Into the Fire

Let me give you the first definition in one dictionary of the word “profane”: sowing contempt or irreverence toward God or sacred things; blasphemous.

Now “profound”: situated at, or extending to, or coming from a great depth; deep.

Writers present many personalities inside of and outside of their writing. Within the multiple and merged genres, authors form all sorts of stories, worlds, situations, whimsy, and opinions about what their chosen means or mode of writing construes to readers and to themselves. Some authors insist they only desire to create art in their books, with their stories—that the genius of sweating over and finding the perfect word after word after word elevates their writing to the profound, or, with their noble heads bowed, at least it is their goal. Forgive me for the sarcasm, but art will always remain in the eye of the beholder just as beauty always has. Yes, it is easy to select pieces which demonstrate superior skills in writing, but excellence in craft does not guarantee a designation of artful prose and certainly does not insure either a large audience or the wide praises of multitudes or elitists.

Considering the definitions above, writing itself can be profane. Set up as an idol and worshipped by the one caretaking and placing the “perfect” words in place to create a profound art form. All the time we hear the instructions to write an “excellent” story in order to gain a contract. Or to write excellent-ly to gain a contract. And then we read published stories. And we know that excellence is not truly required—or we ascertain that “excellent” must have multiple definitions.

If you gather all your memories of novels together in your mind, to how many of them will you attach either the “art” or “profound” label? I’ll be fair and bold here by giving you a handful of novels I consider to be profound and not always because of the writing itself: Redeeming Love, And the Shofar Blew by Francine Rivers; Demon . . . a memoir by Tosca Lee; This Present Darkness, Piercing the Darkness, Prophet, The Oath by Frank Peretti; In High Places by Tom Morrisey; Secrets, Unforgotten by Kristen Heitzmann; Deadline, Safely Home by Randy Alcorn; Firestorm by Jeanette Windle, The Eyes of Elisha by Brandilyn Collins, The Passion of Mary-Margaret by Lisa Samson, and C. M. Burney’s Zora and Nicky. Books I still think about, remember, and recommend to readers. Because they mean something in this life. The messages are timeless.

I can’t testify to these authors’ creative processes. I don’t know whether or not these particular stories drove them to wage war against idolatry in the architecture of these books. Did their constructs of these stories result in a profane value attached to their creation? When they wrote the final draft and attached “The End” to the last page, did they realize how important their work was? Did they consider it “art”? Did they inherently know this story could/would be labeled “profound”?

When we read innumerable posts about writing, the physical, emotional, and less often the spiritual aspects of the process, I often wonder if all of this hoopla is necessary. Should we really get all serious and reverent about writing? Yes, I do value my stories. I pray someone, actually many someones, somehow will find them and read them and wind up profoundly affected by them. Creating them was a deep experience. I worked hard on them. I wanted to write meaningful words to touch hearts, recognizing that only certain types of readers would appreciate the kind of stories I write. Was my goal to create “art”? No. No, I cannot say that. My goal was to use what little talent given me by the God of all creation to touch people, to be obedient to the task set before me regardless of the outcome.

So is writing without a desire to create “art” ignoble? No. It can be profoundly obedient.

I’m weary of the profane element of writing. The idolatry of making an art form with it. That writing is somehow less meaningful when viewed through a lens of others’ making. The high-drama instructions which send drama kings and queens into isolation or seclusion or therapy in order to capture the depth of their profound souls. Communication in written form can be painful, provocative, intense, lovely and lyrical, and a catalyst to confrontation, even healing, but it can also be hilarious, goofy, inane, helpful, and simple and produce the same results. Sometimes writers need to step down off their self-made pedestals before they fall off their rickety stanchions into the thick goop of humiliation puddling beneath them.

I still remember the absolute excitement and joy of reading Walter Farley’s The Black Stallion Collection. I don’t remember the individual stories, but I remember the thrills of reading them. This many years later I think they merit a “profound” label because of their impact.

When it comes to truth in art, when it comes to truthful profundity, only One provides the anointing to produce it, and because of its origin, only He is capable to put that stamp upon it. We are powerless and inept to create anything of value apart from Him and even less able to judge it.

Signing off here without profundity and/or profanity. Call me “Just another writer” who wants to obey God in all things.

Father, I’m desperate for you: that much I know for sure. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.