Tag Archives: Apostle Paul

130. Grace? What’s That?

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Just because I know something doesn’t mean I understand it. I sometimes know things without really knowing them.

God’s grace—his patient, undeserved help—is greater than my faults. I know that. Sometimes, however, when my life gets a little rough, it’s hard for me to know it. Grace is easy to acknowledge, but so hard to understand.

Last week was a rough one. I considered providing an exhaustive list of reasons why, but I’ll spare my readers the nasty details. By the time I awoke on Saturday morning, I felt truly awful.

Do you know who else spent a lot of time feeling truly awful? The Apostle Paul. He had it rough. Dash it all, did he have it rough. Paul was repeatedly mistreated, flogged, imprisoned and shipwrecked. He suffered from hunger, cold, sleep deprivation and unbearable stress. These are just a few of the sufferings he mentions in his letters, and there were probably some he didn’t mention.

Out of all these afflictions, Paul found one truly insufferable. He called it a thorn in his flesh. Whatever it was, Paul hated it. “Three times I pleaded with the Lord to take it away from me,” he wrote. The Apostle Paul, the legendary missionary, couldn’t take it anymore. He pleaded with God again and again to take away his problem.

At last, God replied, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.”

I hate being weak. I’m a faulty, imperfect person adrift in a faulty, imperfect world, and I don’t like it. My usual response is to try to be perfect—or at least, to try to be good enough.

I’m not good enough. I’ve never been, and I’ll never be. I have rough weeks. I get tired and sick and worried and depressed. I make mistakes. No matter how I try, I can’t fit my life into clean, tidy little boxes.

On Saturday, I came closer to understanding something I’ve known for a long time. God’s grace is greater than my mistakes and weaknesses. When I’m not perfect, God is. When I can’t go on, God carries me.

That gives me hope.

I try to wrap up these spiritual blog posts with neat little lessons, but not this time. I haven’t resolved anything. After years of struggling with the same problems, I keep struggling. I’ve written blog posts about these issues and related ones—the same problems again and again and again and again.

I’ve been making mistakes for twenty-two and a half years. If God hasn’t given up on me yet, I mustn’t give up on myself—and I certainly mustn’t give up on him.

I sometimes don’t understand God’s grace, and I often don’t feel it. There are days and weeks when the universe seems particularly empty of meaning, peace or hope.

Even so, I believe God’s grace is sufficient for me. My business isn’t to be good enough, but to trust and to hope and to persevere.

Do I understand God’s grace?

No.

Does it often seem absent?

Yes.

Do I believe God’s grace is always there, and always sufficient for me?

Yes, yes I do.

119. God’s Fool

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A couple of weeks ago, a coworker informed me quite seriously that our workplace is haunted.

I laughed and told her I think I’d have noticed by now if the bogeyman, the Slenderman or any other kind of spook were lurking in our workplace.

Later in the evening, the garbage compactor went off by itself.

“See?” said my coworker, smiling nervously. “Nobody’s in that room. How do you explain that?”

“If I were a vengeful spirit,” I replied, “I think I’ve have better things to do than activate garbage compactors.”

The incident made me laugh at the time, but it later made me think seriously about the things we believe. My coworker believes our workplace is haunted. It would be easy for me to scoff at her beliefs, but I happen to believe in an invisible, all-powerful, everlasting God.

What sets apart my beliefs from hers? What’s the difference between faith and superstition?

The answer, of course, is evidence. There’s much more evidence to support the existence of God than there is to suggest dark spirits have taken possession of the garbage compactor in my workplace.

Many people don’t agree. I recently read an article claiming science will someday eliminate the need for God. The theory of intelligent design is frowned upon by many scientists. Naturalistic evolution is the de facto explanation for the origin of human life.

Honestly, both sides offer compelling arguments. No matter what atheists may say, there’s certainly evidence for God. Regardless of what Christians will tell you, there’s certainly evidence for atheism. To quote C.S. Lewis, an atheist who converted reluctantly to Christianity, “Now that I am a Christian I do have moods in which the whole thing looks very improbable; but when I was an atheist I had moods in which Christianity looked terribly probable.”

In the end, casting one’s lot with one side or the other isn’t just a matter of reason, logic and evidence. It’s a matter of faith, even for atheists.

