Hieropraxis

Summer Reading Short Reviews

2010-07-25T21:04:59Z

One of the joys of reading is being able to bounce around and read lots of different things as the fancy takes me. Here, in no particular order, are a few thoughts on a few of the books I’ve read so far this summer.

The Lost Virtue of Happiness: J.P. Moreland and Klaus Issler. I think this is an important, even an essential book. In combination with a lecture by Dr Moreland that I heard this summer (and wrote about here), this book helped me put some pieces together in my own heart about trusting God and taking risks along the road toward true happiness: eudaimonia, a life well lived.

Searching for and Maintaining Peace: Father Jacques Philippe. I’m a very intense person, so Fr Philippe’s writing has helped me fully realize what “peace” really is. It is not being unemotional, or unreactive, or detached in a negative sense, but rather is something deeper, a real sense of trust in God, not tied to particular outward circumstances. For instance, I sometimes recognize that I am not at peace even when I am outwardly calm, solitary, and silent, because I am clinging to some fear or anxiety in my heart. In contrast, I just spent almost two weeks in residency at Biola, a spiritually, emotionally, and intellectually challenging time with a lot of outward activity and stimulating discussion… and in reflecting on the residency, I realize that I was completely at peace during that time.

At this rate, my comments on Fr Philippe’s book will be longer than the book itself, so let me just pull one quote from it to show how to-the-point and sensible he is: “If we wait until we are saints to have a regular life of prayer, we could wait a long time. On the contrary, it is in accepting to appear before the Lord in our state of sin that we will receive healing and will be transformed, little by little, into saints.”

Authentic Communication: Tim Muehlhoff and Todd V. Lewis. A must-read for anyone who wants to share their faith in a loving, respectful, and also effective way. It’s also excellent just in terms of explaining effective interpersonal communication. Our words can hurt or help others, strengthen friendships or weaken them; we should learn to use them well.

Knowing Christ Today: Why We Can Trust Spiritual Knowledge: Dallas Willard. I’ll confess that I found this book slow going at first and I almost put it down a number of times… but I kept picking it up again. In the end I think that was best, because it meant that I read it slowly, and this is a book that’s sufficiently dense that it merits slow reading. The closing chapter in particular had an impact on me, with its call for pastors to live up to their responsibility to teach that we can have real knowledge of God. Though I am not a pastor, as a teacher (both in the secular world, and now within my church as well) I feel that this challenge applies to me as well. Also, although I know you can’t judge a book by its cover, I have to admit that I find the cover art to be simply lovely.

Mercy Among the Children: David Adams Richards. Richards is a new author for me, and I am delighted to have been introduced to his books (thanks, Fr. Kraft!). I won’t spoil this book by attempting to describe it, but I will say that it is exceedingly well written, and haunting.

The Guernsey Literary and Potato Peel Pie Society: Mary Ann Shaffer and Annie Barrows. Oh! Absolutely delightful. It’s a “light reading” book, but one that is both very well written and very thoughtful. It’s funny, but with a serious side as well that comes out bit by bit as the book unfolds. It’s a love story and a paean to the fellowship of all who love books, and flat-out really fun to read.

The Anglican Rosary as a Spiritual Discipline

2010-07-24T17:40:17Z

Most Christians have heard of the rosary, but relatively few know that using beads as a tool to aid in prayer is an ancient practice that can be found in Anglicanism and Orthodoxy as well as Roman Catholicism. Since I’m Anglican, I’m going to focus on the Anglican rosary as a spiritual discipline.

The Anglican rosary (like the Roman Catholic rosary and the Eastern Orthodox prayer rope) is intended to be used as a tactile aid for contemplative prayer: the person praying repeats a short, traditional prayer while holding each bead of the rosary in turn. Far from being the mindless repetition that Jesus condemned, repeated prayers such as these are an attempt to take seriously Scripture’s call to “pray without ceasing.” (1 Thessalonians 5:17).

Over the past few years, I’ve been amazed at how the repetition of a simple prayer helps settle my distracted thoughts and center them on God. When I’m stuck in traffic, or in an argument, or just anxious and stressed over my work or personal life, I often can’t articulate a specific prayer, but I can turn to the Jesus Prayer: “Lord Jesus Christ, Son of the living God, have mercy on me, a sinner” or more briefly, “Lord Jesus, have mercy.” I have also found that repeating “Lord, have mercy; Christ, have mercy; Lord, have mercy” is a powerful way to invite God’s presence into my life when I need Him most.

That said, why use beads? It’s certainly not necessary to have beads in hand to say the Jesus prayer. Might it not be more “spiritual” to pray mentally without using a devotional object like a string of rosary beads?

Are beads necessary – absolutely not. Are they helpful? Often they are, especially depending on your personality.

The modern English word “bead” actually comes from the Anglo-Saxon word “bede,” meaning “prayer.” Beads offer a tactile link to God’s creation. We seem to have a modern resurgence of the Gnostic idea of “spirituality” as something other-worldly, divorced from the grubby here-and-now of our bodies. But God made us as embodied spirits, and Paul quite firmly reminds us that we will be embodied in His new creation. The resurrected Jesus wasn’t a disembodied spirit (nor a mere sense of comfort in the lives of His disciples): He was a real, physical human being who ate and drank and could be touched.

