“Swish and flick, remember, swish
and flick. And saying the magic words properly is very important, too – never forget
Wizard Baruffio, who said ‘s’ instead of ‘f’ and found himself on the floor
with a buffalo on his chest.”
J. K.
Rowling, Harry Potter and the Philosopher’s Stone (1997)
 |
| A suitably magical-looking book, presumably containing some words. See how much effort I put into making these pictures relevant. |
Do you ever feel, when praying,
that if you could just articulate yourself properly, if you could just
express precisely what it is you’re trying to say in precisely the right words,
then everything would be, well, sorted, somehow?
Predictably, I ask the question because
I can answer it in the affirmative. Quite frankly, I have no idea whether this
is a common problem or more of an idiosyncratic one, because I suspect my
fondness for carefully selecting and arranging words exceeds most people’s. I
really love words; more particularly, I really love the employment of obscure
or interesting words in especially apt roles. I love it when someone reaches
for a term that doesn’t feature in most people’s primary vocabulary because it
encapsulates the intended meaning more wholly, specifically, or vividly;
conversations with me tend to be peppered with the occasional, “Ooh, I do like
the word ‘accoutrement’,” or, “‘Pillage’ is an excellent word,” on my part.
Likewise, I love assigning words to fitting positions myself. This explains why
I take so long to write essays: I simply can’t draft something I don’t really
like and enact major renovations on it later; my method is rather to self-edit
heavily as I go along, investing a good deal of thought in every sentence, and
consequently to have churned out something pretty close to my final version by
the time I hit the conclusion. It also explains, in part, why I derive so much
delight from maintaining this blog – at which point this already-somewhat-meta
paragraph tips over into unambiguous self-awareness. See, I had some fun with
that last sentence.
The satisfaction to be had in
selecting the right words for the right purposes is, for me, significant. And
that’s not a problem when I’m writing an essay or a blog post, but when I’m on
my knees before my Creator, the dynamic is a tad different. I become so
determined to express what I really mean – that my words should contain
within themselves the full sincerity with which I want to repent, the full astonishment
with which I want to praise, the full solicitude with which I want to intercede
– that I start to rely on the things I say to God as a way of securing my
nearness to him.
Obviously, it’s a recipe for disaster
if there ever was one, but this one ranks, I think, among the more subtle of
the myriad means by which I persistently drift into trying to achieve salvation
by my own deeds. It’s not that I’m unaware of the fact that God planned,
engineered, and executed the whole of his plan for my salvation without any
input from me and indeed before I was even an embryo, and that my every act of
worship is only a response thereto. It’s that I convince myself that a
particular kind of response – a response that acknowledges the
astonishing act that provoked it in a somehow worthy manner – is required in
order for God to be genuinely pleased with me. (‘Right response’ is a phrase
that, in my experience, gets chucked around quite a lot in evangelical circles
when the issue is raised as to where our deeds fit into the picture if they don’t
actually contribute anything towards our salvation.) So I sit there praying
something along the lines of, “Thank you so much that you have planned,
engineered, and executed the whole of your plan for my salvation without any
input from me and indeed before I was even an embryo,” all the while mentally
prodding at what I’m saying to see if it is as wholly and specifically and
vividly expressive of what I mean as I think it needs to be in order to qualify
as a ‘right response’ to the gospel.
In a way, though, what I’m really
trying to do is magic.