There are things I don’t understand about the Christian faith, even though I’ve tried. Regardless, I’ve chosen Christianity. Based on the evidence, it makes sense. I speak not only of scientific, archeological and historical evidence, but also of the evidence of changed lives.

Some months ago, I wrote about gangster pastors: men who have been miraculously transformed from violent, drug-addicted criminals into loving husbands, fathers and church leaders. I know these men personally. I’ve heard numerous accounts of miraculous events. Most powerfully, I know many people whose lives are marked by something, a loving graciousness that goes far beyond mere altruism or friendly disposition.

For me, the best evidence is my own life. Ten years ago, I was a selfish, dishonest, insecure jerk. Eight years ago, I turned my life over to Jesus Christ. Today, while I’m not perfect, I’m a much, much better person than I was.

In the eight years I’ve been a Christian, I’ve seen too many answers to prayer, too many transformed lives and too many unbelievable circumstances for me to pretend it’s all just a series of coincidences—just as it’s possible for ten rolls of a die to yield only sixes, but my first guess is that the gambler who rolls ten sixes in a row is probably using a loaded die.

I’m sure some of my readers are nodding their heads and exclaiming, “Yes, yes.” Some of my readers are probably shaking their heads and saying, “This guy’s deluded,” and a few may have stopped reading once I switched topics from the Slenderman to the Christian faith.

Christians are sometimes considered foolish, and that’s fine. Christ’s own family thought he was out of his mind. (To those who believed he was just a Jewish carpenter, some of the things Jesus said and did must have seemed pretty strange.) The Apostle Paul, who wrote nearly half the New Testament, was accused of insanity.

If I’m crazy for being a man of faith, at least I’m in good company. If I’m a fool, at least I have the consolation of being God’s fool.

I’m not quite sure why I decided to compose this blog post. The subjects of faith, atheism and superstition (and the Slenderman) have been on my mind recently, and I suppose I just wanted to share my thoughts.

114. Communion Anxiety

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Christians know all about Communion. Seriously, we’ve got it covered. Call it the Lord’s Supper, Eucharist, whatever you like, we know our stuff. We partake of little crackers and juice from plastic cups that look like shot glasses. The pastor reads a few verses we’ve all heard before. “This is my body given for you; do this in remembrance of me.” It’s all pretty familiar, right?

Then the pastor says, “So then, whoever eats the bread or drinks the cup of the Lord in an unworthy manner will be guilty of sinning against the body and blood of the Lord.”

Wait, what?

“Everyone ought to examine themselves before they eat of the bread and drink from the cup,” continues the pastor. “For those who eat and drink without discerning the body of Christ eat and drink judgment on themselves.”

Judgment? That sounds serious. I’d better see what the Bible says. That’s usually a good start.

Paul writes, “For those who eat and drink without discerning the body of Christ eat and drink judgment on themselves. That is why many among you are weak and sick, and a number of you have fallen asleep.”

Fallen asleep? That doesn’t sound so bad—unless by fallen asleep Paul means died. That does sound bad. Paul’s going all Mafia on us. “Dat’s why many o’ youse is weak an’ sick, see? Some o’ youse is fallen asleep, if youse catch my drift.”

So we, um, fall asleep if we eat and drink judgment on ourselves? And we eat and drink judgment on ourselves by failing to discern the symbolism of Christ’s death in the crackers and Communion cups?

Well, there’s no need to panic. I’ll just partake of Communion in a manner worthy of the Lord. That’s not so hard. Christians do it every Sunday.

Is anyone else stressing out in church today? I mean, everyone looks calm and earnest, like it’s no big deal. Except for that guy who has fallen asleep. Really fallen asleep, I mean, not…you know…fallen asleep.

It’s better not to think about that. Okay. Do this in remembrance of me. Manner worthy of the Lord. I can do this. Ah! The pastor is telling us to partake of the bread! Wait, please! I’m not ready! I’m too young to die!

All right, I’m exaggerating for dramatic effect. Slightly exaggerating. The Lord’s Supper is an amazing sacrament, a powerful reminder of God’s love in Jesus Christ. Communion isn’t really this nerve-wracking. Not quite.

What stresses you out in worship services? Let us know in the comments!

107. Things I Don’t Talk About

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There are things I don’t talk about.