Holding a physical object as we pray can be a reminder that we pray with our whole beings, “our selves, our souls and bodies” (from the Book of Common Prayer). I have found that having a physical cross to hold in my hand is incredibly helpful in reminding me to call on Jesus for help. So, too, with a rosary.

One of the strengths of the Anglican rosary for Evangelicals is that it balances tradition with personal choices about prayer. The Anglican rosary itself is not associated with a specific prayer; there is no “right” or “wrong” way to pray the Anglican rosary. On the other hand, the short prayers often suggested for use in the Anglican rosary provide a link to the countless saints of centuries past who have prayed the same prayers – many of which are drawn directly from the language of Holy Scripture. For instance, I might choose to pray the Trisagion (“Holy God, holy and mighty, holy Immortal One”); the Jesus prayer; the Gloria (“Glory to the Father, to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit…”); or the Agnus Dei (“O Lamb of God, who takes away the sin of the world, have mercy on me… grant me Your peace”). One might also pray reflectively on a selected passage of Scripture, holding the rosary as a way to keep one’s hands occupied and mind focused.

There are always ways to go wrong with rosary prayer – for instance, seeing it as an end in itself, which it’s emphatically not – but that’s the case for any spiritual discipline. When used in the spirit in which it is intended, the rosary encourages a habit of contemplative prayer. The key is to remember the purpose of the discipline: to help us pray, to develop our relationship with Him, to become more able to hear His voice and respond to Him.

I haven’t used my rosary much this past year, but my experiments with rosary prayers helped me develop a habit of using short, ancient prayers throughout the day, a habit that has deepened my relationship with Christ. Often I don’t even know exactly what I need to pray about, but by calling on the sacred name of Jesus, I know I am inviting God to do His work in me and through me.

Let us bless the Lord. Thanks be to God!

Trusting and Taking Risks: A Reflection on J.P. Moreland’s Lecture on “The Spiritual Life”

2010-07-20T03:21:18Z

Over the past few weeks I’ve been challenged to think more deeply about spiritual growth. At the summer residency for Biola’s graduate Christian Apologetics Program, I attended an outstanding lecture by J.P. Moreland on the spiritual life, in which one of his topics was the impact of the Fall on our lives.

Dr Moreland explained that because of the Fall, we are in a state of separation (from God, from others, and from ourselves) and thus we experience a fundamental loneliness. We look for ways to overcome this loneliness, often with strategies that are sinful. Our corresponding fundamental need is attachment, and God’s deepest way of relating to us is through attachment. Dr Moreland then posed a question: “What are our attachment strategies that are not healthy, that don’t help us become more like Jesus?”

Ouch.

My typical strategy for dealing with loneliness is to try to have everything under control – most especially my own future.

God has been very good to me, these past four years. I think He called me to be alone, so that in that quiet space He could do important work: to help me know who I am, be comfortable with myself, to do a lot of necessary healing, and to grow spiritually. Along the way, He helped me recognize a real vocation for teaching and writing.

Now, though, I recognize that He is calling me, slowly but surely, away from solitude – even though being alone is, in many ways, the “safer” option for me. He has shown me that I need others, and that means taking the risk of friendship, trust, and love. Four years ago, I was nervous even to have a friend. What if people don’t like me? Can I trust anyone? Four years of living as part of my parish family has taught me that yes, I can trust people to care about me.

The difficulty arises in that although I want to live according to God’s plans for me, I struggle with wanting to know exactly how it all works out. If I am sure of how God has called me to live the past few years, I automatically want to extend that to the rest of my life: I want to have the plan, in black and white. In answer to Dr Moreland’s question, then: my (unhealthy) strategy for dealing with loneliness is a rigid self-sufficiency that means that I don’t have to risk disappointment.

Considering all the ways that God has challenged me to grow outside of my comfort zone in the past four and a half years – including, but not limited to, being baptized, going back to school, and writing a book – you would think I’d stop being surprised when He asks me to grow. But this time I thought I had everything figured out, my life planned ahead of me. I had friends; my professional work was sufficient to keep me very busy. Family? Don’t think about it. Loneliness? Under control, thank you very much!

Dr Moreland spoke of a second effect of the Fall: the inception of shame and guilt, with accompanying fear. We ask ourselves, “Will people reject me if they learn I am not as I ought to be?” We need a sense of safety and forgiveness – including forgiving ourselves and no longer punishing ourselves for our failures. (Dr Moreland, were you speaking directly to me with this talk? It sure seemed like it!)

I have experienced the grace of God’s forgiveness for the wreckage in my past; over the last four years I have experienced the grace of His healing. Now it seems that God is calling me to fully accept that forgiveness. To live it out! Frightening – and exhilarating.

