The Problem Re-examined

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It was considered important for those training for Christian service to have adequate training in voice production. During my period as a student the College had engaged a Mr. Harold Ripper to give such instruction. He had spent his life in the theatre and for some years had acted as an adviser in speech matters to the drama profession. He was clearly well versed in the arts of clear speaking and it seemed to me the College was fortunate to secure his services. He used to visit the College once a week and advised students in groups of about half a dozen. He was familiarly referred to as Jack the Ripper, a nick name which seemed to me rather unkind. One would have thought his services would have been warmly appreciated by the students, but I regret to say that this was not so. In spite of his expertise in matters theatrical and his obvious gift in the art of speaking, he was thought to be too concerned with speech as an art form and not enough with it as an essential tool for the spiritual vocation of the students. There was a strong belief on the part of the majority of students that the Holy Spirit did not need rhetorical devices to assist in the proclamation of the gospel. I did not share this generally held view. I felt that it arose out of a misunderstanding. It seemed to me perfectly evident that many of those who were most vociferous against the arts of voice production were in desperate need for help in achieving clearer enunciation and the more attractive use of the voice. As a result I fear that many who considered voice training to be unspiritual condemned their future congregations to listen to unrelieved monotony of tone and lack of vocal clarity. The principal had asked Mr. Ripper to se what he could do to help my particular speech problem and he had generously offered to see me on my own for a hour a week. Those sessions allowed me to get to know him in a way that none of the other students did. If to them he was little more than an eccentric actor, to me he was a most fascinating man and I looked forward to those chats each week.

He was certainly an unusual man. I would judge he was then in his early seventies. He travelled up from a little village near Chichester each week. I remember he lived in a house which he called Windy Ridge, because he assured me it caught the full force of the winds blowing across Chichester harbour. His appearance was quite striking. His face was rugged but immensely expressive. His silvery hair was smoothed back from his forehead with no parting. He usually wore a loosely woven tweed suit together with a bow tie. His posture spoke of the theatre. It was as if drama came out of the tips of his fingers. When he spoke his voice was pleasant but somewhat gruff. He never told me what parts he played, but I could imagine they would have been strong masculine characters for that was the impression that he created. He seemed to measure every word, but he was a superb conversationalist. He seemed to be able to talk on anything but he was most at home talking about the theatre. Before I met him on a personal level, I had wondered what particular light if any he could throw on my stammering. I am not sure that he had had any particular experience of dealing with such a difficulty. I imagine those with speech difficulties did not usually get as far as becoming actors or actresses. I assumed he would give me some exercises aimed to improve my diction, as he did with the other students. But he never did. In fact he did not often discuss my stammer. He preferred to draw me out into conversation, and as I look back I am still amazed at the ease with which I found I could talk with this remarkable man. I must admit that he did most of the talking, but at least he created an atmosphere of relaxation which enabled me to make some contribution.

I was at some disadvantage in talking to a man of the theatre. I was woefully out of my depth. I had been brought up to regard the theatre as suspect. It was considered to be of the world and therefore to be studiously avoided. It seemed somewhat incongruous that I was now introduced to this fascinating actor through the arrangement of the principal of a Bible College. I learned to revise my opinions of those who were engaged in the theatrical profession. Mr. Ripper was personally acquainted with so many famous actors and actresses, and he never tired of speaking about them. A few of these famous people I had vaguely heard of but now I almost began to think I knew them. I remember only one name that Mr. Ripper singled out as in his opinion the most accomplished actor that he had known and that was Alistair Sim. For the most part his excursions into reminiscences of his theatrical acquaintances made no lasting impression on me and certainly contributed very little to my understanding of my own particular difficulty.

I remember on one occasion Mr. Ripper told me he was due to give a recital of dramatic excerpts and he wanted something to boost his confidence. He suggested to his tailor that he should make him a loose fitting suit of red tweed for the occasion. In spite of his tailor’s protestations that the colour of the cloth in question was wholly unsuitable, he insisted. I well remember the glow of delight with which Mr. Ripper told me that when he presented himself to the audience in his red suit, it was an instant success. His reason for telling me this was his conviction that dress had something to do with confidence. I warmed to this account for I had always had a love for colourful clothes, although I had never dared to wear them. I could identify myself with Mr. Ripper displaying himself in a red suit. It would, however, require considerable confidence for a man to do this, and I envied him his daring. Of course it was one thing for an actor to wear something colourful and quite another for a theologian. Indeed my chosen profession tended towards the sombre, although this was a convention which I always had a strong urge to break. I may well be that recollection of Mr. Ripper’s story sparked off in me some time later the desire to appear at the College in something other than the usual dull suits which all my colleagues wore. I obtained a light green corduroy jacket and wore it with dark green corduroy trousers with a bright yellow pullover. It certainly created a sensation, although some of my colleagues did not approve. The principal proved amazingly tolerant. I had proved my point and banished a bit more of my hampering self-consciousness. I have often thought of Mr. Ripper’s red suit when I have indulged in more colourful clothes, but I have many times proved that his point about clothes and confidence is undoubtedly correct.

