Say Something

Communication is a tricky thing. I've been writing, giving sermons, and making music to various degrees for the last several years, and I've found that the most common theme in my communication is that it is typically misunderstood, sometimes because of poor communication on my part, but more often because language is a flawed institution formed by flawed beings. English for example is an amalgamation of French royalty, religious Latin, and the ramblings of whatever drunk Viking happened to occupy the British isles.

I led a workshop at CMC's conference this year on communication. To jump start our discussion I posed the question, "Who knows what the word Hosannah means?" I was specifically thinking of the song Hosannah by Hillsong, that uses the phrase "Hosannah in the Highest" in the chorus. I've probably sang this song several dozen times at my church, but only have a vague notion of what Hosannah meant. I thought it had something to do with God saving us, but the phrase "in the Highest" threw me off. So after fifteen or so seconds of silence the pastor in the room piped up and said he thought it had something to do with God saving us, but even he seemed unsure.

There are verses in the Bible that talk about words. There are verses that say not to use idol words, or have worthless conversation. I used to think these verses were talking about those four letter words that I used to roll around my mouth on the tractor because that seemed so foreign with their harsh germanic inflections and sharp syllables. I would say them until they were sounds devoid of meaning I don't know maybe God was talking about four letter words, but I think more than that God is looking for his people to be people who say things that mean things and bring life. I think he was talking about communicating life when we speak. And while Christian's are good about avoiding sins of commission we run rampant through fields of meaningless communication.

I don't think it's a Christian problem, I think it's a human problem. In North America we know how to say a whole lot without saying anything at all. Maybe this sounds a little too much like "The good ol days" but watch a Mike Myers comedy like Wayne's World and compare it to something more recently by Will Ferrel. I'm not saying either are the epitome of intellectual excellence, but watching Wayne's world might require me actually knowing something about economic or political conditions, and jokes sound like they were thought out rather than just being an impromptu session of Ferrel screaming random barely incoherent phrases. I fear for the intelligence of this generation.

I believe we have a responsibility to communicate life, which is really so much more than saying Hosanna or Jesus saves. I'm sorry but words lose meaning, language changes, and what you think is so clear to the world might not sound much different than me talking to you about the importance of understanding tapered versus analog contours when selecting potentiometers, or even the debate about whether or not guitars should just be true bypass with a push-pull cutoff switch. That all actually did really mean something specific and real by the way. While that all makes perfect sense to me, clear as day, it means nothing to you, and to get you to the point of understanding what I am talking about might take a while. How much more difficult is describing relationship, let alone relationship with God. I think it takes a lot of work and creativity, otherwise Jesus wouldn't have told so many stories (which are by the way still looked at, even by the secular world, as an amazing example of communication skills).

I'll leave you with some words from a skeptic who taught me about meaning what I say and saying it well.

Our Bog Is Dood

By Stevie Smith

Our Bog is dood, our Bog is dood,

They lisped n accents mild,

But when I asked them to explain

They grew a little wild.

How do you know your Bog is dood

My darling little child?

We know because we wish it so

That is enough, they cried,

And straight within each infant eye

Stood up the flame of pride,

And if you do not think it so

You shall be crucified.

Then tell me, darling little ones,

What is dood, suppose Bog is?

Just what we think, the answer came,

Just what we think it is.

They bowed their heads. Our Bog is ours

And we are wholly his.

But when they raised them up again

They had forgotten me

Each one upon the other glared

In pride and misery

For what was dood, and what their Bog

They never could agree.

Oh sweet it was to leave them then,

And sweeter not to see,

And sweetest of all to walk alone

Beside the encroaching sea,

The sea that soon should drown them all,

That never yet drowned me.