My Ministry

I am not a kind person. In many ways, I am petty, spiteful, jealous, selfish, sullen, and mean. My family, especially, has seen and experienced the corrosive effects of these qualities, but others have felt them, too. Yet, over the years, I have performed acts of kindness—too few, perhaps, but still…

I have given money—a dollar or two at a time—to those on the street who ask for it. I give without strings, and I don’t question their motives. I don’t worry about what they’ll do with the pittance they receive from me. Sometimes even a homeless person needs a drink, or a cigarette, or a cup of coffee. Jesus commanded us to give; he did not command us to take social histories or question the motives of the people I give money to. I just give them the money and say, “Take care of yourself brother.” (In my experience beggars on the street are almost invariably men.)

I have served meals at the homeless shelter. I have visited strangers in the hospital and prayed with them. I have participated in a Habitat for Humanity build or two. Again, I have not performed these small acts of kindness often enough to be a good man. As unworthy as I am, I have always wanted to do the right thing and to be better than I am. Despite having lived my life in the shadow of Depression—which can paralyze—I have sometimes risen to the occasion. Mark me down, then, as not a good man but as a bad man who aspired to be better.

The greatest and most consistent act I have performed is, I guess, the one I am best suited for: it has simply been to carry on a “ministry” of letter writing. Over the last eighteen years (since moving to Tallahassee) I have written and mailed perhaps 250 personal letters to people outside my family—primarily to members of my church. These letters have contained words of encouragement for those enduring tough times, words of comfort and consolation for those who grieve, words of compassion and support for those who are hurting, words of congratulation for those who achieved, and, sometimes, just words of appreciation for some small thing—words sent just because I felt like brightening somebody’s day. 250 letters over 18 years—about 14 per year—doesn’t seem like much, and I guess they won’t provide me with much of a defense when I stand naked before the Great White Throne, but I work hard on them, and I am faithful in my way. Each week I read the prayer requests for my once and sometime church, and if I see something that moves me, I get out pen and stationery.

When you’re trying to convey honest sentiment fully yet succinctly, writing a letter is hard work! The physical acting of writing can be laborious in and of itself: Using a ruler to lay out straight lines—to be erased later—so that your writing doesn’t wander all over the place is tedious, and holding your pen just so, exercising neatness and caution in penmanship, so that your words are legible can be tiring. But the tangible parts of sending a letter—taking out the stationery and fountain pen, preparing the stationery, writing, addressing, sealing, and taking the letter to the post office—are nothing compared to the work of composition. 

You cannot rely upon the hackneyed phrases and canned sentiment of some Hallmark hack who is paid to do your feeling for you. Too, although you might use some of the same expressions in many letters, you cannot send the same letter over and over—every person and every situation is utterly unique, and, besides, plagiarizing yourself is almost as dishonest as plagiarizing someone else. You must write in your own voice as it speaks in the contemporaneous moment.

Sometimes, your voice becomes lost in the clutter that pollutes your mind. That is when writing a letter becomes an exercise in meditation. Especially in times of stress, people don’t need long and winding prose that doesn’t really seem to go anywhere. They need to read words that express sympathy, empathy, and hope—above all, hope—expressed clearly and completely—but succinctly. Most letters of the kind I write should be limited to a single 5” x 8” sheet of good stationery (I like Crane’s). To express condolences, understanding, and empathy and to convey hope in the spirit of love is not easy to do in 250 (at most) words.

You can’t just dash it off. To truly provide encouragement and respite from pain, you must quiet the background noise. You must leave yourself behind and focus only on the one who is in pain. Prayer helps. In the silence that exists between you and God, you can find out what is truly important and how you can say it in a way that will be an expression of true love for the one who hurts and will bring them some surcease of sorrow. You can, if you open your heart, spiritually place yourself in the other’s position and draw on your own experiences to provide comfort. How did you feel when you suffered a devastating loss? What words of comfort would you like to hear? What is it that will bring you comfort? Where is God in all of this? What words will convey the depth of your good will and support?

Only after I have dwelt long on these questions do I begin to write. And then, I find that the letter practically writes itself. It is not an easy process, and it takes a lot of work—especially if you want to reach out and touch someone’s heart in a voice that is genuine and filled with love; with a message that will bring light, however dim, into that person’s life. The hard work is worth it.

All my life I have suffered from Depression. I am pretty good with the language, but I do not have the words to express the utter blackness that descends upon me from time to time—not frequently, but often enough. There is not much you can do for people when at any time you can find yourself too paralyzed to even walk out the door. So this is what I do instead of doing practical things to relieve suffering. I try to bring to those who need it some comfort, consolation, friendship, and—above all—a reminder that we are truly all brothers and sisters, joined together (I fervently hope) by the fatherhood of God. Perhaps in the act of writing, I bring some of that same hope to myself.

I don’t often hear back from the people to whom I send letters, so I don’t really know whether my words have made the world a better place in any way. I really don’t mind that too much, because I bare my soul, a little, each time I write, and sometimes that causes awkwardness between me and the recipient.  When people do express appreciation, I usually feel oddly embarrassed.

When I began writing letters, I must admit, I was doing it as much—or more—for myself as for the recipients. I hoped that my expressions of support would win me friends and gain me respect. Over the years, though, I have realized that what friends I have would be my friends even if I never wrote a line. What respect I have does not come from anything I have said in those letters. Few people—none, really, not even my wife—know the scope of my activity. It’s not the sort of thing that gets around.This blog entry is the first time I have ever spoken about it at length, and few people will ever see it. Over the years, the desire for recognition and people’s love has faded away. I write now simply because I must write. It is my ministry. People hurt. People need to know that when they are badly hurt God is carrying them very close to his heart and that they can rely on his strength. They need to know that they are not forgotten, that they are not alone. I can express these things pretty well, and if I don’t do it, who will? Perhaps this—not preaching the gospel as a minister—was what God was calling me for when I felt—or thought I felt—his touch; when I heard—or thought I heard—him call my name all those years ago.