Magic, specifically early Jewish
magic texts, is a subject that currently tends to feature pretty heavily in
those slowly-written essays of mine that I mentioned earlier, and so I probably
know as well as most people that ‘magic’ is a horribly difficult term to define
and, especially in an ancient-world context, to differentiate from other
categories like ‘science’, ‘medicine’, and, notoriously, ‘religion’. Still, one
key feature of magic that a lot of scholars agree on is that it is essentially
coercive; this is not about entreating a supernatural being to act, but rather
about trying to force a change in the supernatural sphere using particular
practices or, of course, particular words. The texts I work on, the vast
majority of which are designed to get rid of demons, are awash with invocations
of divine names, formulaic stories about previous defeats suffered by demons, Biblical
quotations, legal terminology, and painstakingly specific identifications of
all parties concerned – just in case the omission of an alternative name should
offer the demon a get-out clause. Specific words are used with a view to
bringing about a change in the supernatural realm – and we call it magic.1
To spare you a rant about in
exactly what sense these texts can be construed as magical and where that fits
with Jewish prohibitions against magic and whether the term can really be so
simply defined (which it totally can’t), I’ll move on to another analogy. Consider
the famous ‘it’s leviOsa, not levioSA’ scene in the first Harry
Potter story: when used correctly, magic words cause a supernatural change in
the world, in this case causing an object to fly; when used incorrectly, they are
ineffective at causing the desired change, and can in fact have all sorts of
unpleasant side effects.2 Or likewise, there’s an episode of Doctor
Who in which the following conversation takes place, when the Doctor,
Martha, and William Shakespeare are confronted by an alien who
strongly resembles a stereotypical evil witch:
Shakespeare: Doctor, can you stop her?
Doomfinger: No mortal has power over me.
Doctor: Oh, but there’s a power in words, if I can find the right
one, if I can just know you.
Doomfinger: None on Earth has knowledge of us.
Doctor: Then it’s a good thing I’m here. Now think, think, think.
Humanoid female, uses shapes and words to channel energy. Ah! Fourteen! That’s
it! Fourteen! The fourteen stars of the Rexel planetary configuration!
Creature, I name you, Carrionite!
Doomfinger: [screams and vanishes]
Martha: What did you do?
Doctor: I named her. The power of a name. That’s old magic.
Martha: But there’s no such thing as magic.
Doctor: Well, it’s just a different sort of science. You lot, you
chose mathematics. Given the right string of numbers, the right equation, you
can split the atom. Carrionites use words instead.3
 |
| So think about twenty or thirty times scarier and witchier than this lady, and you might have something approaching a Carrionite. |
I think the Doctor’s distinction
here makes a useful point: the specific use of words to effect change on a
level beyond what words can normally or scientifically achieve is understood by
us lovely modern western lot – irrespective of how perception may differ or
have differed in other times, places, planets and so forth – as magic. Regardless
of whether we think it actually works or not (and most of us probably don’t), we
understand such use of words to come under that category. And that means that
the Christian understands it to come under the category of sin:
There shall not be found among you
anyone who burns his son or daughter as an offering, anyone who practises
divination or tells fortunes or interprets omens, or a sorcerer or a charmer or
a medium or a necromancer or one who inquires of the dead, for whoever does
these things is an abomination to the Lord.
And because of these abominations the Lord
your God is driving them out before you. – Deuteronomy 18:10-124
Now the works of the flesh are
evident: sexual immorality, impurity, sensuality, idolatry, sorcery, enmity,
strife, jealousy, fits of anger, rivalries, dissensions, divisions, envy,
drunkenness, orgies, and things like these. I warn you, as I warned you before,
that those who do such things will not inherit the kingdom of God. – Galatians 5:19-215
Funnily enough, out of that list,
sorcery’s one of the few things there that I’d instinctively assume I didn’t
really have to worry about. In fact, perhaps it seems I’m pushing the point a
bit too far to call it sorcery when I try to achieve a supernatural effect – in
my case, God’s goodwill towards me – by using the right words for the purpose. Surely
it’s hardly on a par with necromancy or omen-interpretation or burning children
as offerings. Still, I don’t think it’s untenable to put it in the same
category. If we’re prepared to acknowledge that sexual immorality doesn’t
always look like sleeping with anyone and everyone, and that idolatry doesn’t
always look like bowing down in front of some statue or other, then why shouldn’t
the same apply to sorcery? In each case, the battle-lines are drawn in our
minds.