Dr Moreland said that the third effect of the Fall on human nature is a loss of real purpose; left to ourselves, we become bored, and seek various kinds of pleasure to deal our boredom. In my own life, I am rarely bored, but I recognize that if I cling to control over every aspect of my future, then I will not look for God’s real purposes for me – and I will lose sight of Him. Oh! this is a hard thing to face. It means I have to actually, in practice, trust God as I move into a future unknown to me!

Given these three effects of the Fall, Dr Moreland told us, our only hope is to become a full disciple of Jesus Christ. Discipleship, he said, is both hard and easy. It is hard because all new skills are hard at first; it is easy compared to the difficulties of not following Christ. (True, that.) And, he added, “the spiritual life has to start with facing the truth about ourselves.”

What truth do I need to face? It is my fear of disappointment and rejection. It is easier for me to deny the need for attachment than to risk pain. But over the last four years, bit by bit, through mentors, friends, and father figures, God has helped me learn about right relationship, with Him and with others. This past year I have discovered that there is a grace that God gives when I manage to move forward in trust and hope, persevering even in the face of self-doubt.

As I reflect on Dr Moreland’s lecture, I begin to think that God is inviting me to be more of a risk-taker, to trust in Him even when I myself don’t see how things will all work out. That’s difficult for me; perhaps it is difficult for all of us, and that is why God has to remind us that with Him, all things are possible.

As my favorite poet, Gerard Manley Hopkins, said:

“My own heart let me have more pity on…
… leave comfort root-room; let joy size
At God knows when to God knows what…”

Reading Genesis: Order and Chaos

2010-07-07T17:01:21Z

How should we read the Bible’s book of Genesis? Most of the time, Christians and non-Christians simply talk past each other on this point. If you are unsure about the existence of God, then claiming divine authority for a holy book seems like an illegitimate short-cut, avoiding all the tough questions. If the word “literal” comes up, the conversation is usually over, bar the shouting.

To paraphrase that classic movie The Princess Bride, I would say to both sides that “literal” doesn’t mean what you think it means.

As a literary scholar, I would suggest that to read something “literally” means to read it in the sense in which the original author intended and as the original audience would have understood it. If the author intended to write a metaphor, then the literal reading would be a metaphorical one. For example, Robert Frost’s poem “The Road Less Traveled” is not really about a man going for a walk through the woods. Yes, the poem does describe the narrator pausing to reflect on the two paths that “diverged in a yellow wood,” but what the poem is really about is decision-making and self-reflection. By the same token, though, that meaning comes from the actual text itself: we cannot (without mishandling the text) make “The Road Less Traveled” into a poem that unconditionally celebrates individualism and going your own way. (Yes, that’s what most everyone thinks the poem is about, but most people don’t read the poem very carefully. Read it again and think about it.)

The question then becomes, to what extent is a literal reading of a given text actually metaphorical?

When we look at Genesis 1, we should at a minimum note that the author (whether inspired or not) makes certain claims about the nature of the universe. Many Christian readers will want to move immediately into arguing about the level of metaphorical vs. factual content in the details of Genesis, but I would argue that this is an entirely useless and unproductive discussion if we bypass the philosophical claim being set forth in Genesis. Even if we allow for all of the details of Genesis to be metaphorical at some level – yes, all of them! – we still have a worthwhile question to explore.

The book of Genesis articulates a position of creation ex nihilo, from nothing, at the creative will of a First Cause. In and of itself, this is a significant change in position from other ancient creation accounts, which have a god or gods creating the world from chaotic material of some sort that was already present. It is also worth noting that the First Cause described in Genesis is remarkably non-anthropomorphized; in contrast to the other myths of the time (Babylonian, Egyptian, Sumerian) the God in Genesis is described in almost purely philosophical terms, in the role of uncreated Creator.

Fundamentally, then, Genesis offers a philosophical argument for an ordered creation, one based on Logos (order, reason, structure) rather than Chaos (disorder, irrationality). This is a position that can be tested experimentally: the very fact that we can do science, and can expect repeatability when dealing with the physical world, suggests that the Logos-based view is more accurately descriptive of reality. So here we have a point that can be productively discussed among people who share very different views about Christianity.

Is the universe fundamentally orderly, or fundamentally chaotic? The answer to that question produces dramatically different views of how to live in and interact with the material world – and it is a question that is very relevant indeed in our modern culture, no matter what position one takes on the identity and nature of the First Cause.

Why Is Atheism Attractive?

2010-06-30T20:42:43Z

At the heart of atheism is an appealing premise: “My will be done, not Yours.” If atheism is true, and there is no God, then everything really is all about me, and what I want, and what I can get.

No wonder it strikes such a chord in our self-obsessed culture.

Put your finger on the pulse of modern culture: it throbs with “me, me, me.” Advertisements tell me: “Indulge yourself! You deserve it!” I can buy my lunch and my coffee made “my way.” I flip open a magazine, or browse the best-sellers, to find ten easy tips on how I can have what I want, right here, right now.