Some of these things are trivial. I enjoy watching a television show about magical rainbow ponies, for example. I sometimes make faces at myself in the bathroom mirror. I also think Miley Cyrus’s “Party in the USA” is pretty darn catchy.

I’m not ashamed of these things, but they’re a little embarrassing, and so I keep them to myself.

Then there are the other things I don’t talk about—things that are anything but trivial.

I’ve suffered for years from serious depression. It comes and goes more or less at random, and robs me of the ability to do much of anything except breathe. When I’m depressed, all I can do is pray, retreat to my bedroom with a cup of tea and wait until my depression goes away.

I struggle with insecurity. Although I try not to let it show, I often wrestle with doubts and worries about my future, my faith, my writing and pretty much everything else.

I worry too much about my reputation, and show too little care or concern for the needs of other people.

I don’t feel particularly at home anywhere in the world. Even though I grew up in Ecuador, my Spanish is pretty weak. The culture of the United States is still strange to me. Every country feels like a foreign one.

Why don’t I ever talk about these things?

Well, it’s embarrassing and awkward. These things tear apart the bookish, cheerful, slightly eccentric impression I wish to make on people. Being vulnerable is hard. Sharing my insecurities feels too much like complaining or making excuses. It’s easier to reminisce about crazy high school teachers or grumble about how modern worship music is badly written.

I think other people would be more patient with me if they understood my struggles.

Do you know what else?

I would be a dashed lot more patient with other people if I understood their struggles.

My closest relationships are those in which the things we don’t talk about have been talked about. Some of the best discussions I’ve ever had were the ones in which the masks came off. These discussions were uncomfortable, but they built up stronger friendships.

There are times when revelations of a personal nature aren’t appropriate. There is a very, very fine line between being vulnerable and complaining about personal problems. It takes discernment to know when to speak and when to remain silent.

The problem is when I simply remain silent, hiding my struggles, refusing to acknowledge I’m not perfectly self-sufficient.

Uncle Iroh and the Apostle Paul—a fictional tea-drinker and a famous missionary, respectively—seem to agree on certain issues, and this is one of them.

Uncle Iroh once said, “There is nothing wrong with letting people who love you help you.”

The Apostle Paul wrote, “Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ.”

Maybe we should talk about the things we don’t talk about.

92. Impressions from a Cynical Traveler

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My typewriter monkeys and I made it safely to Indiana, much to my own surprise. Things go wrong when I travel, you see. Missed flights, misplaced luggage, sleepless nights, broken boarding ramps, typewriter monkeys misdirected to Vietnam—as far as I’m concerned, the magic has gone out of international travel.

This time there was only one problem. The computers weren’t working in the Montevideo airport, which meant luggage was checked and boarding passes written without the help of machines. (I’ve typed out blog posts without help from my monkeys or their typewriters, so I know how hard it can be to do by hand what’s supposed to be done automatically.) My mum, a marvelously patient lady, stood in line with me as I waited to check my bags and receive a pass.

I checked my suitcases, commending them to God, and pocketed my boarding pass. The time had come to me to say goodbye to my mum, old man and younger brother. I did, wishing goodbyes weren’t so hard.

I spent part of the flight from Montevideo to Miami conversing with a nice old gentleman who works in the education department of a university in Philadelphia. We discussed the works of C.S. Lewis and J.R.R. Tolkien, the premise of my novel, his impressions of Uruguay and a few other things. I never did get his name, though.

After I arrived at the Miami airport, a customs official informed me that I look like Harry Potter. It wasn’t the first time I’d heard that comparison. I’ve taught three groups of students on three different continents, and each time at least one kid told me I looked like Harry. (In South Korea, a number of students addressed me as “Harry Potter Teacher.”) It’s a mystery to me how anyone can draw any connection between a skinny, black-haired, green-eyed Briton like Harry and a stocky, brown-haired, brown-eyed American like me. I suppose I should count my blessings. At least people aren’t comparing me to, say, Charlie Sheen.

From Miami I flew to Dallas, where I spent an eight-hour layover drinking coffee, wandering around the terminal and working on The Wanderings of Lance Eliot, the sequel to my novel. Although I was severely tempted to try out my Matthew McConaughey impression, I refrained. I’m pretty sure they shoot you for McConaughey impressions in Texas.

