Tag: Songwriting

Writer’s Workshop: Dylan’s “Boots of Spanish Leather”

One of the primary functions of a preacher is to be a storyteller. When a speaker really wants to engage a group of listeners, stories and narratives will captivate them far more effectively than doctrines and advice. Educational research bears this out, as lecture has been shown to be the least effective method of teaching. So preachers in the pulpit would be wise to pay attention here, as the vast majority of sermons are of the “one speaker, many listeners” variety. In short, if our sermons resemble educational lectures we risk losing an opportunity for our congregations to connect, engage, learn, and be transformed.

A lecture sermon might instruct or inform a congregation what the Kingdom of God is like. A story sermon can whisk them away into the alternate reality we call the Kingdom of God for a few minutes, captivating their imaginations and giving them a vision and a foretaste of what life can become.

And how do we become better storytellers? By reading stories. By reading poetry. By singing songs. By paying attention to how great storytellers build and release tension in the narrative. By having a romance with words and wordcraft. Great writing begins with great reading.

And that’s why I want to begin a new feature on this blog, the Writer’s Workshop.

If you’ve never listened to Boots of Spanish Leather by Bob Dylan, take a few minutes and check it out.


(I couldn’t find Dylan’s original on YouTube so here’s Nanci Griffith’s brilliant cover.)

In my mind, this one is a lyrical masterpiece. The lyrics are a conversation between two lovers who alternate stanzas. Dylan never tells you that’s the form, he allows his words to imply it. He assumes intelligence on the part of the listener by singing both sides of the conversation in the same voice. He never gives you “he said,”or “she said.” He didn’t record it as a duet with each singer playing one of the parts. He just allows each player’s words to lead you.

And the words are poetic and unrealistic.

Oh, but I just thought you might want something fine
Made of silver or of golden
Either from the mountains of Madrid
Or from the coast of Barcelona

Oh, but if I had the stars from the darkest night
And the diamonds from the deepest ocean
I’d forsake them all for your sweet kiss
For that’s all I’m wishin’ to be ownin’

No one talks like that. I have difficulty imagining any two lovers speaking to one another in such flowery, poetic language. I doubt that even Robert and Elizabeth Barrett Browning spoke to one another like that. But the poetic language is necessary to convey a depth of emotion. The language allows us to see with our imaginations the longing in their eyes, the tenderness of their touch, the fragility of their hearts. We feel the ache of the singer’s loneliness, an ache that begins long before she even leaves on her trip.

Like many conversations in real life, however, this one takes place over time rather than in one sitting. At some point in the song one of the lovers sails for Spain yet we only know it’s happened when the other says, “I got a letter on a lonesome day, it was from her ship a-sailin’.” She tells him she will be gone longer than expected. Then our lonely lover writes back,

Well, if you, my love, must think that-a-way
I’m sure your mind is roamin’
I’m sure your heart is not with me
But with the country to where you’re goin’

So take heed, take heed of the western wind
Take heed of the stormy weather
And yes, there’s something you can send back to me
Spanish boots of Spanish leather

The song is called “Boots of Spanish Leather.” But the boots are a red herring. Our lonely lover doesn’t want boots, he wants her thoughts, assurance that he’s on her mind.

What can a preacher learn from this kind of storytelling?

Sometimes folksy down-to-earth language gets the story across, but other times poetic language can say far more.

Stories don’t have to be long, twisty narratives filled with action. All the action in this song can be summed up in a few sentences: “a man’s lover is taking a trip to Spain, and she asks him what gift she can send home. He says he doesn’t want a gift, her love is enough. While she’s gone writes him a letter telling him she’ll be away longer than expected, so he writes back that he’d like a pair of boots. But he doesn’t care about the boots, he just wants to know she hasn’t forgotten him.” Yeah, the story is better Bob’s way. The poetic language serves to communicate that the action isn’t in the story itself, but in the emotional world of the singer. It speaks to the complexity and universality of anticipated loneliness, of jealousy, worry, and heartache.