On one occasion I had what was perhaps my most significant conversation with Mr. Ripper. This was near the end of my time as a student, and Mary and I were house-hunting. The only time available for viewing the house which we ultimately bought was in the lunch hour, but this meant that I would be somewhat delayed for my appointment with Mr. Ripper. I wrote him a note to explain the position. I was about a quarter of an hour later than usual. When I hurried into the room, I found Mr. Ripper fingering the piece of paper on which I had written the note to him. He had watched me carefully coming into the room as he must have done many times before. But his examination of my note lead him to make an unexpected comment on my movements. He remarked how gracefully and elegantly I walked, seemingly without effort. He commented on the laborious efforts which most of the actresses he had known had to exert in order to move with elegance and told me that what they had to strive for I did naturally. It was something of a shock as I still remember to be compared with movements of women rather than men, but I realised it was more important for women than for men to move with elegance. Mr. Ripper then compared my general movements with my handwriting. He had not seen any sample of it until then, but was impressed with its rhythmical qualities. Other people had frequently remarked about my beautiful handwriting and this was equally true of English, Hebrew or Greek characters. But I had never realised the significance of it until that day. Mr. Ripper compared it with the elegance of my walk and then challenged me as to why I did not speak with the same rhythmic qualities. The incongruity was all too apparent but at that time I had no explanation of the phenomena. Although Mr. Ripper did not hesitate to point out the feminine-like quality of my natural movements, it did not embarrass me for it was clear that he regarded my movements as a natural endowment. I realised that in the circles in which he moved my elegance of movement would be regarded as a considerable asset.

I have often reflected on what I learned of myself that day. It proved to be of more value than any technical advice in voice production. It was not an immediate cure, but it made a real contribution towards a solution. I began to concentrate on smooth and elegant ways of talking rather than on the problem of speech itself. It dawned on me that much of my trouble was because I had a wrong idea of what was acceptable in myself. Perhaps I was afraid that the more gentle side of me which delighted in beauty of movement and beauty of expression would not be appeal to others. I began to realise that my stammer sprang from an ill-conceived assertiveness, whereas I should have allowed myself to adopt a more passive approach and let my words flow with as much elegance as my other movements would suggest. Yet settled habits die hard even when they are exposed. Mr. Ripper’s comments on my handwriting were to prove the most fruitful since I was in the habit of writing all my manuscripts by hand.

Although I possessed a typewriter and was reasonably proficient in the use of it, I preferred to write out my scripts by hand because I obtained a great deal of aesthetic pleasure in looking at the result. I was meticulous about my writing even to the point of being fastidious. I hated anything which marred the page of beautiful calligraphy. There was a flow and a rounded quality about the writing which was of great importance to me. I disliked any kind of angular strokes and was most particular about the slope. It did not matter to me that possibly no one except a typist would see the finished product. As I looked at it I saw a reflection of myself. This was all the more acute following Mr. Ripper’s comments on my writing. As I explain this it occurs to me that my attitude towards such a matter may well seem strange to most people who probably never think about the way they write. But I am convinced that writing is closely tied to a person’s character. I have never submitted my writing to a professional calligrapher and have no idea what such would make of it. But in an amateur sort of way I have often studied other people’s writing to try to assess something of its significance. I used to do this with student’s essays, although I confess that I rarely found a writing style which gave pleasure from an ascetic point of view quite apart from the contents. I found no correlation between beauty of writing and excellence of contents, although on rare occasions the two were joined. My impression was that the women tended to take more care over their writing style than the men, for it was rare to find elegance of writing from the hand of a man, although I could never see any reason for this. Increasingly as I considered my writing I was reminded to concentrate on rhythmic movement, which helped towards greater freedom in expression.

I suppose the same urge towards beautiful writing is that which leads to self-display, for I recognised that my desire to write as I did was a form of self-display, especially when it was being done consciously. Yet the thought that I had a strong urge to self-display filled me with some disquiet, for I had been brought up to believe that self-display was not an acceptable quality in a Christian. It was no part of the aim of a follower of Jesus Christ to draw attention to himself. Such an attitude would be regarded as detracting from the Lord. This seemed so reasonable an approach that I stifled my personal urge to draw attention to myself. Ironically my stammer was in fact drawing attention to myself but in a way that brought only the most acute embarrassment and certainly no pleasure.

Deep down within me I realised that I would have to come to terms with my self-consciousness. I could not seem to escape from this. I was more concerned with what other people thought of me than I was with fulfilling myself. The real enemy was my habitual drive to assert myself and I determined that this would have to be tackled in a resolute way. I needed to draw attention to myself in a precisely opposite way by concentrating on a gentler approach. To achieve this I decided I would have to do something about the pitch of my voice. If I used a higher range I felt far less urge to be assertive. Although the process was slow I discovered a new freedom in speaking in a more melodious manner. Something of the rhythm and elegance of my movements of particularly of my writing began to show in my voice. It was sheer bliss to discover this happening. The boundary between speech and singing became less sharp. Something of a miracle was taking place with God’s help, for I was developing a new image of myself of a much gentler kind. The old mask was being stripped off. I was beginning to fall in love with a different image and I imagined that what I liked in myself would be liked by others.