From Dallas I flew to Fort Wayne, where my older brother picked me up. My typewriter monkeys and I have taken up residence in his spare bedroom until I find an apartment of my own. Needless to say, my room smells strongly of bananas.

I’m glad to see my brother, sister-in-law and nephew again, and less glad to be used as a sidewalk by their cats. (Why the cats choose to walk all over me, when they have the whole house to roam, is a mystery.)

As usual, leaving loved ones and moving to a new place has been hard. It’s emotionally exhausting, with depression, excitement, homesickness, anxiety, hope and despair all taking turns. For now, I can only remember dear old Paul’s word’s in the twelfth chapter of Romans: “Be joyful in hope, patient in affliction, faithful in prayer.”

I also need to keep an eye on my typewriter monkeys. I’m afraid they’ll pick a fight with the cats if I’m not careful.

Help, I’m a Christian! – Faith and Works

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Long ago, a clever fellow named Martin Luther changed the way a lot of people look at Christianity.

In his day, you see, the Church was a political organization that gave religious traditions almost as much importance as God’s commands. Luther protested against the Church, claiming Christianity was less complicated.

Luther’s beliefs were based on a few simple doctrines. Two of the most important were sola fides and sola gratia—faith alone and grace alone. His idea was that people didn’t have to do stuff to be saved. All they needed was to have faith in God, and God’s grace would save them.

Luther was bothered by the book of James in the Bible, which emphasizes the importance of good works. It seemed to contradict the rest of the New Testament, which claimed salvation comes through grace.

So which is it, faith or good works?

In the end, Luther’s followers came to this conclusion: “We are saved by faith alone, but if faith is alone it is not faith.” In other words, faith without good works is empty—as James put it, “faith without deeds is dead” (2:26).

I’ve spent a lot of my Christian life swinging like a pendulum from one extreme to the other. I tried living only by faith, and I became complacent. I tried living only by good works, and I became legalistic. Both extremes brought disillusionment and anxiety.

At last it occurred to me that it’s possible to live by faith and good works: to do my best to live for God, and to trust that his grace is sufficient for me when my best isn’t good enough.

C.S. Lewis put it really well: “Christians have often disputed as to whether what leads the Christian home is good actions, or Faith in Christ. I have no right really to speak on such a difficult question, but it does seem to me like asking which blade in a pair of scissors is more necessary.”

Both scissor blades are necessary, of course. In the same way, both faith and good works are necessary. Each is inadequate and incomplete without the other.

It’s a simple lesson, but an important one.

The Apostle Paul wrote:

“For it is by grace you have been saved, through faith—and this is not from yourselves, it is the gift of God—not by works, so that no one can boast. For we are God’s workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do” (Ephesians 2:8-10).

God saves us by grace. We accept that salvation through faith. Once saved, we’re equipped to do good works.

In other words, we do good works not to be saved, but because we are saved.

~

Before I conclude this series, there are two things I’d like to say.

First, I’d like to affirm that the Christian faith is an awesome, joyful, exciting adventure. It can be hard. It’s a relationship with God, and every close relationship—whether a marriage, a friendship or a parent-child relationship—has difficult stretches.

In the end, however, it’s worth it. Heck yeah, it’s worth it.

Nothing in the world—not coffee, not Legend of Zelda games, not my closest friendships—has even begun to come close to being as awesome as God.

Through everything, God has been there. No matter how great my mistakes, he has never let go of me—not once. His faithfulness has been perfect. His kindness has been incredible. His love has endured.

Faith in Christ can be hard. It takes commitment, patience and persistence.

It’s worth it.

The second thing I’d like to say: Thanks for reading!

Help, I’m a Christian! – Relationship

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Perhaps the most important lesson I ever learned is that the Christian faith is a relationship, not a system.

When I was younger, I was convinced faith was a system made up of logical rules. I thought all I needed to be a good Christian was to spend x number of minutes praying and read y number of chapters in the Bible and do z number of good deeds every day. Being a follower of Christ, I believed, was sort of like being a member of a club. All that was needed was to meet the minimum requirements.

To put it simply, I believed Christian living was just about doing stuff.

I was wrong.

For years I felt vaguely anxious, guilty and perplexed. Praying was awkward. Reading the Bible was tedious. Doing good things, and not doing bad things, seemed pointless.