Put one way, this is selfishness. But the spin on it in our post-Christian culture is that it’s empowerment, self-actualization. We are told to follow our hearts, seek our deepest desires, do what feels good. Indeed, if atheism is true, there is no ultimate purpose to life, so we might as well go for self-indulgence, whether through hedonism or through constructing one’s own “meaning” in life.

In contrast, if the Triune God is real, then such a focus on the self is ultimately destructive. Christians believe that we are alienated from God by the Fall, and damaged by our own sins; if we are left to our own devices, we will go wrong. To follow our own whims is to wander without guidance farther away from the path that leads to true self-knowledge in relationship with God who knows us completely.

If God is who Christians say He is, then our bodies are temples of the Holy Spirit, not toys for abuse or pleasure. If God is who He has revealed Himself to be in Christ Jesus, then the path to true selfhood is the narrow way, the way of the Cross, the way of denial of self and love of God.

In other words, the God who is Father, Son, and Holy Spirit is a significant obstacle to self-indulgence.

No wonder atheism is so popular.

Yet atheism is a curious hybrid. On the one hand, it provides for a rejection of civilization entirely. If there is no God, then there is no ultimate source of objective values, and we can make or break rules as we please; good and evil are reduced to preferences. I like chocolate ice cream and laws against murder. You like vanilla and enjoy killing small children. Sure, why not?

On the other hand, atheists don’t generally advocate anarchism and a return of barbarism. (Who would run the publishing houses to print their books?) In fact, atheists show a remarkable streak of optimism about human nature. The atheist feels, almost as an article of faith, that the human race is perfectible. Despite all the colossal failures of utopianism, especially the ones of the 20th century that ended in mass slaughter, there remains the idea that this time, we can get it right all by ourselves. We can perfect ourselves through legislation; through restructuring society; through genetic manipulation; through drugs. We can make ourselves be happy – or so we think; it never works, but the atheist can only try again.

Atheism claims that we are in control of our selves, and thus our own destiny; it is the perfect faith for a culture that is obsessed with both perfection and self-will.

If we allow our Christian faith to be described in terms of personal gratification, we are buying what the world is selling, just under a different brand name. Christ did not die for us so that we would be comfortable and happy today. He died for us so that we would be saved.

To die to self, to die to sin, is not a comfortable experience. Confronting one’s own sin and repenting of it yields sorrow, not happiness. Hope and peace lie on the other side of that repentance, but we must go through pain to get there – not around it.

If we allow Christianity to be all about fulfilling my needs, getting my prayers answered, feeling good about myself and my family, and improving my relationships, then we are making the same pitch as the atheists: it’s all about me.

And trust me, atheism is a lot less demanding than Christian faith. I’ve been there; I know.

But in our frantic consumer culture, as we become less real and less present to each other, and even to ourselves, as we desperately project ourselves outward into the media to remind ourselves that we exist… we may slowly realize that atheism may promise easy self-fulfillment, but it delivers nothing but despair.

Christian faith is harder. It costs more; in fact, it costs everything. It also happens to be true.

Jesus told his disciples to count the cost. Why are we afraid to recognize that there is a cost?

In the face of atheism, let us not be afraid to speak the truth: the Christian life is the way of the Cross. Let us reject the idolatry of personal fulfillment. Let us remember that Christ calls us to come and die.

Then those who have sought to find themselves, searching high and low, grasping after all the good things of the world only to find them slipping from between their fingers, may be ready to listen when they hear something new: the hard, true words of our Lord: “If anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross and follow me. For whoever would save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for my sake will find it.” (Matthew 16:24-25)

Experiencing the Trinity in Poetry 3: John Donne’s Holy Sonnet 12

2010-06-30T20:46:31Z

How do we enter into a relationship with God, or deepen that relationship once it exists? Our answers to that question become richer when we recognize that the God of whom we speak is the most holy Trinity: the name of God is Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. In Part 1 and Part 2 of this essay series, we have explored how the poetry of John Donne, the 17th century Anglican poet-priest, can help us to examine and reflect on our relationship with God. Now, we will finish by looking at Donne’s Holy Sonnet 12 – the poem that brings all our themes together.

Holy Sonnet 12 is deeply Trinitarian – in fact, it is the only sonnet in the sequence to reference the Trinity specifically: the “knotty Trinity.” This image is worth pondering. Donne may have been influenced by Celtic designs of the Trinity, but in any case he was certainly playing on the different meanings of “knotty.” The word “knotty” is often used to describe difficult or insoluble problems, and indeed the Trinity cannot be figured out by reason. However, as we said at the beginning of our series, the Trinity is only “knotty” in a negative sense if we see the Trinity as a problem to be solved. If we consider the Trinity as a reality to be experienced, then “knotty” can be appreciated in its other sense. The image of the knot connects the idea of infinity with that of security: things knotted are made secure, bound tightly.

In this poem, we see the poet coming to the realization that God, fully experienced as the most holy Trinity, is a dynamic communion of love. Through Christ we are drawn into the Trinity: “Father, part of his double interest / Unto thy kingdom, thy Son gives to me, / His jointure in the knotty Trinity / He keeps, and gives me his death’s conquest.” Donne begins to see that God is continually pouring out His “all-healing” grace and love, to which the poet can respond through the power of the Spirit.

