Bic pen confessions
One of the speakers from last year's 2006 Shepherd's Conference waxed eloquent on the joys of writing notes to your congregation with a fountain pen (ball-point or flair-tips don't count), and the wonderful rewards that would accrue in heaven; only, he was serious. He actually went on and on in this vein, causing me to feel from the mere volume of his words on the subject that there might actually be something to this. I am glad no one has me on tapes distributed all around the country, saying such silly things. Then again, it might be gratifying to think that what I said was of sufficient importance to be distributed around the country, silly statements not withstanding. But I digress.
My experience has been different, re: said fountain pen.
As I TYPE this (not, 'write this' - the distinction is important) my fingers are smudged with ink from desperate attempts to make my 2007 Shepherd's Conference fine writing instrument write.
There is a history here. Several weeks ago, the church got a large ($7000) gift from an out-of-state donor. I decided, having been influenced by Johnny Mac's preachers, that the only appropriate response would be a thank-you note, written, of course, using the Conference Fountain Pen. With fear and trembling, plus due reverence, I got my pen out and gingerly inserted the ink cartridge, played with the pen for a moment, finally managing to get the ink to the tip of the pen. And all this without a stray drop on hands, pants, or thank-you card! It was a good start.
Feeling that I was standing in the tradition of Jonathan Edwards and John Calvin, I composed a genuinely thankful thank-you note, which sentiments I recorded using my new fountain pen. This of course, using a sticky note gently placed over the still drying ink as I penned my sentences. If you are left-handed, you'll get it. Right-handers won't. For your edification, righties, I will point out that we lefties, as we write, are constantly moving our hands over what we have just written. Obviously, fountain pens were designed for the majority-world.
I did mange to get the note written without smears, nor too much ink on the bottom side of my pinky. As I sat back, enveloped in the satisfaction that can only come from having participated in such an ancient and spiritual tradition, I examined my handiwork.
Perhaps someone should have told me that the only people qualified to attain this level of pastoral prodigiousness are those who have mastered the art of penmanship. My note looked scratchy and scrawly, perhaps like something an eighth grader would write in a hurry. The jots and tittles displayed an uneven ink flow, sometimes disappearing entirely. On the whole, the piece was illegible. In fact, I would not have even known the language was English, were I not the author.
Sighing at this one more example of pastoral incompetence, I gutted it out and addressed the envelope, managing to attain the same ugly look. "It's the thought that counts," I told myself, as I dropped my masterpiece in the mail.
Now this might have been the end of the tale, had not something occurred to rub salt in the wound. Yesterday my thank-you note came back, undeliverable. Our generous donor had moved.
Not wanting to waste my sole effort of pastoring in the vein of Richard Baxter and John Bunyan, I determined to pen a fresh envelope - with the fountain pen. A little quick work with email secured the correct address.
Once more, overcome by an appropriate sense of awe and reverence, I took up my fountain pen - not used since this note was originally penned several weeks ago. But it would not write. No amount of shaking, tapping, scribbling on scrap paper, nor moistening the tip could convince the ink to flow. Anywhere, but on my fingers, that is.
Confession is good for the soul. I finished the new envelope with a crass, ball-point pen. No more fountain pens. And so, my brothers, I have come to the conclusion that I shall never attain to the spiritual stature of the Westminster divines. And all because of one, lousy, fountain pen.
