Sound and Fury

Drowning in Worthless Words

For a few weeks, I’ve struggled to find a reason to write. Maybe everything that could be said has been said—in which case, I’ve nothing to regret. Or, maybe my original thoughts were slain and buried by the nonstop stream of digital communication beamed at me through texts and emails. Certainly many beautiful words still survive within the old books that sit on my bookshelves, my rows of neatly-arranged neglect. At any rate, it’s not without some dejection that I’ve been at a loss for words.

Isn’t it strange that words can escape us in a world that is brimming with communication? We are surrounded and hounded with all manner of speech. The “marketplace of ideas” is still a busy place, after all, and words— however dumbed-down they are—are still its currency. No topic is left uncovered (though a few are now censored), and all sorts of obscure ideas find an outlet and audience. I recently found out that there’s an entire “hobby horse” culture—grown ups or teenagers spend hours prancing around on stick ponies. Mental illness or sport? You decide.

Our political class is overflowing with words, and mostly dumb ones. It’s no longer necessary to have a real grasp of how life works—human nature, lessons of history and economics are mysteries hidden from the blind who lead the blind. We are therefore treated to middle-school logic and propaganda on the left, or good ideas trapped in a limited vocabulary on the right. Pragmatists on the right, wisely recognizing a solid binary when they see one, will put Elements of Style away and vote for Trump anyways.

For our other trials and troubles, there is no shortage of experts, consultants, life coaches, authors, podcasters, and therapists. Our slick technology now gives podiums to even the least talented influencers; it’s easy to find the dregs of therapy culture on Instagram, Youtube, and Facebook. Such expertise—yammering, in most cases—is prolific now, convincing even soccer moms and housewives to try their hands at the trade. Don’t worry, you don’t have to be too serious to qualify; being a “life coach” is now as popular as selling essential oils or vitamins, at least for “boss moms.”

No inbox is left empty—not even that of the recluse; without even trying, one receives several emails or text solicitations per day, often personalized to impress those whose indiscretion smells like cash. Want to look at a website? First, supply your email, phone number, and spend a couple minutes closing pop-ups. Don’t want to do that? No worries, your phone will still be recognized and followed anyways. Every store you’ve visited, every discount you sought, every bill you’ve paid—all your searches and scrolls—left a trail of crumbs that will be followed by the hungry hounds of e-commerce.

If you’re unlucky, a political candidate has also spammed you with unwanted and dramatic text messages, perhaps multiple per day. The candidates and their various proxies are unwanted suitors and stalkers, spamming you with sad stories and fearful pleas. With each deleted text, they grow more agitated and desperate. Therefore, you will be drowning in their words, too. Yesterday, a couple republicans texted me—in an offended tone— that they were about to give up on me but would give me a final chance to donate. I’m conservative, too, but I don’t respond to low-IQ appeals.

All this verbal noise is supplemented by the usual, everyday stuff—and for those of us with kids in school, that means four or five school missives per day, either in email or in various apps. Unfortunately for the well-meaning authors, such emails often go unread now. I don’t need to know what’s coming up in math this week, because it’s not my math class—and I don’t like math. There’s no need to send me digital copies of next week’s science unit. (Helicopter parents have encouraged this mess, and they deserve a separate essay.) Nonetheless, teachers now send regular announcements about their lesson plans, even sharing special classroom moments or inspirational thoughts, so we must at least pretend to read these words, too.

Of course, we are still the inheritors of Gutenbergs’ labors, and with that comes so many good words. If you want to find the good words, you have to go looking, because even in their digital forms, nobody sends them to you. Things that do not fit into fiery soundbites or memes are heavy lifting in our warp-speed universe. Sadly, good words have fallen out of fashion, along with grandfather clocks and common sense.

Last week, however, I heard a podcast that shed light on my baffling season of word-weariness. The speaker was R.C. Sproul, the late, great theologian and pastor. (If you’ve never heard him but enjoy cigars, you’ll at least enjoy the touch of tobacco in his voice.) He talks about the fleeting value of magazines and newspapers—and this was years ago, when print media still enjoyed prominence.

Sproul said,

“You know one thing I don't like about magazines,  I've never enjoyed writing magazine articles because you write them, they're read, and  then you fold up the fish in the magazine and throw in the garbage. Nothing is more worthless than yesterday's newspaper.”

He doesn’t stop there, though. Ultimately, he contrasts the fleeting value and declining marginal utility of newspapers with God’s words, for “the word of the Lord stands forever.” We and our many words shrivel and fade like grass; not so with God. Day after day—and political cycle after political cycle—the “sword of the Spirit” continues its accurate and timely work, while the world’s best minds pivot and tack to capture the culture’s fickle winds.

As we sit awash in abused language and impoverished thought, blasted by every sort of verbal trivia, we are prone to weariness. We long for simple truths, classic works, and eloquent speakers—and rightfully so. We escape for a few days of quiet. Yet in the noise and overwhelm of our groaning world, God’s own word is the real refuge. Unlike our sea of darkened speech, it’s true words, ancient paths, and choicest phrases; but more importantly, its oft-neglected pages are where God reveals himself to us. It’s his letter to a world that—years after Gutenberg—still gropes in vain for words of truth and light.

For the word of the LORD is right; and all his works are done in truth.—Psalm 33:4