In the Desert (GH #28)

I do not understand the fascination with the desert. It’s all around me in Southern California: both the desert itself and people’s fascination with it. The desert to me has always seemed dirty—everything tinged with the same color of dust. My readers, including my dear brother, who actually prefers to go off driving into the New Mexico desert, are yelling at their screens right now: the desert is not monotone, it’s full of life, it’s no more dirty than a tropical forest, etc. But, for me, the desert represents a wasteland, dry and barren of possibility, open and exposed to the scorching sun. If I have to drive through it, it’s something to pass through as quickly as possible.

My pastor last Sunday began a series of sermons on Jesus’ temptation by the devil in the desert (Luke 4). He highlighted the contrast between the first temptation with the first Adam in the lush garden of Eden and this second temptation with the “last Adam” (I Cor 15:45) in the arid desert. Jesus Christ, led by the Holy Spirit, intentionally put himself into a climate where he would be tempted in the most natural ways (hunger, thirst, discomfort, discouragement), as well as in supernatural ones (Satan’s challenges), in order to demonstrate for us how to win the battle against temptation.

Life is, of course, replete with its lush forests and arid deserts, its times of plenty and its times of drought. For me, the desert is a temptation: a temptation to complain and be discontent. George Herbert expresses this well in his poem “The Bunch of Grapes.” Likening the experience of the Christian life to that of the Israelites wandering in the wilderness, Herbert says,

“We have our sands and serpents, tents and shrouds;

     Alas, our murmurings come not last!” (17-18)

So true: our response in the desert tends to be complain first; ask questions later.

I will quote another line from Herbert, this time from his poem “Home”:

“Nothing but drought and dearth, but bush and brake,

     Which way so-e’re I look, I see” (49-50)

The desert is a temptation: to despair in the wasteland. All seems barren. No possibilities. Maybe the seeming wasteland continues for as far as the eye can see.

What might it mean to embrace the desert? I’m not sure I’m ready for that one. Christ’s response to his temptation in the desert must be a key to our survival in the times of drought in life, though: stay rooted in God’s Word, know that the Holy Spirit can enable one to win the battle against temptation, turn to the Savior who can sympathize with us in our temptations, and maintain hope of the reward to come as a result of winning the battle.

So, should I yearn to see the “oasis” (to belabor the metaphor), or should I learn to appreciate the desert? I don’t know that I have the answer.

Christ in the Winepress (GH #27)

On Thursday of this Easter Christians around the world remembered the Lord’s Supper and Jesus’ vigil in the Garden of Gethsemene, and on Good Friday we recalled the day of Christ’s crucifixion. I cannot think of a better George Herbert poem to accompany these two days than “The Agony,” which develops the theme of Christ's sacrifice through the metaphor of the winepress.

“The Agony” begins, however, not with Jesus’ Passion, but with scientific exploration:

Philosophers have measured mountains,

Fathomed the depths of seas, of states, and kings;

Walked with a staff to heav’n, and traced fountains:

But there are two vast, spacious things,

The which to measure it doth more behove;

Yet few there are that sound them,—Sin and Love. (1-6)

The speaker of the poem opens with the challenge of measuring geographical locations and political entities, and then switches to the more difficult task of measuring two abstract ideas: Sin and Love.

As a scientific observer and experimenter in the poem, Herbert remains distant from the object of his observation, which is the agony of Christ, until the final two lines of the poem, where the scientific experiment becomes a personal and spiritual experience for the speaker. In the second stanza, the poet as observer describes the agony of Christ:

            Who would know Sin, let him repair

Unto Mount Olivet; there shall he see

A man so wrung with pains, that all his hair,

            His skin, his garments bloody be.

Sin is that press and vice, which forceth pain

To hunt his cruel food through ev’ry vein. (7-12)

Herbert’s references to wringing, bloody garments, pressing, and forcing would have evoked in his readers the familiar winepress image from the Old Testament and Revelation. One of the most extensive passages focusing on the winepress image comes from Isaiah 63, which features a dialogue between Isaiah the prophet and a mysterious man wearing a robe sprinkled with wine/blood:

 

[Isaiah:]  Who is this . . . that is glorious in his apparel, traveling in the greatness of his strength? 

[Man:]  I who speak in righteousness, mighty to save.

[Is:]  Why art thou red in thine apparel, and thy garments like him who treadeth in the winefat?