I love words. I love putting the
right ones in the right places to express exactly what I want to say. But no
putting of right words in right places can ever be right enough to do justice
to the gospel as a ‘right response’ to it. My words will always fall short of
expressing God’s glory. Did I miss the memo that, this side of the new
creation, nothing I do can meet God’s standards?
And when you pray, do not heap up
empty phrases as the Gentiles do, for they think that they will be heard for
their many words. Do not be like them, for your Father knows what you need
before you ask him. –
Matthew 6:76
Thinking that the particular
selection and composition of one’s words makes God more heedful of one’s words
is symptomatic of not really knowing God at all. What’s the alternative?
Knowing God as Father. No matter how eloquently or authentically – or otherwise
– I express the fact, my adoption into God’s family is, quite incredibly,
secure:
For you did not receive the spirit
of slavery to fall back into fear, but you have received the Spirit of adoption
as sons, by whom we cry, “Abba! Father!” – Romans 8:157
If I address God as Father, I acknowledge
that the foundation of my ability to communicate with him is my identity, in
Christ, as his son, and not any inherent value in anything I have to say. The
Spirit of adoption secures that identity for me, and so it is through him that
I am able to pray and be heard. That’s not all the Spirit does, however:
Likewise the Spirit helps us in
our weakness. For we do not know what to pray for as we ought, but the
Spirit himself intercedes for us with groanings too deep for words. And he
who searches hearts knows what is the mind of the Spirit, because the Spirit
intercedes for the saints according to the will of God. – Romans 8:16-27
Spot the repetition for emphasis.
When we pray, the Spirit prays on our behalf. And nor is he the only one.
Who is to condemn? Christ Jesus
is the one who died – more than that, who was raised – who is at the right hand
of God, who indeed is interceding for us. – Romans 8:34
Still in Romans 8 – and you wonder
why I’m so obsessed with that chapter. When we pray, the Spirit prays on our
behalf, and so does Jesus, so that our prayers reach our heavenly Father
through the mouths of the two other persons of the Trinity. Our stumblings and
strugglings to find the right words are converted into communications within
the perfection of the very Godhead; how will they not be heeded? It’s this
intercession on my behalf, and not any effort or skill I put into composing the
most wholly and specifically and vividly expressive prayer I can, that makes my
prayers acceptable to God. And what’s more, it makes them powerful – not to
secure my status before God, since that’s already been achieved, but to bring
about other changes in the world, certainly. My attempts at sorcery look
suddenly even more pathetic: I use my own next-to-nothing abilities to try to
secure something I already have, when all the time I have unrestricted access
to entreat God to use his unlimited abilities to bring about our good and his
glory.
I love words, and there’s no sin
in wanting to use them as eloquently and authentically as I can when I’m
praying, but it’s simply not the case that any aspect of my relationship with
God is ever hindered from being all it could be by a failure on my part to
articulate myself properly. It’s not the words of a prayer that make it
acceptable to God, but rather who says them – and if I am in Christ, that’s God
himself praying to God on my behalf.
Footnotes
1 Ah, the beauties of non-academic
writing: nobody obliges me to reference any of what I just said. If you really
care about references, though, do ask and I’ll provide a few.
2 The film version of the scene doesn’t
include Professor Flitwick’s story about the Wizard Baruffio, but does represent
one of many occasions in the films on which Seamus blows something up in his
face, so I suppose we can call it a redirection of the comedy rather than a
removal of it: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=f99w0oGsGcI.
3 I can’t find the scene in
question on YouTube, but you can have the dramatic bit from the end of the
episode where Shakespeare defeats the Carrionites by playing them at their own
game, https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=3UcTdsgrhTs;
it even includes a word from Harry Potter. Also thanks to chakoteya.net for the
transcript, and to NowMyWingsFit for recommending the site: http://www.chakoteya.net/doctorwho/29-2.htm.
4 Whole chapter: https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=deut+18&version=ESVUK.
6 And indeed again: https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=matt+6&version=ESVUK.
7 This one will last you the rest
of the post: https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Romans+8&version=ESVUK.
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