Holy Sonnet 12:

Father, part of his double interest
Unto thy kingdom, thy Son gives to me,
His jointure in the knotty Trinity
He keeps, and gives me his death’s conquest.
This Lamb, whose death, with life the world hath blessed,
Was from the world’s beginning slain, and he
Hath made two wills, which with the legacy
Of his and thy kingdom, do thy sons invest.
Yet such are thy laws, that men argue yet
Whether a man those statutes can fulfill;
None doth, but thy all-healing grace and Spirit
Revive again what law and letter kill.
Thy law’s abridgement, and thy last command
Is all but love; oh let that last will stand!

As we reflect on the Holy Sonnets, we can gain the insight that we do not need to have perfect understanding in order to love God and to be drawn into His love for us. Donne’s poetry, like that of the other metaphysical poets, can often be very abstract and intellectual, even when dealing with emotion. Especially in these early poems, written before his ordination as a priest, Donne seems to be striving to understand the mysteries of faith, and falling short. While faith should always go seeking understanding, and we are directed in Holy Scripture to understand the reasons for the hope we have (1 Peter 3:15), we must not fall into the error of thinking that just because we ought to use our minds to the fullest, that this full use of our minds will enable us to “understand” God completely. God is a Person, not a concept.

Donne seems to have realized this, later in life as a priest: he writes, in a sermon on John 1:8, that “We may search so far and reason so long of grace and faith, as that we may lose not only them but even our reason too, and sooner become mad than good.”

In the Holy Sonnets, Donne never quite reaches full assurance, and in many of his other poems we find the same wavering between faith and doubt. Donne helps us see that doubt and struggle need not be feared, if we offer them up to God for Him to use them to bring us closer to Him. Donne’s uncertainties about his faith, his sense of his own sinful and rebellious heart, his experiences of loss, his own frequent ill health, were things that he offered up to God – and God used him to do a mighty work of preaching and teaching.

In Holy Sonnet 1, he had exclaimed in anguish, “ Except thou rise and for thine own work fight, / Oh I shall soon despair, when I do see / That thou lov’st mankind well, yet wilt not choose me,” giving a sense of frustration at God’s apparent distance from his need. In contrast, Holy Sonnet 12 closes with an affirmation of God’s love: “thy all-healing grace and Spirit / Revive again what law and letter kill.” When the poet cries out “oh let that last will stand!” it is in desire rather than despair, for he knows now that “Thy law’s abridgement, and thy last command / Is all but love.” We see the poet coming to the realization that God, fully experienced as the most holy Trinity, is a dynamic communion of love; Donne begins to see that God is continually pouring out His “all-healing” grace and love, to which the poet can respond through the power of the Spirit.

Donne does not present us with a neat, tidy explanation of the Trinity; instead, he sidles up to the Trinity, looks sideways at it, writes around it and gradually draws closer to it – and becomes drawn, by grace, into that eternal loving communion. And as we read and reflect on the Holy Sonnets, we can use them as a scaffold to grow in our own faith.

The Parable of the Sweater: or, Why Evangelism Can Drive People Crazy

2010-06-13T04:34:48Z

How do you evangelize when people aren’t interested in the Gospel? They don’t feel a need for it, they think it’s silly and embarrassing, it interferes with their daily lives, and they just don’t want to hear about it. One approach is to try to work in appeals to the Gospel in conversation – to look for an opening and point out that Jesus really is the answer.

Many Christians don’t understand why this approach often backfires – sometimes spectacularly, as if the evangelist had just stepped on a verbal landmine, sometimes quietly, as if a glacial chill had settled on the room. Why doesn’t this approach work better? Why don’t people open up and take the opportunity to talk about the Gospel?

I’ve been there, on that side of the conversation. It’s hard to explain straight-up, so let me tell you a story. Call it the Parable of the Sweater.

The sweater in question is a gift from your Aunt Muriel, whom you barely know. “I’ve been saving this for you, dear!”

You open the box, and there it lies – the nightmare Christmas sweater. It is bright red. It is hand-knitted, and lumpy. It has dancing reindeer, holding up a banner that says “Have a Ho-Ho-Holy Night.” It has bells sewn onto it. And pom-poms. And there are little googly eyes glued onto the reindeer faces. The dancing reindeer.

And it’s not even Christmas — it’s February. The horror, the horror.

“Uh… thanks, Aunt Muriel… I’m sure you took a lot of time making this. Uh… it’s very thoughtful.” Then, when you get home, you shove the ghastly thing into the back of the closet and try to forget it.

At the next family gathering you’re chatting with her, and after a few pleasantries about how the nephews and nieces are doing in school, she says, “So… have you worn the sweater yet?”

“Uh, no, Aunt Muriel. It’s, uh, not really the right season for it.”

“Sweetie, a little Christmas spirit is welcome any time of the year! Don’t you like it?”

“Uh… oops, look at the time! Gotta run!”

