Why Write: To Avoid Pride & Love Our Neighbor (Part III of III)
In George Orwell’s novel 1984, Winston Smith begins to write secretly in a diary about the concerns he sees in his dystopian society. He must carefully tuck himself into a single corner where the cameras in his home cannot see him—because the words he felt compelled to write were illegal and came with grave consequences. This corner seemed to be the only place he could release his fearful thoughts without the gaze of Big Brother.
Yet he only writes the date before a halting thought seizes him. A “sense of complete helplessness” descended on him. He immediately wondered, “For whom was he writing this diary?” Orwell writes, “For the first time the magnitude of what he had undertaken came home to him. How could you communicate with the future? It was of its nature impossible. Either the future would resemble the present, in which case it would not listen to him: or it would be different from it, and his predicament would be meaningless” (14).
Reading those words, I shared Winston’s sense of complete helplessness as a writer. What good did my words truly do, especially when I had so few people even reading my words? What good did my words do if they either preached to the choir or further angered the opposed?
In two previous articles, I sought to answer the question, Why Write? In one piece, I reminded writers that we shouldn’t write for the reader in the sense that we’re trying to give them what we think they want. We need to first write what is good and true and beautiful because people will always need them. In the second piece, I sought to show writers that we should write in order to hide the truth away in our hearts.
Yet another question remains, which shares the same heart as the one Winston asked himself: If all of that is true, why write publicly at all? To answer that, I looked back to about seven years ago when I was a stuck-up Bible college student.
Knowing about God without Knowing God
I sat at my desk, the words of my professor still tumbling through my head: Knowledge puffs up, but love edifies. If you are not using your knowledge to love others, it will only make you prideful, which will lead to your fall.
I spent my days at my desk writing papers, listening to lectures, reading books, studying for exams, and occasionally glancing at the tumbling river out my window. I studied morning and afternoon while my husband worked, but my accumulation of ideas never went much further than the doors of our home.
I loved learning, but I also loved the growth of such knowledge. At times, I grew frustrated with others when they didn’t appreciate knowledge and theology as I did. That was my growing pride which the professor warned of.
When our knowledge becomes centered on ourselves rather than loving and serving God and those he places around us, our knowledge could be our downfall. Though you may know what it means to be saved by grace through faith, you may live with more pride than grace. Perhaps you understand the essential doctrines of Christology, but do you live as Christ lived? Maybe you memorized the three Greek words for love, but you still lack agape love for your siblings in Christ. Theologian Herman Bavinck put his finger on this dichotomy in his collection The Wonderful Works of God. “It is possible to have information about God which differs essentially from the real knowing of God which Jesus meant.” He continued,
[Jesus] was not a theologian by profession, nor was he a doctor or professor in divinity. But he knew God by direct, personal sight and insight; he saw him everywhere, in nature, in his word, in his service; he loved him above all else and was obedient to him in all things, even the deal on the cross. His knowing of the truth was all of a piece with his doing. The knowledge and the love came together. (13)
This is how we can at once know all about the goodness and grace of the Father without ever having those attributes reflected in ourselves. When we spend our days with our noses in books, we may forget about the people around us. We develop an analytical regard toward people. We judge them by their knowledge in comparison to ours and look down on them for their lack of discernment.
Knowledge That Puffs Up
In 1 Corinthians 8:1, Paul stated that knowledge leads to arrogance while love edifies. In this portion of the letter, Paul wrote to address the church on their disagreements over food sacrificed to idols. Those who had knowledge understood that eating meat sacrificed to idols wasn’t a problem because those idols were mere stone and wood.
Yet some members were new to the way of Christ and previously lived lives immersed in pagan worship. They struggled to understand the other members. They felt guilt for eating such foods because they still remembered their previous false worship whenever they partook in it.
Those who knew the truth felt prideful towards the weaker Christians. They looked down their noses and thought, “Just get over it!”