I prayed, but not to know God or to help anyone. I read the Bible, but not to learn. I did good deeds, but not to be honor God or to serve others. I went to church, but not to strengthen my faith. I did these things simply because they were what Christians did.

I’d gotten the how right, but I’d totally missed the why.

Faith isn’t a system. Treating it like one will only lead to confusion, disillusionment and pain.

What, then, is faith?

It’s a relationship!

Granted, it’s more formal than most relationships. A relationship with God is sort of like a parent-child relationship and sort of like marriage.

We’re dependent on God, just as children are dependent on their parents. He provides for us, protects us and sometimes disciplines us, just as parents do for their children.

As for the marriage example: there are rules that guide our relationship with God, just as there are rules that guide the relationship between husband and wife.

It’s not enough just to “pray the prayer” to become a Christian. That’s the first step. A marriage relationship is more than just a wedding! The wedding is only the first of many, many steps.

In our relationship with God, do we make mistakes?

Absolutely.

That’s when we realize why a relationship is a thousand times better than a system. In a system, mistakes demand remuneration, atonement, compensation. In a relationship, one person simply forgives the other.

However—as in all other relationships—the whole thing falls apart if one person tries to take advantage of the other.

In a marriage, the wife can be the kindest, sweetest woman ever, but the relationship won’t last if the husband is selfish or unfaithful. A father can be the most patient, loving man in the world, but he can’t care for his children if they insist on running away from home.

God forgives us when we make mistakes. However, if we insist on disobeying him, he eventually lets us go our own way. To quote C.S. Lewis, “There are two kinds of people: those who say to God, ‘Thy will be done,’ and those to whom God says, ‘All right, then, have it your way.'” God doesn’t force us to obey him. He gives us the freedom to choose, even if our choice is to turn away from him.

If we turn back to God, he will always accept us. Just look at the story of the Prodigal Son!

If we want to accept God, however, we must accept him on his terms.

One those terms is that God speaks to us indirectly. As nice as it would be to chat with him face to face over coffee every morning, he chooses less direct methods to communicate: the Bible, literature, nature and people, to name a few.

This is admittedly frustrating. I’m not sure why God isn’t more direct, but there is one thing of which I’m sure: this indirectness is temporary. Quoth the Apostle Paul, “Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known” (1 Corinthians 13:12).

All this is fine theoretical stuff, but what does it mean in practical terms? How does it affect how we live?

It means we must understand the why of Christian living as we live out the how.

We should pray in order to help others and build up our relationship with God. We should read the Bible in order to learn. We should obey and serve in order to be useful. We should attend church in order to grow closer to each other and to God.

Faith isn’t a system, and God doesn’t ask us to do things for no reason. Understanding that faith is a relationship, and Christian living is part of that relationship, is probably the most important lesson I’ve ever learned.

Next: Prayer

75. Stoic or Stupid?

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I don’t think I would make a very good Viking.

I hate cold weather. I lack any kind of vicious bloodlust. Most importantly, I can’t grow a beard. Thus it is proved. Adam would not make a good Viking.

Regardless, I possess one quality that would make any Viking proud: quiet stoicism.

When confronted with trials and tribulations, I don’t usually talk about them. Whether depression or headache, discouragement or insomnia, sadness or soreness, I keep my problems to myself.

In some ways, quiet stoicism isn’t such a bad thing. I know people who could probably use a little stoicism: the sort of people who regularly insist on describing all of their frustrations in painstaking detail. One reason I don’t talk much about my problems is that I don’t want to annoy anyone.

In other ways, however, quiet stoicism is kind of stupid.

To be honest, one of the reasons I keep my struggles to myself is to give the impression that I don’t have any. It’s hard to be vulnerable. It can be embarrassing. The easiest option is sometimes to be stoic and tough out my problems alone.

The trouble is that some problems are too big for anyone to tough out alone.

As much as I’d like to pretend I’m totally self-sufficient, I’m not. There are times I need someone to give me advice, encouragement or criticism. There are times I need someone to listen to me. There are times I need someone simply to be there.

Not long ago, I realized I’d made such a habit of trying to deal with my problems alone that I was forgetting to ask God for help when difficulties arose. It wasn’t a deliberate, “I’ll take care of this little complication, God, and ask you to handle the really big problems” kind of decision. In fact, it wasn’t a decision at all. Asking for help simply didn’t occur to me.

