For a long while, I antagonized other young writers by suggesting that punctuation was only necessary to indicate the rhythms of the spoken word and, therefore, we only needed periods to note pauses and the occasional question mark. Writing was a tedious task of marshaling sentences out of the anarchy of letters. My middle-school papers were plagued by run-on sentences because commas mystified me. Spelling was a kind of roulette one played with letters and sounds that sometimes matched and sometimes didn’t. I memorized Scripture through songs, directed plays to tell stories, listened in rapture to millions of pages read aloud. Perhaps this is because the spoken word filled my early life. Correctness has always seemed like the bitter, petty stepsister of eloquence. But I first loathed grammar and then was ambivalent toward it. Writers, I know, are supposed to have strong opinions about the Oxford comma and compulsively correct other people’s verbal stumbles. I personally have not always loved grammar. In fact, several examples come to mind of instances of “perfect” grammar used to exclude, confuse, and devalue. Legal-ese can be a particularly malicious form of correctness. Anyone who has managed to read through the “terms and conditions” knows that correctness is under no obligation to be either clear or kind. Grammar cares about adherence to the letter of the law, not the accomplishment of some larger purpose. The rules of grammar are just that-the rules. Punctuation and tense do not seem to have moral status. We tend to think of grammar as correct or incorrect. Can grammar be Christian? (I think, by “Christian grammar” the writer means the structure of language broadly- the rules of both grammar and style.) Can there be a morality or theology to the structures and systems of language? If clarity is kindness, then perhaps question marks are courtesy, and semicolons are sympathy.Ī while ago, I came across the phrase, “a uniquely Christian grammar.” Like Bréne Brown’s words, it has prompted me to examine my writing and speech more closely. I saw it the other day, in an editorial comment on a document, gently admonishing me to break up a convoluted paragraph with better sentence structure. It helps me remember the reader on the other side of the page. I’ve mumbled it under my breath, deciding not to press “send” on a long, hastily written email and, instead, drafting plainly what I mean in a few sentences. It’s become a bit of a catchphrase on my team. “Clarity is kindness,” a coworker of mine is fond of saying, quoting Bréne Brown.
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