Someone left a beautiful blue box on the front
porch of our church recently. A note on the top
said "For Gordon." I opened the box and inside
was an elegant, blue fountain pen with gold
bands.
The pen was left by an Episcopal priest named
Cristopher (yes, that's the correct spelling)
whom I met in a coffee shop several weeks ago.
We had one of those "You're a minister? Me too!
Isn't preaching wonderful except when it's
awful?" conversations that ministers often have.
The next time I saw him there, I noticed he was
writing with a fountain pen. And since he is
left-handed, there was ink smeared all over his
hand.
Writing with a fountain pen is a choice. And to
do so as a left hander, meaning you will always
be dragging your left hand through wet ink,
indicates a serious commitment. It's like me
using my grandfather's pocket watch, which loses
about 6 minutes a day. It's not practical, nor
does it make sense in an age when cheap quartz
watches lose less than a second a month.
And yet I enjoy winding my grandfather's watch,
setting the time and carrying the timepiece in
the little pocket made for pocket watches that
is still included—amazingly—in every pair of
jeans I buy.
As it turns out, Cristopher writes with fountain
pens because he loves them. He loves the feel of
the ink flowing through the nib and onto the
paper. He loves that they are old fashioned.
They remind him of a day when people wrote to
each other on paper and with distinctive
handwriting styles.
I write mostly on the computer. If I have to
write by hand, I use little felt-tip pens that I
buy in boxes of 12. But by the end of our
conversation, my new friend had talked me into
entering his dreamy world of quills, parchments,
ink blotters and romance. I imagined opening a
letter from my beloved that has taken a month to
arrive. The thick paper of the envelope pops
open, breaking the wax seal. The letter unfolds
with the rustle of paper on paper. I recognize
the handwriting of my love and my heart breaks a
little.
I found myself thinking about buying a fountain
pen. But I didn't buy one. After Cristopher left
the coffee shop, I went back to writing on my
computer, and within a day or so, the magic was
gone.
Then the pen showed up on the porch of my
church, and now I'm back into a fountain pen
frame of mind. You can't believe the dark line
of glistening ink this pen lays down. It moves
across paper like a wet fingertip on ice. It's
seductive and a little intoxicating and it makes
me want to write. I've fallen in love with it,
and now my wife wants one too.
But really, what is a fountain pen going to do
for me? It's a hassle to use, and because it's
expensive, I have to be careful lest I lose it.
So why do I carry it with me now and use it
every day?
Perhaps because there is something intangible in
the pen and the paper and in the feel of these
things. It is an awesome thought to know that
someone will read your words and hold your
thoughts in her mind. Something about the
fountain pen settles me and brings me down into
a writing kind of place.
Things like fountain pens, old tools and pocket
watches transcend the reality of their
inefficiency (at least these days) and ascend to
a higher plane of existence. They bring to mind
bygone eras. They have a rich quality that is
worth the trouble, certainly worth a little ink
on your fingers from time to time. These old,
well-made items of quality feel good in our
hands. They feel solid. They leave stains on our
fingers and marks on our souls. It is good to
use them.
I regularly meet people who reject the Bible
just as they'd reject a fountain pen. Yes, some
of the stories and letters seem clunky,
old-fashioned, difficult to understand and
hopelessly out of date. What wisdom you find
must be mined from its first-century context and
translated into the language of the modern mind.
It's a lot of work, which is why we pay
preachers—specialists—to unpack these scriptures
for us.
If you're looking for spiritual wisdom, it's a
lot easier to pick up a self-help book at your
local Precious Moments Christian store. If you
can buy your wisdom pre-digested, why do battle
with the Bible?
And why hold my grandfather's watch in my hands
and listen to the clicks as I wind it? Why run
your hands over the slick, wooden handle of an
old hammer? Why buy old furniture? Live in an
old house? Write with a fountain pen?
The Bible will lay heavy in your hands. It is
not easy. It is not practical. It might not even
be desirable all the time. But it is good. It is
good to read it.
You may come to love the Bible the way you come
to love all things old and worn and time-tested.
The beloved stories of Jesus, of his clumsy
disciples and of the stumbling early church
stand tall in the world of literature, polished
smooth by centuries of pilgrims.
Reading the Bible will be hard. You pick it up
knowing that it doesn't keep time they way we
keep time in the modern world. Parts of it are
dated, so it must be wound regularly with study,
and its time reset at the morning of every new
age.
But the stories glide across your heart like a
fountain pen with a generous nib. They lay down
a rich, glistening line of history and archetype
and meaning that feels good on the soul. Is
there anything written by humankind that leaves
a deeper stain on our lives?
Read the Bible for the age of it. For the work
of it. For the pain and sorrow of it. For the
truth of it. And yes, for the love of it.
Gordon Atkinson is pastor of Covenant Baptist
Church in San Antonio, Texas and has his own
excellent website
www.reallivepreacher.com. We are most
grateful to Gordon for his permission to
reproduce his essays
here.
Copyright
2006 CHRISTIAN CENTURY. Reproduced by permission
from the August 15 2006 issue of the CHRISTIAN
CENTURY. Subscriptions: from $49/year from P.O.
Box 378, Mt. Morris, IL 61054. 1-800-208-4097.
Visit the
Christian Century website.