[Man:]  I have trodden the winepress alone. . . ; for I will tread them in mine anger, . . . and their blood shall be sprinkled upon my garments, and I will stain all my rainment. (63:1-3)

In 1623 (during George Herbert’s university years) popular preacher Lancelot Andrewes gave an Easter sermon on this Isaiah 63 passage and discussed the winepress imagery at length. The man with the blood-stained garments is Christ, says Andrewes, and the Scripture passage is a prophecy of two winepresses: the Winepress of Redemption and the Winepress of Vengeance (220).*

Lancelot Andrewes states, "A double wine-presse . . . we find; Christ was in both. . . . In the former, He was himselfe troden and pressed: He was the grapes and clusters himselfe. In this later heere, He that was troden before, gets up again, and doth heere tread upon, and tread downe . . . upon some others. The Presse he was troden in, was his Crosse and Passion" (230-31). The second press is Christ's triumph over his enemies, which Andrewes says occurred during the Resurrection and will also occur in the execution of God's divine wrath in the end times.

Focusing on this first pressing mentioned by Andrewes in his sermon, that of the Passion of Christ, Herbert's poem "The Agony" uses the winepress image to refer to the weight of sin pressing Christ during the Passion. On Mount Olivet, the place of Jesus' prayer to God and betrayal by Judas, Jesus was tormented by the cup of suffering he knew he would have to taste on the cross. "Wrung with pains" (9), he sweat drops of blood. Andrewes calls this agony of Jesus' the first strain of his pressing.

Christ being pressed in the winepress of "The Agony's" second stanza produces the wine of stanza three, which states,

            Who knows not Love, let him assay

And taste that juice, which on the cross a pike

Did set again abroach; then let him say

            If ever he did taste the like.

Love is that liquor sweet and most divine,

Which my God feels as blood; but I, as wine. (13-18)

The act of the winepress is compared to the Passion of Christ, and Christ's body is transformed by Herbert into a wine barrel, “set . . . abroach” or punctured (15). The cup of suffering, which is the curse of Adam's sin that Jesus would take upon himself, turns into the cup of blessing and salvation after he has been pressed on the cross, and the new cup is offered to all who will partake of it. Love in “The Agony” becomes a liquid substance, felt by God as blood and by the speaker as wine through the symbolic nature of Holy Communion.

As Henry Vaughan, an admirer of Herbert's poetry, states in his own poem “The Passion,” Christ as the vine was "prest / To be my feast!" (19-20). Let us drink deeply of His divine love as we remember His sacrifice this Easter.

* Andrewes, Lancelot. Sermons. Ed. G. M. Story. Oxford: Clarendon P, 1967.

Bridging the Gap Between Neighbors

In my British novel class this semester, I have been teaching Elizabeth Gaskell’s North & South (from the mid-Victorian era). Some folks know this novel through the same way I originally become acquainted with it: as the 2004 BBC mini-series. While I love the mini-series, it makes several alterations to the characters and their interactions.

One such difference comes in the proposal scene, when John Thornton, a no-nonsense businessman, reveals his powerful feelings for Margaret Hale, the newcomer to town. Margaret is an Anglican Christian, whose strong faith throughout the novel ministers to her family and friends in times of loss and grief. Yet, she struggles throughout, as Thornton does, with a strong self-will—and, in the first half of the novel, a prejudice against Mr. Thornton. This prejudice, along with the unexpected strength of Thornton’s professed feelings and an overwhelming embarrassment, prompts Margaret to respond to Thornton’s proposal harshly. She doesn’t just reject his proposal of marriage, she rejects him as a person: 

Thornton: “I know you despise me; allow me to say, it is because you do not understand me.”

Margaret: “I do not care to understand.”

Hadrian's Wall, England

While Thornton, himself no great understander of Margaret, at least tries to bridge the gap between them by offering to open himself to her, Margaret shuts down this opportunity. She does not care to understand him. This barrier remains between them for much of the rest of the novel. How unfortunate that Margaret, otherwise in many parts of the novel an example of Christian faith, hope, and love, should be such a poor example when it comes to her interactions with this particular neighbor.

I am reminded of a passage from the end of what is often considered C.S. Lewis’s greatest speech or sermon, “The Weight of Glory”: “You have never talked to a mere mortal,” states Lewis.

“Nations, cultures, arts, civilizations—these are mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of a gnat. But it is immortals whom we joke with, work with, marry, snub, and exploit. . . . This does not mean that we are to be perpetually solemn. We must play. But our merriment must be of that kind . . . which exists between people who have, from the outset, taken each other seriously—no flippancy, no superiority, no presumption. . . . Next to the Blessed Sacrament itself, your neighbour is the holiest object presented to your senses. If he is your Christian neighbour, he is holy in almost the same way, for in him also Christ . . . is truly hidden.”

Rather than approaching her “neighbor,” Mr. Thornton, who, at great risk, has laid his feelings bare before her, as if he were a “holy object” with an immortal soul, Margaret has approached him with superiority and presumption. She is sorry for her harshness afterward, but the damage to that neighbor has been done. It takes Margaret’s humbling “fall” and Thornton’s charity in protecting her from its consequences before their relationship begins to be repaired.   