A few weeks later, you’re sipping lemonade at the family barbecue when Aunt Muriel sits down beside you. “Dear, you look cold. (Kids these days, they wear shorts and flip-flops all year round, what is the world coming to?) You would really feel a lot better if you wore that sweater I gave you. Do you still have it? I can make you another one if you want.”

“Um, yeah… Hey, Uncle Bill! How ‘bout them Chargers?”

Now imagine that Aunt Muriel had told all her friends and the rest of the family about this wonderful sweater, and every single time you showed up at a family gathering, some nice little old lady put her hand on your arm and said, “Sweetie, have you considered wearing that sweater? I know it’s August, but it gets chilly at night.”

You would have to be a saint not to lose it at some point. “ENOUGH with the freakin’ sweater already! I hate it! I hate reindeer, and especially dancing reindeer, and if I never see another cable-knit article of clothing in my life it will be too soon!”

You probably won’t talk to Aunt Muriel much after that.

Imagine another possibility. The sweater is just as hideous, but Aunt Muriel doesn’t bug you about it. She just carries on being the same loving, sweet aunt that she always is. And you can’t help but think that maybe you ought to wear the sweater, at least once, just to show her that you care enough about her to (shudder) embarrass yourself in public.

So one crisp fall day you drive over to visit Aunt Muriel, and after you get out of the car (looking around to make sure no one sees you), you put on the sweater. Just to please Aunt Muriel, just this once. Yeah, you feel really dumb. But gosh, it’s actually really warm and cozy. Anyway, Aunt Muriel is glad to see you – and you know, you realize you’ve never talked with her that much, but she’s a really sharp lady, who’s been through a lot. And you drink tea and have cookies and talk, and before you know it, you forget about the stupid sweater, because Aunt Muriel is really interested in hearing about your life, and the trouble you have at school, and she doesn’t tell you exactly what you should do and how you should feel, but she listens, and yet at the same time you know she’s not the same as all your friends who just say “do whatever feels good.” There’s something there – you can talk to her, and maybe you don’t agree with everything she says, but – well, maybe there’s something in it, after all.

And the sweater… it’s still hideous. But when you get home, you fold it up neatly and put it in the drawer, instead of shoving it in the back of the closet.

And one of those days, you might even wear the sweater in public. Maybe. Just maybe.

Experiencing the Trinity in Poetry (2): John Donne’s Holy Sonnets 10 and 11

2010-06-09T19:02:25Z

What does it mean that God is Trinity? It is the heart of the Christian faith: that we know God the Father through God the Son in the power of God the Holy Spirit. The more that we know the living God as Trinity, the deeper and richer will be our relationship with Him. As we discussed in Part 1 of this series, poetry is an ideal route for exploring divine mysteries, allowing us to meditate on God and our relationship with Him without trying to “figure Him out” as if He were a math problem. In this essay, we’ll take a look at John Donne’s Holy Sonnets 10 and 11, as Donne moves us closer to experiencing the divine life and love of the Trinity.

In the earlier poems in the Holy Sonnet sequence, Donne explores various issues of importance in the Christian life, but it isn’t until he gets to Sonnet 10 that he explicitly calls on God as Trinity: “three-Person’d God.”

In Holy Sonnet 1, Donne suggests that God has been passive; in contrast, here the poet admits that God has indeed acted, to “knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend” the poet’s soul. God, who seemed distant in the previous sonnets, is recognized as a presence who has been active all along – and not just an active presence, but a loving one. Here, Donne is moving toward the understanding that God’s service is perfect freedom. The poet sees that while Satan’s hold on him is out of hate, God’s “enthralling” is from love; while Satan’s hold on him is slavery, God’s “imprisonment” will make him free.

However, the narrator here is still confused about his relationship with God. He says, “dearly’I love you, and would be loved fain” — he loves God and wants God to love him – not realizing that human love is a response to divine love, not the other way around. Likewise, in the image of the “usurped town,” Donne fails to recognize that Christ has already overcome Satan; Donne is already free, if he would turn to God—which is indeed what he is doing in this poem, even if he is not quite sure of himself.

Holy Sonnet 10

Batter my heart, three-personed God; for, you
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise, and stand, o’er throw me, and bend
Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurped town to another due,
Labour to admit you, but oh, to no end,
Reason your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captived, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly’I love you, and would be loved fain,
But am betrothed unto your enemy,
Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I
Except you enthral me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

Donne does not leave us in that state of confusion, however. He moves – with a deepening awareness of the Trinity – toward the experience of communion with God, as we see in Holy Sonnet 11, which opens with a question for the reader: “Wilt thou love God, as he thee?”