Stoic or not, forgetting to ask the Lord God Almighty for help is stupid. He doesn’t merely allow us to ask for help when we need it. He flat-out commands us to ask for help when we need it!

Paul wrote, “Do not be anxious about anything, but in everything, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to God” (Philippians 4:6).

Peter added, “Cast all your anxiety on him because he cares for you” (1 Peter 5:7).

Quiet stoicism can be a virtue. I’m a reserved person, and I don’t plan to tell everyone about every problem. I think it’s good sometimes to work through problems patiently.

In the end, though, ain’t it better to ask for help?

70. Talking Too Much

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I talk too much.

This wouldn’t be a problem, except for one small detail: when I talk, most people feel obligated to listen. Some of my acquaintances have probably perfected the art of Tuning Out Adam, but the rest have no choice but to suffer politely through my ramblings, rants and dramatic monologues.

Even after I realized I talk too much, I didn’t think it was a serious fault. Pastors don’t preach sermons about the sin of talkativeness. The Lord Jesus didn’t warn against being too chatty. The Bible doesn’t have anything to say about rampant loquacity.

At least that’s what I thought.

Once, years ago, I contradicted a high school teacher about a passage of Scripture. A grim expression came over his face. He busted out a Bible. One of my classmates whispered, “Oh, Adam’s about to get Scripture-owned.” As it turned out, my teacher was absolutely correct. I was chastened, humbled and embarrassed.

Pretty much the same thing happened in regard to my tendency to talk too much.

Much to my discomfort, I kept finding verses in Scripture that suggest talking too much is a foolish thing to do.

Solomon had all kinds of things to say in the book of Proverbs.

“When words are many, sin is not absent, but he who holds his tongue is wise.”

“A man of knowledge uses words with restraint, and a man of understanding is even-tempered.”

“Even a fool is thought wise if he keeps silent, and discerning if he holds his tongue.”

New Testament writers were equally eloquent upon the subject.

“Do not let any unwholesome talk come out of your mouths, but only what is helpful for building others up according to their needs, that it may benefit those who listen,” wrote the Apostle Paul.

“Everyone should be quick to listen, slow to speak and slow to become angry,” wrote James the brother of Jesus.

Most discomforting were words spoken by the Lord Jesus himself: “But I tell you that men will have to give account on the day of judgment for every careless word they have spoken.”

Wait, I’ll have to give account for every careless word I’ve spoken? Every careless word I’ve ever spoken?

Dash it.

Once again, I got Scripture-owned.

One of my resolutions for this year is not to talk quite so much. Have I broken this resolution? Yes, yes I have. I’m still working on it.

68. About Writing: Attitude

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There was once a young man whom I’ll call Socrates.

(For the record, this was not the same Socrates as the one who pretended to tear out my heart or the one who gave me an RNA or the one who invented the Socratic method. This is a different Socrates.)

Socrates was a creative writer. A couple of years ago, we had a discussion about our writing projects. It turned out that we had both written fantasy novels and were in the process of revising our work. When Socrates heard about my novel, he offered to read it and offer feedback. I accepted his offer gratefully and gave him a manuscript of my novel.

A few days later, he handed me the manuscript of his novel and told me he was looking forward to hearing my criticism. This came as a surprise to me. I didn’t mind criticizing his novel, but he hadn’t asked for criticism and I hadn’t offered it. He simply gave me the manuscript and expected feedback.

It occurred to me that Socrates might have offered to read my novel only for the sake of obligating me to read his.

Nevertheless, I believed creative writers should stick together. If another creative writer wanted my criticism, I was happy to give it. Thus I plunged into the novel Socrates had written, marking his manuscript with mechanical pencil and thinking about what feedback to give him.

It was not a good novel. The novel had its strengths, of course, but it also had many weaknesses. The most glaring of these were myriad misspellings and grammar mistakes: the sort of errors a spellcheck program wouldn’t catch. Apart from typographical errors, the novel had a number of significant problems.

When criticizing a piece of writing, I believe it’s important to be honest and kind. Honesty can be carried to the extreme of disparagement. Kindness can be carried to the extreme of flattery. Neither disparagement nor flattery are helpful to a writer. As I read the manuscript of the novel, I tried to think of criticisms that would be helpful to Socrates.

