Welch Writes a Paragraph: A Rhetorical Analysis

I love this paragraph that begins Chapter 7 in Edward T. Welch’s thoughtful, practical, encouraging book on ordinary Christians counseling one another, called Side by Side (Crossway, 2015). Welch writes: 

“I had been keeping my recent fears to myself. My wife knew, and she was helpful, but a good rule of thumb is that when you are stuck in hardships or sins, you keep enlarging the circle of those who know until you are no longer stuck. I think this is a good rule, but I had decided I could get through it on my own” (p. 67).

It may not seem like much—it’s nothing flashy—but this is a great piece of writing. I say this because of its elegant simplicity and because of how the form matches and serves the content. 

This is a book about Christian counseling, written by a Christian counselor to be read by Christians giving and receiving counsel. So it’s appropriate that, throughout the book, Welch shows a gift for writing in a way that approximates the way I imagine he would talk in a counseling session or with friends. Reading the book, I can imagine Welch talking to me and one or two other listeners in a comfortable, non-threatening living room or office. His writing style conveys a feel for the kind of atmosphere that would support the personal, sensitive conversations Welch wants Christians to be able to have with one another. 

Because he is writing to an audience of ordinary Christians who may not have formal theological training—precisely to convince them that they don’t need that advanced training to be competent to counsel one another well—he uses uncomplicated syntax and simple words. There are only three sentences in this chapter-starting paragraph. The first one is short and to the point; it brings us right into the heart of Welch’s story. Though the second one is a long one with several clauses, it isn’t jumbled at all; it has a progression that is easy to follow. The third sentence is of medium length compared to the other two, and it closes the thought opened by the first sentence. If William Zinsser, the author of the classic book On Writing Well, had read this paragraph, I think he would have commended it for its sturdy sentences and lack of clutter. Zinsser might also have pointed out that this is a paragraph made up almost entirely of one- and two-syllable words. The only three-syllable words are ‘enlarging’ and ‘decided.’ If Welch had used larger, more technical words or a roundabout syntax, it would have undercut his purpose of communicating the accessibility of counseling for all believers. 

The simplicity is also important because in this passage Welch is demonstrating some vulnerability. He is sharing about his own weakness. When we confess to something, we can’t dress it up in niceties. We have to be direct and plainspoken, and Welch models that here.

Finally, I notice his use of repetition. ‘Good rule’ appears twice. ‘Stuck’ appears twice. “Knew” is echoed by “know,” and “get through it on my own” is a restatement of “keeping … to myself.” This is another feature that reinforces the conversational immediacy of the text. In conversations or speeches, repetition is needed for underlining main points more than it is in writing.

Being me, I also notice this repetition creates a pattern that is suspiciously chiastic: 

• I had been keeping my recent fears to myself [A’: the problem of self-reliance]

• My wife knew, … but a good rule of thumb is that when you are stuck [B’: ‘knew,’ ‘good rule,’ ‘stuck’]

• in hardships or sins, you keep enlarging the circle [X: the solution at the crux of the matter—puns intended]

• of those who know until you are no longer stuck. I think this is a good rule, [B”: ‘know,’ ‘stuck,’ ’good rule’]

• but I had decided I could get through it on my own. [A”: the problem of self-reliance]

Probably the chiasmus was unintended, but isn’t it interesting that he uses the word “circle” at the very point that the paragraph turns around to come full circle itself? But a chiasmus doesn’t have to be deliberate for it to exist. This is a form that is embedded in our patterns of thinking and speaking. Again, this paragraph is so effective because it seems so ordinary. But this is extra-ordinary craft in writing. But this level of intentional craft can be learned through observation, imitation, and practice, just like Christian counseling.

New Article: Reading with the Jedi

I have a new article, titled “The Dead Speak!: Reading with the Jedi,” that was published today over at the Mere Orthodoxy blog. It combines several of my favorite things: Star Wars, reading and reading ethics, and quoting from C. S. Lewis and Alan Jacobs. I am grateful to Tim Lawrence for his feedback on the early drafts, and to Jake Meador for publishing the article.

Emphatic Evangelicalism

One of the books I have most benefitted from reading this year is Fred Sanders’ The Deep Things of God: How the Trinity Changes Everything (Crossway, 2010). I had picked up the book for the obvious reason of wanting to grow in my understanding of the Trinity, but what struck me about the book from its first pages on is that it is also a defense of the neglected resources available in evangelical theology.