We now see the poet grasping the truth: God loved him first. The poet includes the reader in his address, offering a challenge, or perhaps an invitation: Do you want to love God, the way that He loves you? If so, consider this… Holy Sonnet 11 then moves toward an appreciation of the communion of the blessed Trinity, referencing the eternal relationship of the Son to the Father: “The Father having begot a Son most blessed, / And still begetting, (for he ne’er begun).” Here we glimpse the eternal nature of God as a loving communion. It isn’t that one day God decided to have a Son, or that the Incarnation was just an event in history, now past. Rather, Our Lord Jesus Christ is one Person in the Trinity, from before creation: begotten, not made, as the Creed reminds us. Here we have a living God who is eternally Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

What’s more, the activity of the Trinity expands outward to draw the poet into the life and love of God. The Holy Spirit, “doth make his temple in thy breast,” the Father “Hath deigned to choose thee by adoption,” and the Son “came down, and was slain, / Us whom he had made, and Satan stol’n, to unbind.”

Holy Sonnet 11 closes with a profound reflection on the Incarnation, “‘Twas much, that man was made like God before, / But, that God should be made like man, much more.” The harshness of language in the previous sonnets has eased. Rather than straining for an explanation of why God hasn’t acted in his life, the poet recognizes that indeed He has acted decisively in human history through the Incarnation, not just for the poet himself but for all humankind.

Holy Sonnet 11

Wilt thou love God, as he thee? then digest,
My soul, this wholesome meditation,
How God the Spirit, by angels waited on,
In heaven, doth make his temple in thy breast.
The Father having begot a Son most blessed,
And still begetting, (for he ne’er begun)
Hath deigned to choose thee by adoption,
Coheir to’ his glory, ‘and Sabbath’s endless rest;
And as a robbed man, which by search doth find
His stol’n stuff, must lose or buy it again:
The Son of glory came down, and was slain,
Us whom he had made, and Satan stol’n, to unbind.
‘Twas much, that man was made like God before,
But, that God should be made like man, much more.

Useful Restlessness

2010-06-06T03:32:35Z

“Restless” literally means “lacking rest.” That doesn’t sound good – but in fact restlessness can be a good thing. St Augustine famously wrote in the Confessions that our hearts are restless until they rest in God; restlessness can be the spur that drives us to arise from our entrenched state of alienation and dissatisfaction to seek after what we really need.

On a more practical level, “restlessness” is an interesting word, because it covers two quite different states of mind. These two states could be described as “bad” and “good” restlessness, but actually it’s a little more complicated than that.

The first kind is probably the one I know best – the restlessness of being tired and yet having work to do. While I’m trying to concentrate on grading papers, or paying bills, or doing the assigned reading for a class I’m taking, I’m distracted by a thousand and one things that seem more appealing than what I’m doing right now. What are my friends posting on Facebook? Are there any interesting new articles on the news sites I read? Is there anything to eat in the refrigerator? Sometimes even doing laundry seems like a better option than whatever it was that I’m supposed to be concentrating on.

The curious thing is that I know, consciously, that the work I’m (supposed to be) doing is important. I love my job, I find my classes interesting, and, well, I don’t like paying bills but I do enjoy having un-interrupted electricity and phone service. I also know that the little distractions are, ultimately, much less important… and yet I allow myself to get distracted anyway. I check my email. I eat a cookie. (Am I really hungry?)

The fidgety kind of restlessness usually means that I’m over-tired… not necessarily physically, but mentally and emotionally. I have too much to do, and I can’t face the thought of it, so – I don’t. Yet in that mood, I don’t really enjoy goofing off, either. I procrastinate, avoid, and fritter away time doing little things that are neither productive nor relaxing.

When the bad restlessness really kicks in, sometimes I just want to put my head down on the desk and cry.

On the other hand, there’s a good restlessness. When I am rested, both physically and mentally, I find myself eager to do interesting things. I have energy – it’s not enough to just sit around doing the same old thing. I want to go out and do a good workout, write essays about all the ideas rattling around in my head (and on the endless slips of paper on my desk), go on trips to visit different places – all things that I can’t, or won’t, do when I’m tired.

Yet I would not dismiss the “bad” restlessness as all bad, nor embrace the “good” restlessness wholesale.

The “bad” restlessness is an important signal flag. It means I am pushing myself too hard. When I feel so fidgety, sometimes I do need to tell myself “Stop it! Get to work!” but often, what I really need to do is take a break. Not sit at my desk and half-work, but step away from my desk and do something completely different. Take a nap, or read a chapter in a fun book, or go for a walk. Then, when I get back to my work, I’ll be more productive. I don’t always succeed in building in that safety valve of resting when I need to, but when I do, it helps.

The “good” restlessness is insufficient. Left unchecked, it leads to lots of grand plans and half-finished projects. I have to discipline myself with that energy too: to recognize that if something is a good project, I will continue to want to work on it tomorrow, so I don’t have to finish it today.

Both kinds of restlessness show up in my prayer life. Having a regular routine, the Daily Office, helps keep me steady. On the bad-restless days, when I can hardly concentrate on any particular prayer for more than 30 seconds, the liturgy keeps pulling me back, again and again, and reminds me that even if my prayers are scattered and unfocused, I’m praying. On the good-restless days, I tend to be over-confident, thinking that I can just spontaneously pray and lift up all that I do to God, without needing any structure… but then I often realize at the end of the day that I haven’t consciously prayed much, if at all. When I am rested and have energy to spare, the liturgy helps me stay focused, so that I have a structure around which to build my extemporaneous prayer.

