When Our Words Won’t Work

At a news conference on September 11, 2001, with a ragged hole in the New York City skyline, someone asked Mayor Rudy Giuliani how many casualties he expected. Mr. Giuliani could have answered like a politician, but instead, he answered like a pastor; “The number of casualties will be more than any of us can bear ultimately.” He numbered our grief in fourteen words, named it unbearable and, thereby, enabled us to express it.

The right word at the right time infuses a moment with meaning, meets questions with answers, soothes, heals and strengthens. Lincoln’s Gettysburg Address. Armstrong’s proclamation from the surface of the moon. Reagan’s eulogy for the seven Challenger astronauts. There is life and creative power and possibility in words.

But every now and then, a moment arises that tightens the loosest lips. Some glorious sadness silences the smoothest of talkers. The most eloquent among us cannot come up with a single word nimble enough to bring order to the chaos or clarity to the confusion. And even if they could, we are skeptical that their words are broad-shouldered enough to carry the freight of meaning we need for them to lift.

This inability to articulate a comforting word happens a lot in hospital corridors after a doctor delivers unwelcome news. Or in funeral homes where guilt competes with grief to drive fragile hearts past their crush depth. And is there a more wordless wasteland than a windy hillside cemetery, its untold stories silenced beneath stoic headstones?

What do we do when our words won’t work?

Centuries ago, a poet, prophet and king was inspired to write some words that, through the years, have seemed to say just what needed to be said, just when it needed saying.

The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want. He makes me to lie down in green pastures; He leads me beside the still waters. He restores my soul; He leads me in the paths of righteousness for His name’s sake. Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil; for You are with me; Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me. You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies; You anoint my head with oil; my cup runs over. Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life; and I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever.

These words work because they are honest. They talk about valleys and shadows. They acknowledge enemies and evil. The dare to mention death. They don’t pretend that we live in a world where we’re never disappointed or confronted or frightened. They tell us the truth. Which means that they respect us, because that’s how you treat people you respect. It means they trust us. And if they trust us, we can trust them.

These words work because they are honest about how life sometimes is and because they are hopeful. Right now, you may be in a valley. You may be shivering in a shadow. You may be affected by evil and you might even have enemies. But these old words look forward to a time when the valley will be below you; when the shadows will be sunlight; when both evil and enemies will be impotent. It speaks of comfort and quiet; of peace and provision; of restoration and being right with God. But the most hopeful thing these old words invoke is the future. They imagine a future even beyond death, of dwelling in the house of the Lord forever.

The next time a sorrow falls or fear rises or a tragedy erupts – the next time you need not just a word, but the right word, a word that works – disregard the dictionary. Ask God to speak. He has the words of life.