The Quest for Originality

some thoughts on things under the sun

How many hours do you think a pastor works on their sermon? Twelve? Six? None? Some of my friends have asked this question before about my sermons, videos, and posts like this one, and I always have trouble answering.

I usually say something like, “I’ve been working on this sermon for thirty-two years. Every VBS, every gospel meeting (read “revival”), every lectureship, every seminar, every book, every essay, every conversation, every “ball field devo” at church camp, and every sermon I’ve ever heard has culminated in this morning’s message.”

This usually gets a laugh or at least a groan, which is also acceptable if not more so, but I really am being as honest as I can.

As some have said, we are the sum total of our experiences.

One of the things I’m best at is noticing connections between passages. Some of the teens in my youth group have me in their phone as “Mr. Intertextuality.” I love how the Bible riffs off itself. Passages cite passages that allude to other passages. Intertextuality, by the way, is when the Bible tickles itself.

But this also happens with other things like books I’ve read, podcasts I’ve listened to, or shows I’ve watched. I can’t get through a conversation without it reminding me of some scene from The Office, like the stupid comment above about tickling and intertextuality.

This is a blessing, but it’s also a curse.

Having done the work I have in trying to get a better understanding of myself, I’ve become hyper aware of my biases (thanks Thomas Keating and Brian McLaren and Ken Wilbur and…). Sometimes this awareness is so strong that I’ll ditch an entire article or podcast or sermon because I know there is an other side of the story that is equally compelling, or at least partially so, and I know I only have my particular take because of my bias.

This also means that I try to be conscious of my influences.

Sometimes I struggle with knowing when to cite a source. If I were to cite every source that came to mind as I craft a new post or imagine a new sermon, I would spend most of my time writing a bibliography. The bibliography for this throwaway article would take years to write.

Everything I say, everything I think, everything I do comes from somewhere.

I’m reminded of the oft quoted passage from Ecclesiastes:

What has been is what will be, and what has been done is what will be done; there is nothing new under the sun. Is there a thing of which it is said, “See, this is new”? It has already been in the ages before us. Ecclesiastes 1:9–10

And so I struggle with originality, which is really a struggle of identity.

At worst, I feel like I’m ripping off someone else, that I’m inauthentic.

But maybe originality isn’t about putting words in an order that is new (even that’s a borrowed line from Twenty One Pilots). Maybe it’s admitting that everything we do is a synthesis of everything that has come before, and only I, only you, can put things together in the precise way that only I, or you, can, even if it’s been written about or talked about or sung about a million other times. Does the world only need one love song? Does humanity only need one poem about nature? Do we need only one account of the Gospel?

Even now I’m thinking about a writing class from Rob, a conversation with Brian, a side comment from John Dominic Crossan in a debate with James White about the expression “gospels”, and a stupid joke I read on Reddit ten years ago, which basically says, “Over the last 13.4 billion years, subatomic particles collided, atoms were formed, stars were birthed, chemicals combined, and millions upon millions of species came in and out of existence only for you to make a fart joke.”

And did we read too quickly over the confession here? The part that’s buried within my stream of consciousness, 4am, Waffle House ramble? (By the way, I go to Waffle House to work so early because my friend Dallas does)

Inauthenticity.

Stated positively, this struggle is the quest for originality. Stated negatively, this is fleeing from inauthenticity.

Call it imposter syndrome if you’d like.

But as my friend Michael and I were talking about the other day, we both know that it’s not really imposter syndrome.

Are you ready to run away from this confession again with me?

Imposter syndrome, in its colloquial use, is the feeling thirty-year-olds get when they realize that they will never feel like an adult, and they secretly wonder if every other adult is just a teenager cosplaying as an adult, fumbling through life in the body of a thirty-year-old but the hopes, dreams, aspirations, and naivety of an eighteen-year-old, fart jokes and all. (I’m pretty sure I stole this bit about “adulting” from a meme I saw)

It’s the feeling that everyone else has it together except for you.

Or that you really aren’t what everyone thinks you’re cracked up to be.

Or if they only knew about your doubts and secrets and insecurities and ignorance and failures then they wouldn’t say the things they do about you or trust you in the way they currently do.

Or you know who they think is a rockstar, and you know that person is anything but, so if they give you the same lip service they do that guy, then are their compliments even worth anything, and if their compliments aren’t worth anything, then is what they tell you actually true, and… (my friend Michael said the first part)

And then you consider your own failures.

How you haven’t “made it.” How you feel like you’ve been close a time or two, but there is something eluding you, something just out of reach. Whether it’s that interview or book deal or recognition or “atta boy,” it feels that it’s just never going to come, and the evening sun is sinking low (I had a boss that said “atta boy” and of course the O Brother Where Art Thou? soundtrack).

But, like, give yourself a break. You’re only twenty-six. You know?

But then you’re twenty-seven.

Then you’re in your “Jesus year”—thirty.

And it still doesn’t happen.

But imposter syndrome is also a technical term referring to a valley on the famous graph outlining the Dunning-Kruger effect (which I learned about from Reddit).

When someone gets a little knowledge about a subject, they feel like an expert and their confidence soars. This is called the mountain of stupidity. But then, hopefully, but most often not, the person realizes how much they don’t know. That sinking feeling, that sudden realization is called imposter syndrome.

Then, as you acquire more knowledge, your confidence increases in proportion to your knowledge and you become easier to deal with and less of an…

Anyway.

I know it’s not that.

I’m far past the mountain of stupidity, and I’ve been through the imposter syndrome in my particular field. I know that there are lots of things I don’t know, but I feel that my confidence is proportional to my knowledge, which is considerable compared to many and minuscule compared to many others.

But it’s this sense that I know that regardless of how awesome a sermon is, there is always room for improvement because the mystery of God is something that can be endlessly known (which is a reference to something I heard Richard Rohr say).

But for someone like me, this should be the ultimate invitation, a source of immeasurable joy (back to Rob Bell’s talk on Handling Your Fire).

My friend Michael said that his vision of heaven is a place where one has infinite time and potential to learn and grow and discover and imagine. Mine was a beautiful mountainside, a field of hypoallergenic wildflowers, and, look over there, “a river runs through it.”

But I could live with his version of heaven.

So why is there this feeling? Am I misinterpreting it? Am I framing it incorrectly?

Probably and yes.

That’s why I don’t think it’s imposter syndrome. Because I love the idea that there are endless things to learn. I love the idea that I’ll never look back and say, “I have arrived.” (from the idea that “the journey is the destination”)

I think it has something to do with inauthenticity, maybe even a lack of fulfillment?

Nah. That’s not really it.

I have an awesome family, a great job, and I can pretty much do whatever I want: hike, take mandolin lessons, do a trail run, write and read and imagine.

So is lack of fulfillment the right word? That seems less true to me.

Not false, mind you. Just less true.

And I know, I really do know, that if I were to get that book deal or if the church were to explode (in attendance), then I would still have this feeling.

Thanks to Rob, as mentioned above, I know that any “if I could just…” will always fall short of my expectations.

So it isn’t imposter syndrome, and it isn’t a lack of fulfillment, and it isn’t really a lack of originality because I know that while I am indebted to so many people, I also know they are as well, so really originality is about something else. We all stand on the shoulders of giants (every Church of Christ preacher I have ever listened to says this about the preachers of the 50s-80s).

Or maybe it’s just moderate clinical depression with a side of severe anxiety? (shoutout to Clint)

Or maybe “I’m insecure, and I care what people think.” Maybe I really am blurryface (back to Twenty One Pilots).

So is this the quest for originality, or is it the quest for Daniel?