Now, dear readers — what are your distractions, and how do you keep focused?

Experiencing the Trinity in Poetry (1): John Donne’s Holy Sonnet 1

2010-06-04T03:24:32Z

The Trinity is not just a difficult doctrine that’s interesting only for pastors and philosophers – rather, it is the heart of the Christian faith, for God has revealed Himself to us as Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

The most holy Trinity is not a puzzle to be solved, but a reality to be experienced. Though we cannot fully comprehend the Trinity through the use of human reason, God has revealed Himself as Trinity and invites us to participate in His divine life: “I came that they may have life and have it abundantly.” (John 10:10)

Poetry is ideal for exploring this tremendous mystery of faith, as a poem can hold ideas in tension without resolving them. Nothing can explain the most holy Trinity, but poetry can help us experience God more fully and more deeply.

Introducing John Donne – Our Poet Guide

John Donne, the 17th century Anglican poet and priest, is a complex figure: after a dissolute early life, he married for love, and was ordained as a priest. His personal struggles and constant self-examination, paired with his brilliant intellect and unflagging zeal, helped him to serve the Lord faithfully and passionately – he went on to become the Dean of St Paul’s Cathedral in London, and one of the era’s most inspiring preachers, powerfully teaching and preaching the Gospel.

What Does Poetry Have to Do with This?

Donne uses his poetry to explore all aspects of faith and life, including his own fears, doubts, and weakness. In the 12-sonnet sequence called the Holy Sonnets, Donne dramatizes and thus brings into focus his own struggle with his relationship with God. In the process, he helps us to move from trying to “figure out” the Trinity (Three…one…hm…?) to a relational approach to the Trinity.

We’ll start with looking at Holy Sonnet 1. Look for how Donne opens the sequence with an unsettled tone. He is trying to relate to God… and failing. Feeling isolated from a God he perceives as distant, the narrator cries out almost in anger, “thou lov’st mankind well, yet wilt not choose me.” Indeed, God does not seem to be handling things the way the poet thinks is best, and the poet even accuses God of passivity: “Except thou rise and for thine own work fight, / Oh I shall soon despair.” Notice how often the pronoun “I” appears – the narrator is focused almost entirely on himself; could it be that he is projecting his own self-absorption outward onto God?

Holy Sonnet 1

As due by many titles I resign
Myself to thee, O God, first I was made
By thee, and for thee, and when I was decayed
Thy blood bought that, the which before was thine,
I am thy son, made with thy self to shine,
Thy servant, whose pains thou hast still repaid,
Thy sheep, thine image, and, till I betrayed
My self, a temple of thy Spirit divine;
Why doth the devil then usurp on me?
Why doth he steal, nay ravish that’s thy right?
Except thou rise and for thine own work fight,
Oh I shall soon despair, when I do see
That thou lov’st mankind well, yet wilt not choose me,
And Satan hates me, yet is loth to lose me.

The Trinity is referenced only obliquely: a hint of the Father (“I was made by thee”), the Son (“Thy blood bought that, the which before was thine”), and the Holy Spirit (“My self, a temple of thy Spirit divine”). These three Persons, only vaguely referred to, do not seem to recall to the poet anything of Trinity’s divine communion of love, with implications for the poet’s relationship with God. The poet starts to recognize himself as a temple of the Holy Spirit, but only in the past tense: he is a temple “till I betrayed / My self.” There is no appreciation of what the indwelling of the Holy Spirit means for his relationship with God the Father.

The poem ends on a depressed note; the poet accuses God of being passive: “Except thou rise and for thine own work fight, / Oh I shall soon despair.” Feeling isolated from a God he perceives as distant, he cries out almost in anger, “thou lov’st mankind well, yet wilt not choose me.”

Our Relationship with God the Trinity

Holy Sonnet 1 shows us that a faulty understanding of who God is can hinder the development of our relationship with Him. The narrator in Holy Sonnet 1 sees God as a distant Other, complete and sufficient in Himself, and utterly distant from His creation. Not surprisingly, he feels unable to have a relationship with this Being whose attentions seem almost arbitrary: “Oh I shall soon despair, when I do see / That thou lov’st mankind well, yet wilt not choose me.”

However, God has revealed Himself to be not just one, but Three: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit, one being, and three Persons. God is love, and in His being there is an eternal loving communion among the three Persons.

As Donne shows us in the later sonnets in the sequence, the recognition of God as Trinity opens the door for a far richer and deeper relationship with God, who has revealed Himself to us in Scripture and in the Incarnation of His Son. In Holy Sonnet 1, the narrator ends in a sense of frustration at God’s apparent indifference to his need… but when we get to Holy Sonnet 12 we will find a profound affirmation of God’s love, His “all-healing grace and Spirit.”

God does not just want to give us “things” to make us happy; He wants to give us Himself, to draw us into His eternal life. Most importantly for us, through the Incarnation, death, and Resurrection of the Son, we can be drawn up into the eternal life of God the Trinity, sharing in that communion of love that is God the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.