I have just used the word ‘mask’ as a description of my stammer. I well remember the first time this concept was forced upon me. I had picked up a little book written by a medical psychologist named Dr. Macdonald Ladell. I had thought the title of the book (“The Stammerer Unmasked”) to be extremely provocative. I almost refused to read it. It seemed to me preposterous that anyone would deliberately use a stammer as a mask. yet when I dipped into the book I found such a sympathetic understanding of the problem that I began to take more seriously the main thesis. Dr. Ladell described stammering as a neurosis, which was another shock. I had never considered myself as neurotic and the suggestion did not go down very well with me. After getting over the first fright of being labelled so uncompromisingly as neurotic, I decided I must face up to the possibility. I must ask myself what my stammering was intended to hide. There was something about my true self that I did not want other people to see. It was hard to accept that the stammer was in fact a blind that I was pulling down as a protective shield. It slowly dawned on me that my real problem was an excessive sensitivity which meant it was too painful for me to show others my true self. I knew I was liable to be taken advantage of if I dropped the mask. The fact is the world does not take kindly to oversensitive men. One point which Dr. Ladell brought out, the force of which at once struck me, was the fact that very few women stammer. His explanation was that the relatively less competitive demands on women lessened the need for them to shield themselves with a mask. Indeed his opinion was that women stammerers were those who had not fully accepted their femininity and were hankering after a masculine role. I have no means of evaluating that opinion, but I took the point about the connection between the competitive element and stammering in men, and this tied up with my own decision to abandon an assertive role. To recognise these points was one thing, but to free oneself from an impediment which had become so deep rooted would take time.

My first years as a lecturer were quite a struggle as I sought to communicate. But before commenting on that I must relate the rather extraordinary way in which I came to be appointed as a lecturer. When I began theological studies I had no clear picture of what my future work would be. I realised that much would depend on how effectively I could overcome the problems. My initial aim was the preaching ministry, but I do not think that many ever saw me in such a role. After I had been a student for about a term and a half, the Principal received an enquiry from the Bible Institute in Kalk Bay, South Africa, asking whether there was a suitable student in training who might be considered as a lecturer at the Institute on the completion of the course. Ernest Kevan wondered if I would be interested. I did not enthuse about the idea, although I was willing to think about it if he obtained more details of what would be involved. He promised to do this. Some six months later, he had received no reply, but instead asked me to consider the possibility of joining the faculty of the London Bible College when I finished my course. I was somewhat taken aback by this suggestion, but I knew Ernest Kevan was not the kind of man to make it if he was not quite convinced that I would be able to cope. He was a man who knew what and who he wanted. The matter was not even left in abeyance. I could not fail to detect the hand of God in this, but the one condition was that I should obtain the theological degree for which I was studying.

Although my future sphere was assured the Principal did not want news of the arrangement to be known. None of the students suspected it and were puzzled by my constant refusal to say what I was hoping to do. Finally within a month of the end of my course, Ernest Kevan decided to make an announcement. My fellow students received the news with equanimity. It was almost as if they had suspected it all along. But during the preparation for the external Bachelor of Divinity degree of the University of London I had come to realise that many of the courses which had been taught by part time members of faculty were not quite up to the necessary standard. Since my whole future depended on my studies being brought to a successful conclusion, I decided to supplement the tuition with a good deal of my own researches. It was hard going, but undoubtedly paved the way for the kind of further studies I would do as a member of the faculty. During my student days I developed a dogged independence of approach which was to provide an admirable foundation for my future work.

Having gained the necessary qualification, I approached my first lectures with considerable apprehension. I did not at once concentrate on New Testament studies. I started by teaching Hebrew, together with a selection of other subjects like doctrine and heresies. Perhaps the Hebrew lessons were the easiest to start with since I was able to make a great deal of use of the blackboard. This was a useful escape route when speech became difficult. But I soon switched to New Testament studies. I had the rather embarrassing experience of lecturing to many who had been fellow students with me, but I found them most generous in bearing with my somewhat faltering attempts at exegeting the gospel of John. There is no doubt that a lecturer owes a great deal to his students and I have never lost sight of that fact. It took me several years before I gained sufficient confidence in myself to be able to lecture in a relaxed manner, but I think my very difficulties taught me how to deal with the enquiring minds which were constantly raising questions to which I had no answer. I adopted the view that it was better to confess one’s ignorance than to raise a smokescreen. It is not always easy to assess what others are thinking or what impression one is creating. I remember being quite astonished when one student, who had frequently disagreed with me in class and who had moved on at the completion of his course to another College, wrote a note of appreciation to me because he had found a totally different attitude from the gracious approach that I had adopted. I treasured that unsolicited testimony because it underlined the fact that the image of myself that I desired to foster was in fact the image that was being communicated.

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