In the Middle (GH Day 26)

"Great art asks great questions about our lives."

Ralph Winter, producer of several big Hollywood films, such as some of the X-Men movies, spoke at my university today. The power of storytelling, he said, is contained in the structure of the story. He referenced such films as Titanic: we all know how that story ends, so we don't watch that movie to find out whether the boat makes it through the iceberg encounter or not. We already know it won't. So why do we want to watch a movie like Titanic? Answer: it's the process, the journey, the middle part, the story.

Auckland, New Zealand

As one faculty respondent stated today, Protestant Christians often make the worst art because we are afraid of the journey--of that ugly, unseemly middle. We want to skip to--and just talk about--the end. Yet those seemingly ugly parts, when the protagonist is in the midst of the struggle, are what make the story matter.

I suppose Christians would call this something like the journey of sanctification. It can be messy, and the end of the struggle is not often apparent. But those often "unseemly" struggles are a significant part of the story.

I've hinted at this in past postings, but this presentation of the narrator in the midst of the struggles of the Christian life is one of the reasons I love George Herbert's poetry so much. As many scholars have pointed out, he is like the Psalmist, who gives us the emotion in the midst of trials. In good stories, trials often come from without, from an opponent or an obstacle. But in good stories, trials often come from within as well: guilt, heartache, insecurities, resentment, temptation, etc.

Witness Herbert's "Affliction" poems. Not suprisingly, given the title, "Affliction (1)" presents a narrator who has not received an answer. Instead, "though thou troublest me, I must be meek; / In weakness must be stout" (61-62). The trials come from both without (sickness, friends' deaths, career struggles) and within in "Affliction (1)." The speaker of "Affliction (4)" complains that he is "Broken in pieces all asunder" (1), and his trials seem mainly to come from within: "My thoughts are all a case of knives, / Wounding my heart" (7-8).

Like the Psalmist, Herbert generally concludes his poems with at least a hint toward resolution, a hope that the present state will change, as a result of God's work, but some poems, such as "Perseverance," leave us in this "middle," with no hope yet on the horizon, just clinging to trust in God to make it through the struggle.

"Great art asks great questions about our lives": "Where is my God?" ("The Search" 29). "Is the year only lost to me?" ("The Collar" 13). "What hath not Man sought out and found, / But his dear God?" ("Vanity (1)"). "Is there in truth no beauty?" ("Jordan (1)"). Yes, Herbert's poems ask the great questions that we finite humans ask as we're in the middle of our story.

Exchanges and Returns (GH Day 25)

A few days after Christmas I stood in a slow line at Kohl’s to return a Christmas gift—not one given to me, but one I had purchased for someone else. (My sister and I had gotten our signals crossed about gifts for our mother this year.) Seeing the chaotic piles of returned items behind the Kohl’s Customer Service counter, I pitied the personnel who would have to sort through and replace it all.

What did you hope to receive this past Christmas? Although it is a blessing to receive things we want, sometimes we receive "gifts" we don't necessarily want, but perhaps we need. These gifts may be prosaic, but at least we can appreciate their value. What, though, about the gifts we receive but don't yet realize we need?  

Sometimes our loved ones can see a need in our lives that we cannot yet perceive. George Herbert's poem "Hope" presents a similar scenario (quote taken from Christian Classics Ethereal Library):*

I gave to Hope a watch of mine: but he

                                 An anchor gave to me.

Then an old prayer-book I did present:

                                 And he an optick sent.

With that I have a viall full of tears:

                                 But he a few green eares.

Ah Loyterer! I’le no more, no more I’le bring:

                                 I did expect a ring.

The poem depicts an exchange of gifts between the narrator and a character he calls “Hope” (for Herbert, personified characters like Hope, Love, and Peace generally refer to the Lord). The first gift exchange is about time: the speaker, giving a watch, indicates his eagerness to move forward in some way. Tempus fugit, he might remark. However, Hope responds with a gift that indicates “stay.” (Anchors, after all, are dropped to stop a boat’s forward motion.) Given the last line—that the speaker expected to receive a ring—we can easily read the analogy of a delayed betrothal in this. Many a woman no doubt has experienced the disappointment of this “anchor” in a relationship.

The next two gift exchanges are more enigmatic: a prayer book (perhaps another allusion to a wedding ceremony?) versus a spyglass (used to see distant objects) and a bottle of collected tears (indicating a long period of unhappiness) versus unripe ears of corn (not ready yet).

But the lessons of "Hope" go beyond gift-exchange occasions like Christmas: they extend to our lives. What did you hope your life would turn out like? Has God said “stay” when you asked for “go”? Has he encouraged a long-distance view (via a spyglass) of your life goals versus your expectations of prompt reward for your consistent devotion? Has he revealed that, although you may have suffered so long that your collected tears could fill a bottle, the time is not yet ripe for his provision of your hopes?