We can learn that not every story needs to end with resolution. We shouldn’t always want to tie it all up with a neat little bow, leaving no loose ends and a complete release of tension. Did she ever send the boots? Did she ever come home? Were they still in love when she returned? Was she faithful for the trip? Was he? We will never know? Sometimes a great story leaves us with unresolved tension, with unanswered questions. And unanswered questions at the end of a story causes its hearers to think.

And isn’t that the point?

The Preacher as Songwriter: Like a Rolling Stone

For years, I’ve pondered writing a book about the link between preaching and songwriting.  I’ve never gotten around to hammering out the time to begin the hard work of organizing my thoughts, writing drafts of chapters, and getting it done.  But the idea still haunts me. 

See, I believe preachers have a lot to learn from songwriters, beginning with the profound insight that all your songs shouldn’t sound the same.  In fact, they shouldn’t all come from the same place.  

Some songs are sung in the confessional or at the altar of shame.  “I didn’t mean to hurt you.  I’m sorry that I made you cry.  I didn’t want to hurt you.  I’m just a jealous guy.” – John Lennon

Some songs are blues.  Some are funny.  Some are happy.  Some proclaim triumph in the life of the singer.  Some protest social conditions.  Deep love, heartbreak, betrayal, reconciliation, sweetness, anger, irony, longing, passion, desire, and shame are the playground of the lyrical wordsmith.  Some tell stories of real-life characters.  Some tell stories that are allegories for part of the human condition.  Some are brags and boasts.  Some songs are stream-of-consciousness absurdity.  Some exist only to entertain.  

And sermons should work in the same ways.  In fact, it’s the variety of an artist’s work that makes us feel like we know that artist better.  A clearer picture of Elvis Costello emerges when you mix the achy tenderness of Alison with the jaded anger of a heartbroken idealist (What’s So Funny); when you place his whimsical tale of marriage and divorce (Everyday I Write the Book) alongside the darker Indoor Fireworks, and hold them up against the very real love song She.  

But let’s take a look at perhaps the most iconic song in rock and roll: Like a Rolling Stone by Bob Dylan. 

It’s considered iconic because it broke all the rules.  It was a 6 minute single at a time when singles had to be under 3:30.  It was an electric song by a primarily acoustic artist, at a time when Dylan’s audience considered his break with the orthodoxy of folk music a betrayal.  It wasn’t a love song or a typical break-up song, or an entertaining piece of zip-a-dee-doo-dah.  The character to whom Dylan is singing isn’t just a character – he or she is a target, the recipient of his anger and vitriol.  It was filled with real emotion, real pain.  You can hear the hurt, anger, shock, bitterness, desperation, and desire for revenge in his repeated yowls of “how does it FEEL?”  The wound is fresh, the emotion is raw, the tears are salty.  He sounds like he wants to scream.  Or cry.  Or both.  

Other songwriters heard it and realized that the game had changed.  Nothing was off limits anymore.  Time limitations? Gone.  Bowing to the expectations of your primary audience?  Exploded.  Veiling emotion with a layer of metaphor?  NO!  

And why is it considered so iconic? So important in the history of rock?  Because it connected with people. They could relate to it. Dylan was giving language to emotions we feel and have difficulty expressing. A generation of rock fans breathed a sigh of relief when they realized that someone else gets it, somebody knows how I feel! The lyrics are ugly, sharp, bitter; yet ultimately relatable.  Anyone who has been betrayed or hurt knows what it’s like to hear those words and wish they could say them.  

Shouldn’t preaching be like that occasionally?  An honest life of discipleship is hard.  It’s filled with betrayal. Tears do happen. Wounds that leave ugly scars are inflicted upon us. Sometimes we all want to flail our fists in the air, punching at ghosts, hoping that connecting with one will satisfy our emotional longing. We all long to hear a voice who longs for love railing in anger against that which is not love.  

Now, a screed is not a sermon.  No matter how angry we might be. But it is essential that the preacher find a point of connection with the real emotions and experiences of the listeners in the congregation. We are up there at the pulpit to be (among many things) the voice of the voiceless.  To help give language to experiences that are hard to describe with words.  

So sing a song that makes the congregation say, “wow, somebody GETS IT!”  

Maybe sometimes the first question we should ask ourselves when we sit at the keyboard to compose our sermons is, “how does it FEEL?”