Sanders admits that “evangelicals are not currently famous for their Trinitarian theology” and that “the evangelical movement is bedeviled by a theological and spiritual shallowness” (11). This causes some to develop what I’ll call an “Evangelical Inferiority Complex.” “Many evangelicals,” Sanders writes, “seem haunted by a sense of not being about anything except the moment of conversion. When they stop to ask themselves where they are taking their converts, they fear that when they get there, there will be no there there. … When serious-minded evangelical Christians feel the desire to go deeper into doctrine or spirituality, they typically turn to any resources except for their own properly evangelical resources” (12).

If the primary goal of the book is to show how “the gospel is Trinitarian, and the Trinity is the gospel” (10), the second goal is to show that this thesis is and always has been entirely at home in evangelical thought: in fact, Sanders argues “evangelical Christians have been in reality the most thoroughly Trinitarian Christians in the history of the church” (9). This in turn serves a third goal: “to reintroduce evangelical Protestants to what is best in our own tradition” (13). To borrow the title of another, more recent Crossway book, The Deep Things of God is a work of “theological retrieval for evangelicals.” 

But how did evangelicals get into this situation of being “radically Trinitarian without knowing it” (12)? How did we drift from our historical depths into “theological and spiritual shallowness” (11)? Sanders’ answer to these questions is what has reverberated in my mind ever since I read the book’s Introduction in January, and my reason for writing this post: evangelicalism is “emphatic”—that is, “It has made strategic choices about what should be emphasized when presenting the fullness of the faith” (14). In particular, evangelicals major on “Bible, cross, conversion, heaven”—and, Sanders stresses, “These are the right things to emphasize” (15, italics added). It isn’t wrong that we are so emphatic about these doctrines. The problem, though, is that in our enthusiasm for them we can tend to forget that “Bible, cross, conversion, heaven” only make sense, only have weight and meaning, in the context of a host of other doctrines. “When a message is all emphasis,” Sanders explains, “everything is equally important and you are always shouting” (17). If I wrote this whole post in italics, the italics wouldn’t mean anything. If everything is a nail, what is there left to nail down? After a certain point, emphatic evangelicalism can become “anemic,” “reductionist,” and open to the charge of “anti-intellectualism” (16-17).

But a healthy, robust evangelicalism does have things to say about the doctrines that surround and support our major emphases. “What is needed,” Sanders argues, “is not a change of emphasis but a restoration of the background” (19). And this “restoration of the background” can be had by learning from many of our evangelical forebears.

Big Idea: A Cautionary Tale

In Fall 2013, when I was a undergrad at Biola University, Phil Vischer—the founder of Big Idea, creator of VeggieTales, and voice of Bob the Tomato and a host of other characters—gave a talk to a packed gymnasium of people who had grown up watching his videos. I was one of them, and what Vischer had to say that night played a significant part in the long story of how and why I decided to quit filmmaking. That is a long story for another time, but I share that autobiographical detail here to suggest how much Big Idea has been to me a paradigmatic example—a cautionary tale, really—of the challenges facing Christian individuals and institutions engaged in culture-making and cultural engagement. This summer, I finally read Vischer’s memoir, Me, Myself & Bob (Nelson, 2006). Here are some takeaways from the passages dealing with how Vischer lost control of the company in the early 2000’s. 

One: An organization needs to be led by both a Head and a Heart. 

Among the problems that led to Big Idea’s bankruptcy was that Vischer was a dreamer surrounded by yes-men and took increasingly expensive risks. Yet if at the other extreme the company had been led by someone concerned only with the financial bottom-line, that would have stifled creative experimentation. So Vischer concludes that “The balance between creative inspiration and good stewardship of resources is vital to any successful enterprise” (211). He cites the example of Walt Disney’s life-long collaboration with his older brother Roy: “The key to the partnership of Walt and Roy was mutual submission, based in genuine love for each other. … In hindsight, perhaps the simplest explanation for the failure of Big Idea Productions is this: I never found my Roy” (213). The administratively-gifted Head and the visionary Heart need to work together to accomplish anything worthwhile long-term.

Two: Enough with the obsession with growth. 

Big Idea grew at an unsustainable rate, and it would have been able to do more good over the long-haul if it had stayed smaller. Vischer argues that “Real impact today comes from building great relationships, not huge organizations. More overhead equals less flexibility to pursue unexpected opportunities” (219). As the saying goes, “More money, more problems”—but also, more people, more problems; more projects, more problems. Big Idea’s meltdown is a warning for churches, Christian schools, and other parachurch organizations that think that numerical growth means they must be doing something right.

Three: Be explicit and consistent about the organization’s theological commitments, and make sure all employees at least know what those are and can respect them.

