On Writing

I write to be heard.

Don’t get me wrong. I’m a great talker. I’ll talk about almost anything. I enjoy the banter of conversation—the teasing, the cajoling, the occasional outlandish statement, and once in a while the dropping of a small morsel of wisdom. Talking comes easily to me. It’s not really a strength—it’s simply a trait.

But when I want to say something important—really important—I find that I first need to write it.

That may sound odd coming from someone whose vocation was preaching. Ministers are usually imagined as people who stand in pulpits with words that seem to roll effortlessly from the tongue. Perhaps that is true for some. It was never quite true for me. Preaching has always been work—good work, worthwhile work—but not automatic.

Much of my ministry has taken place on the fringes of the traditional pulpit.

After my early years in parish ministry, I spent more than two decades as an Army chaplain. For a time I served with a cavalry unit, driving a Jeep across the training areas of central Georgia like a circuit rider chasing scattered troops. Ministry in that setting meant brief encounters—dusty boots, hurried conversations, and a few quiet moments of prayer and sacrament before the next move. Another assignment found me bounding from mountain top to mountain top in Germany doing field services for signal soldiers at more than a dozen little sites each week. These were the Army’s communicators, and messages that matter, briefly transmitted, were important to us both.

Later assignments shifted from the field to classrooms and policy offices. I taught leadership and resource management to chaplains. I helped interpret regulations and draft policy. I spent years working in administrative and strategic roles within large institutions. In those settings, words—carefully chosen and carefully written—became increasingly important.

I discovered something about myself along the way: I am not particularly good at debate. I am too deliberate. When someone speaks, I find myself listening not only to the words but also to the pauses, the tone, the body language, and the emotional undercurrents. I want to understand before I respond. That kind of listening rarely produces the quick retort or decisive “slap-down” that debates reward.

Writing gives me the space that conversation often does not.

When I write, I can follow the nuance of an idea, explore its side channels, and test the shape of an argument before offering it to others. I do hold strong opinions, but I rarely see questions in simple black-and-white terms. Most things worth discussing deserve more patience than that.

For many years the audience for my writing was small—sometimes only a few colleagues or friends. Social media has never been a very comfortable home for longer reflections, and many pieces written for particular purposes never found a broader forum.

This website simply gathers those writings in one place.

Some are essays written for specific audiences. Others are reflections that grew out of experience in ministry, military service, and institutional leadership. Still others are explorations—ideas that seemed worth pursuing even if they lead to more questions than answers.

If writing is the way I think most carefully, then this collection is simply the public side of that process.

--Michael T. Bradfield