The more the words, the less the meaning,
and how does that profit anyone?
Ecclesiastes 6:11
For nearly fifty years I have aspired to be a consummate communicator. Language has been my instrument, and although I realize that my ability to communicate is a divine gift, I have worked diligently to perfect the craft. Whether in print or in person, I have long labored to become a master of revelatory language, at once clear, creative, and captivating. In my own fashion, I have taken up the ongoing prophetic task: to articulate spiritual realities with spiritual words.
This pursuit has taken me around the world. From Brazil to Bangladesh, from Kenya to Kamchatka, from the U.S. to Ukraine, I have endeavored to translate heavenly truths into human language as accurately and powerfully as the Holy Spirit enabled me. I have declared divine glories to lepers in India and long-boarders in Idaho. I have mapped out invisible paths for saints and seekers in Thailand and Turkey. And through all these years, whether in a stick and stone sanctuary in Africa or a Korean church in New York City, the gift of utterance has never failed me.
Until now. It seems that I’ve run out of words.
My teaching materials, which once flamed with urgency and insight, now seem to me stale and inert, even if they are biblical and true. My learned pontifications feel heavy and lifeless on my tongue. It’s not that the scriptures have lost their sheen; they are as vibrant and pertinent as ever. What has gone dark is my ability (and desire) to amplify the realities that the scriptures signify. As you might imagine, this is somewhat problematic for a guy whose primary vocation is to say things. At the very least, this verbal vacancy seriously hampers the refresh rate of Our Daily Fred.
Whether this condition is temporary or terminal remains to be seen. What is left to me is simply longing. It’s the one thing that doesn’t demand faith of me. For me, longing is an existential, visceral fact. As King David writes, My heart says of you, Seek his face! And, with David, I reply, Your face, Lord, I will seek. The one thing that still functions for me right now is prayer.
And even that I have questioned. What, I’ve asked both God and myself, am I actually doing when I am on my knees? What real fruit comes out of the prayer closet beyond enhancing my own sense of spirituality? What practical balm for the woes of the world? What helpful radiance for the saints in the land? Would the kingdom of God and my fellow man be better served otherwise?
It was during a recent season of such questioning that I happened upon a brief interview with the late Billy Graham. A 92 year-old Graham, frail yet confident, was asked that if he had the opportunity to do it all over again, would he do it differently? “Yes,” he replied in a voice tattered by age. “If I had it to do over again, I’d spend more time in meditation and prayer and just telling the Lord how much I love him and adore him.”
My first title for this piece was Looking Back Ahead of Time. The second was Unregrettable. Maybe the real point of this piece is reflected by a poem of mine, composed quite some time ago:
The Prayer of the Blue-Haired Old Woman
If, my Lord, I am to err,
Then let it be
Too much in prayer,
Too bent on holy reveries,
Too long on bent
and creaky knees.
And should You
Catch me unaware,
O may it be
Heedless in prayer!
There is plenty of God talk out there. The sermons, books, and YouTube videos keep coming. Some of it is even important. Above all, the gospel must be proclaimed aloud to a dying world. Even so, I’d rather not add to the incessant chatter. In fact, at the moment I seem unable to. Please pardon me as I amble quietly through.
Yet behold all the words I have used just to say that I have nothing to say.
