Lectionary reading: The TWELFTH SUNDAY OF ORDINARY TIME - August 23, 2009

John 6:56-69

When many of his disciples heard it, they said, "This teaching is difficult; who can accept it?"

MR. DOUBT by Larry Patten

“Do you have ‘anyone’ else in the room with you when you write?”

The quotation marks around “anyone” are important. The questioner wasn’t talking about a real person, rather an imagined real person.

Ron Carlson answered. He said: “Oh, yes . . .” In a moment I’ll finish his response.

For a week in August, I lived in Squaw Valley USA, the site of the 1960 Winter Olympics. Situated at 6,200 feet near Lake Tahoe, this Sierra slice of heaven is also a slice—or maybe many slices—of commercialism. Come the snow, skiers flock here. There are fancy restaurants, luxury hotels, and mansions called cabins.

Since the summer of 1969 it has also hosted the Squaw Valley Community of Writers, a group dedicated to encouraging and developing the written word. Here, under Squaw’s surrounding peaks like Granite Chief and Snow King, poets, screenwriters, memoirists, essayists, and novelists have gathered. This year I was one of them. The only way to get “in” is by having your writing accepted as “good enough.” The published mingle with the unpublished. Experienced authors inspire fledgling, hopeful writers. Amy Tan (of The Joy Luck Club fame) attended. She first came before her success. Ron Carlson—who was asked the question above—led workshops. Though less known than Tan, Carlson’s short stories have garnered numerous awards and I dare you to read his novel Five Skies and not admire its simple (but not simplistic) story and transformative characters.

It was a heady week, filled with exhaustion, learning, and intimidation. Everyone seemed a better writer than me. What did old Apostle Paul claim about his “ranking” with the other disciples: I was the least of them (I Corinthians 15:9). Yeah, that’s me at Squaw. But there were other times . . . well, in a moment I’ll finish that sentence.

The unpublished asked the published endless questions. During a Q&A session with a panel of short story writers, a hand waved from the audience: “Do you have ‘anyone’ else in the room with you when you write?”

Anyone. Else. Which is to say, when a writer settles into her chair, staring at the blank screen or empty scrap of paper, is someone else nearby? Is there an imagined person—a deceased parent, a spouse, an “unknown” reader in Kansas, a mentor, or a child—that the writer pretends to write to? The writer (or preacher) is always the first audience. But you want readers and hearers.

Ron Carlson, a successful writer and writing teacher, grasped the microphone and answered:

“Oh yes . . . every time I sit down to write, Mr. Doubt is there. That’s who I write to. Been there since the beginning of my career. He still shows up. Mr. Doubt’s a big guy, and sits real close. I used to hope he’d leave, but now I welcome him. But I tell him he has to stay for the whole thing, from story’s start to story’s finish.”

We writers laughed. Nervously.

Carlson grinned. “And sometimes I ask him about that silent ‘b’ in his name.” Gotta let Mr. Doubt know you can get under his skin. More laughter.

The author of Five Skies spoke the truth. About writing. And, at least for me, about my faith. Hemingway usually stopped writing for the day and left the last sentence incomplete. Afraid he’d have nothing to say tomorrow, he knew he’d at least finish one sentence. Moses, invited by God at the burning bush to lead the Israelites from captivity, hemmed and hawed. Welcome in Mr. Doubt. Does the big fellow ever bid farewell?

In John’s Gospel, where Jesus spoke about the “bread that came down from heaven,” every word seems written without a smidgen of doubt. Still—and it’s my failing—I read between the lines. I don’t think the “best-selling” author of John’s Gospel shut the door on doubt. Faith is through a narrow gate along a steep road. Faith becomes fascinated with the fruit on that one tree in the center of the garden. Doubt lurks. And yet still, I revel in Jesus’ words: “The words I have spoken to you are spirit and life.”

Yes! Words do that, even when Mr. Doubt clears his throat. Words heal and dare and comfort, even with Mr. Doubt frowning.

At Squaw, I felt the least of the ones present. How could they have let me in? But on one evening I gathered with other writers for a potluck dinner. Some were published, some not. Some I didn’t know, others I’d spent time with in workshops. We gathered around a table, a score of us, the outdoor picnic chairs shoved next to the formal dining room chairs, and ate. Wine glasses clinked. Talk ebbed and flowed. For part of the meal, for I am always a tad shy, always the observer, I watched others. And yes, because I so love the Jesus who propped elbows on Capernaum tables and ate with sinners and fools and probably even writers, I realized I was little different than any of my companions.

All of us are fools. All flawed. All settle into our essential places—a writing desk or a classroom or a kitchen or wherever your most life-giving location may be—and soon Mr. Doubt shuffles in behind.

John’s Gospel noted that some of disciples abandoned Jesus. Who said the “bread from heaven” would go down easy? But I’ll stay. I’ll struggle and rejoice in my faith as I share words and foolishly minister. Often, Mr. Doubt will arrive. Good to see you! And now let me tell you a story about the bread of life.

in Peace,

Larry Patten

(written on August 11, 2009)