave or inside the predictably bland funeral home “parlor,” the glazing and wandering is abundantly evident. Everybody knows Psalm 23. It’s a funereal cliché!

But wait.

My fellow writers listened to my scene and then commented. They praised a description of my “damaged” hero. They complimented me on creating a cemetery’s sights and sounds.

However several said, “What’s Psalm 23?”

One of my Wednesday colleagues suggested, “I think you should at least add the first line of the Psalm so that readers will have an idea of what it is.” Another chimed in with, “And maybe reference what the Psalm means to your character in either dialog or inner reflection.”

Aarrgh! They shattered my assumptions. Boy did I need that.

One phrase—hey, maybe it’s even a cliché—that writers challenge each other with is, “Show, don’t tell.” In other words, give the reader a chance to actually see/experience the character’s world. Don’t “tell” the reader your hero found redemption through his relationship with teary-eyed Gertrude. Show it. Let the reader live it.

Did I improve my scene with Psalm 23? I hope so. At the least, I shed my assumptions that “everyone” knows it.

The Lord is my shepherd . . . what does that mean? No, really, what does that mean to you, or to people who might—even with glazed eyes and wandering minds—also wonder what it means for them?

One of the tough tasks for the preacher, indeed all believers, is to approach even the most commonplace scripture with a “show” rather than “tell” attitude. Are you bored with the scripture? If you truthfully write or preach that, you might be amazed at the reader-hearer’s reactions. Writing and preaching are not one-way streets. Another’s reaction may transform your boredom. Are you in the midst of the valley of the shadow? Show it. The shepherd description is so agrarian and archaic for our culture. Reveal its power by altering it—showing it—for the twenty-first century. Surprise people.

Isn’t faith always about showing more than telling?

in Peace,

Larry