This is closely related to the second takeaway. For Big Idea to scale up to the size Vischer over-ambitiously envisioned for it, it was almost inevitably going to have to attract more non-Christian talent (not to mention non-Christian investors). Vischer confesses that, “the more we hired, the less Christian Big Idea became” (125). He goes on to say that “I shared my passion for Christian ministry through creative media with everyone but my own staff, because, frankly, I wasn’t sure many of the folks at Big Idea would buy into it” (126–27). This is an almost-guaranteed recipe for mission drift and internal divisions: “My vagueness about Big Idea’s true mission and values led to a profoundly confused, dysfunctional workplace. By the time I had figured out the problem, it was too late to do much about it” (223).

Vischer advises leaders to “Build a team that rows in the same direction” (222). However, he adds the qualification that, “This doesn’t mean everyone needs to think the same, look the same, or talk the same—that sort of conformity leads to groupthink and failure. Diversity is a wonderful thing, as long as the diversity isn’t around the purpose and values of the group itself. … I hired some Christians who didn’t fit and some non-Christians who did. The key was that each employee—from the receptionist to the president—was excited about Big Idea’s mission and the Christian values we promoted” (222). I’m not sure about that last part. There are some “Christian values” that only a Christian could be “excited about,” and while maybe the “receptionist” doesn’t have to a Christian, the “president” and everyone making the defining creative and financial decisions should be. But I do take Vischer’s point that not everyone has to be theologically aligned on every single issue for a non-church, non-denominational Christian organization to be able to accomplish its goals.

Reading Arctic Dreams by Barry Lopez

I don’t like cold. I don’t like winter. I like the look of fresh snow—from inside a cozy home. So it surprised me that one of the books I have most enjoyed reading this year is Barry Lopez’s Arctic Dreams (1986), a sprawling, 400-page tome on a part of the world I would never visit. It’s even more surprising given that I don’t read much related to the sciences and I probably haven’t watched a nature documentary since March of the Penguins. The later chapters of the book—on maps and geography, on the thrilling and often tragic history of arctic exploration, and on the plight of the present-day Arctic, complete with Wendell Berry-esque indictments of industrial hubris—were more my kind of thing, but I was already hooked by the early chapters on Arctic animals: muskoxen (of all things), polar bears, narwhals, migration patterns. These early chapters were assigned for a spring seminar on creative writing about place, but this summer I read the rest for myself.

Three takeaways from the experience of reading this: First, as William Zinsser says in On Writing Well, any topic can make for good, engrossing non-fiction writing if the writer is passionate about his or her topic and a gifted writer who can deftly balance substance and style. Second, we should from time to time be willing to explore, with a gifted writer as our guide, topics entirely foreign to us—and stick with it even if the going is rough or boring at first. It will take some effort to learn to appreciate the kinds of details the writer values, details we wouldn’t have noticed ourselves. The length of Lopez’s book is valuable for this: learning to see, and growing to love what the writer loves, takes time. Third, practicing patient attentiveness in one area can help us be more attentive in others. Slowing down to read what Lopez has to say about icebergs and light phenomena for almost fifty pages can make us more aware of the wonders around us. 

Maybe You Should Give That Film/Book/Album a Second Chance

How many times have I been underwhelmed or upset by a first viewing of a film, or a first reading of a book, or a first listening of an album, only to be glad I gave it a second, third, fourth chance later on? 

For the past few years I have found this to be a helpful rule of thumb: so often, the first viewing/reading/listening is for finding out what the film/book/album is not. It isn’t until the second viewing/reading/listening that I can begin to appreciate what the film/book/album actually is. 

This rule of thumb is especially true if I come to the work with definite expectations. My disappointment with it will be directly proportional to how much it deviates from what I wanted it to be. But if I can get over how it doesn’t meet my terms and try to understand the work on its own terms, then a funny thing can happen: I become glad that it isn’t what I wanted it to be, because what it turns out to be is so much better.

Really, wouldn’t it be boring and dispiriting if my favorite band’s latest album, or my favorite film franchise’s latest sequel, or the book that multiple friends recommended I read, turned out to be exactly what I pictured in my head? The dissonance between expectation and reality can be a very good thing. I won’t gain or learn much of anything from familiarity and predictability.

This is not to say I should give everything that’s ever disappointed me a second chance. There are many works that, after a first viewing/reading/listening, I can fairly confidently predict will not be worth a second appraisal. But if a trusted friend or critic makes a compelling, plausible argument praising the work for something I didn’t notice in it, or if I suspect there’s more going on under the surface than I could comprehend at first, then I am willing to give it another try. More often than not, I’m thankful I did.

P.S. August 27: See Tim Lawrence’s elaboration on the above.