I finished the manuscript and sent Socrates an email in which I commended the novel’s strengths, pointed out a few of its faults and suggested changes that could be made.

Socrates replied with an email in which he thanked me for my feedback, responded offhandedly to a few of my criticisms and promised to return the favor by giving me feedback on my novel. (He never did.) Regarding his own novel, he mentioned his intention to “go and work on it once more before I try to find a publisher.”

To be honest, I was left with rather a poor impression of Socrates as a creative writer. The mediocre quality of his writing had little to do with it. When I began writing, the quality of my writing was unspeakably awful. Every writer has to start somewhere, and that somewhere is usually pretty bad. As Jon Acuff once observed, the road to awesome always leads through the land of horrible.

No, my poor impression of Socrates came from his attitude toward writing. In our exchanges, I noticed several problems with his attitude—problems that are common among writers—problems of which I myself have often been guilty.

Writers shouldn’t use other people

It’s extremely important for writers to seek help from others. There is a difference, however, between seeking help from someone and using someone. In my exchanges with Socrates, it seemed that he offered to read my manuscript only to manipulate me into reading his. Writers should never consider other people mere tools or resources. The writer who criticizes my manuscript isn’t a feedback machine. The readers who follow my blog aren’t a statistic. These people are human beings with feelings and opinions and gifts. Treating them as mere tools or resources is wrong.

Writers should respect their readers enough to give them their best work

It’s not a huge deal, but I prefer not to read a manuscript full of typographical errors. I would have enjoyed the manuscript Socrates gave me much more had he taken the time to make sure it was at least written correctly.

Writers should be willing to accept criticism, especially when they ask for it

I received the impression from Socrates that he didn’t really care much for my criticism. I wouldn’t have minded much, except for two things. First, I had taken a lot of time to read his novel and give the best feedback I could. Second, he had asked specifically for my criticism. To ask for it, and then not to accept any of it, seemed a little rude. Writers shouldn’t blindly accept every bit of criticism they receive, but they should at least consider it—especially when they’ve asked for it.

Writers should help each other

Socrates offered to read my novel and give feedback, but he never did. Granted, he may have forgotten or been too busy, but our exchanges seemed unfairly one-sided. If writers accept help from others, they should also be willing to give help.

Writers should be realistic

When Socrates informed me that his plan for his manuscript was to “go and work on it once more before I try to find a publisher,” I had to shake my head. Even if his manuscript weren’t full of typographical errors, he would have had to revise it at least a few more times before it was even close to being presentable to publishers. Then he would have to begin the arduous process of finding a publisher: research the market, find an agent, write a novel proposal, find a publisher, sign a contract, submit the manuscript for editing, make necessary revisions, format the manuscript, promote the novel and so on. Writers mustn’t be daunted or discouraged by the difficulties of publishing, but they mustn’t be unrealistic either.

If it seems like I’m being pretty harsh toward Socrates and his attitude toward writing, I need to point out that I’ve made all of his mistakes myself. I’ve used people. I’ve given other people less than my best writing, been unwilling to accept good criticism and refused to help other writers. As for being unrealistic, I’ve been ridiculously naïve about the quality of my writing and the difficulty of publishing.

Here are two more mistakes I’ve made.

Writers shouldn’t assume their writing is awesome

Writers have a tendency to fall in love with their own writing because it’s exactly the kind of thing they enjoy reading. I like wry, thoughtful writing. I also like fantasy fiction. My novel happens to be a wry, thoughtful fantasy. It’s the sort of novel I would enjoy reading—but it may not be the sort of novel everyone else in the world would enjoy reading. Writers need to follow the Apostle Paul’s good advice: “Do not think of yourself more highly than you ought, but rather think of yourself with sober judgment.”

Writers shouldn’t assume their writing is awful

Writers also have a tendency to give up because they assume their writing is bad. Sometimes it is, and they need to keep practicing. Sometimes it isn’t, and they need to keep writing well. It’s difficult for writers to assess the quality of their own writing, which is why seeking help from others is so important.

It’s essential for writers to have the right attitude: to persevere, to be humble, to be willing to seek help, to be willing to give help and so on.

Have you struggled with any of these attitude problems? How do you deal with them? Let us know in the comments!