This is what Paul meant when he said our knowledge can become self-serving and in turn lead to pride. The Christians who had knowledge in Corinth only cared about their own freedoms without considering the consciences of their brothers. Likewise, if you study for the sake of growing your own mind, library, or vocabulary—with no desire to edify others—your knowledge may eventually lead to pride in a similar way.
When we grow in knowledge, we must have the same attitude Christ had: “Whoever would be great among you must be your servant, and whoever would be first among you must be your slave, even as the Son of Man came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many” (Matt. 20:26–28). Christ came to earth not to be served as a king but as a humble servant, to bear the wrath we deserved for our sins. Our knowledge must first change us to love like Christ, and then we can use that knowledge to love our siblings in the faith.
Writing can be a means of bolstering our pride. We use it to show off our skill, to draw attention to our own brilliance and ability to turn a phrase. As believers, we must be watchful, ready to catch such pride and draw servant-like humility out in its place.
Writing As a Means to Love Our Neighbor
While writing can lend itself to the sin of pride, it can also lend itself to humility. As we strive to take this knowledge we spent years filling ourselves with, we may suddenly realize how little we truly know. It forces us to explain these weighty concepts that took us years to understand in such a way others can easily grasp.
But even more, writing becomes a means to love our neighbor because our learning no longer serves to only fill ourselves. We learn to share the hope of the gospel and the beauty of God to our readers. Our growth in knowledge no longer centers on winning theological debates or conquering the voice of shame in our heads. Writing gives us an opportunity to slow down and consider why the doctrine we just learned matters not just for us but God’s church as a whole and what it looks like to put that doctrine into practice.
Writing can be wielded to serve ourselves—growing our own platform, lifting ourselves higher than our readers. In those times we must catch our feet ascending that stair and turn ourselves around, bringing ourselves even lower than our reader so that we can serve them from a place of humility and love.
The Temptation of Resignation and the Hope of Being Without Hope
Back to the question we started with: Why does any of this matter if no real change happens from my writing? What if the church’s problem with X sin never goes away, what if I only ever write to those who affirm my concerns and positions, what if only two people ever read my words . . . and so on. Resignation lurks nearby with these what-ifs and tells us to simply give up already.
I know those what-ifs; they circle in my brain too. I quiet them with the truth: I am faithful to write; it’s God’s work to do the rest.
In You Are Not Your Own by O. Alan Noble, he says that as believers, we must be people without hope—in this world. When we put our drive and hope into our work changing the world and revolutionizing society or the church, we will want to give way to resignation. It’s a hope that will never fulfill us. Rather, we must do our good works as one who belongs to Christ, with hope not in this world. Our hope remains in Christ, the Savior of the world. He writes, “You may never see the fruits of your labor in this life, but it doesn’t matter. God did not call you to be successful. He called you to be faithful” (178). Earlier in the chapter, he writes,
If you can get over yourself and stop thinking in terms of efficiency, you can honour God and love your neighbor while having faith that he will set things to right. Don’t let yourself ask, “Is this good deed making any real difference?” If it really is the right thing to do, the efficiency does not matter. Your obligation is faithfulness, not productivity or measurable results. As Paul reminded the church in Corinth, “Neither he who plants nor he who waters is anything, but only God who gives the growth” (1 Corinthians 3:7). Or, as Eliot said, “For us there is the only the trying. The rest is not our business.” (169)
Again, it’s a call to humility: Ignore the voice of arrogance that declares you could be a world-changer and instead take hold of your true calling: Do the work for the love of your neighbor and be faithful with what God has given you. Your words will never change the world—only God will.
* To read Part I and Part II of this series, click here and here.
Lara d’Entremont is a wife and mom to three from Nova Scotia, Canada. Lara is a writer and learner at heart—always trying to find time to scribble down some words or read a book. Her desire in writing is to help women develop solid theology they can put into practice—in the mundane, the rugged terrain, and joyful moments. You can find more of her writing at laradentremont.com.