These are not the gifts we want, but the One who knows us best presumably knows what we need. However, the natural human reaction is the one we have here from the narrator: frustration with disappointed expectations and the temptation to give up active participation in the relationship with the Lord, whose name is Hope.

In other words, please tell me there was a gift receipt with that so-called present. And, by the way, what’s Heaven’s exchanges and returns policy? How about merchandise credit, at least?

I’m reminded of Hebrews 11:2. Only with faith—faith that he does know what he’s doing in giving us these apparent gifts—will we one day receive the substance of things hoped for, of things not yet seen. I appreciate how Herbert’s poem “Hope” leaves us in that place of disappointment. It’s human. I should imagine we all can identify with that.

As the Christmas carol “O Little Town of Bethlehem” states, “The hopes and fears of all the years” were met in the little baby born to lower-class parents in a dodgy stable one night. No doubt that precious gift in its humble wrappings did not look like the present anyone had expected! The Pharisees, along with Judas Iscariot and many others, certainly wanted to exchange lowly Jesus of Nazareth for the mighty, kingly person they’d been hoping for. Yet that initially unwanted present turned out to be the best gift of all. And that truth definitely gives me hope.      

* http://www.ccel.org/h/herbert/temple/TempleFrames.html

Singing Shepherds (GH Day 24)

Christmas is here, and it’s the most musical time of the year for a lot of folks. I love playing Christmas music and singing Christmas songs: everything from “The Holly and the Ivy” to “Have Yourself a Merry Little Christmas.” What a shame that we only get to enjoy these wonderful carols and classics once a year!

In July, I introduced George Herbert’s poem “Christmas,” focusing on the first half. In a twist on the nativity story, the narrator is a worn-out rider seeking lodging who is welcomed by an innkeeper. The narrator then turns around and asks for his soul to be made a lodging for the infant Lord (in place of the manger).

In the second half of the poem, we leave the Mary/Joseph/inn/stable story behind and focus, at least initially, on the shepherds:

THE shepherds sing; and shall I silent be?
                      My God, no hymne for thee?

My soul’s a shepherd too: a flock it feeds
                      Of thoughts, and words, and deeds.
The pasture is thy word; the streams, thy grace
                      Enriching all the place.
 

Shepherd and flock shall sing, and all my powers
                      Out-sing the day-light houres.
Then we will chide the sunne for letting night
                      Take up his place and right:

We sing one common Lord; wherefore he should
                      Himself the candle hold. (lines 1-12 of “Christmas” part 2)

Welsh sheep

Just as he had, to some extent, taken on the characteristics of a weary Mary, the beasts (“brutish”) in the stable, and the manger in the opening sonnet of “Christmas,” Herbert’s speaker now assumes the place of the shepherds. 

In the nativity story (particularly the Luke 2 passage), it is the angels singing (although really there’s no mention of them singing, only speaking), but Herbert puts his twist on this too: his shepherds are the ones singing. Here Herbert is probably playing on the conventions of Renaissance pastoral poetry, where shepherds do a lot of singing. Yet, his point is that the shepherds (of the nativity and in the pastoral poetry) are known for their songs, so can’t the narrator come up with a song as well?

This begins the analogy of lines 3-7. His soul is a shepherd, his flock is his thoughts, words, and deeds, which feed on the pasture of God’s word and drink from the stream of God’s grace. Inherent in this little analogy is a reflection question: on what are we feeding and from what are we drinking? What is my soul, the core of my being, intentionally looking to for its nourishment?

The mention of thoughts, words, and deeds is a reference to a liturgical confession: we have sinned in thought, word, and deed. Surely Herbert is thinking of his position as well. As the pastor (assuming when Herbert wrote “Christmas” he was already leading the little congregation of St. Andrews at Bemerton, outside Salisbury), he is a shepherd responsible for feeding his flock, his congregation.

So, shepherd and flock—one’s own soul and his thoughts, words, & deeds or the pastor and his congregation—shall sing of our one Lord (lines 7, 11). In another sight twist on the nativity story, which, with the angels and shepherds, takes place at night, Herbert focuses on the sun/Son, who came to bring light to the world (John 1:5, 9). Night no longer can take his (the sun’s/Son’s) place: The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light (Isaiah 9:2). Now that’s something to sing about!

Joy: the Now and the Not-Yet (GH Day 23)

It's Christmas time, and during this time the word "joy" pops up frequently. Maybe it's on Christmas decorations on sale in the stores ("JOY"), maybe it's in Christmas carols you hear or sing ("O tidings of comfort and joy," "Joy to the world"), maybe it's written on the Christmas cards you receive ("Wishing you joy in this holiday season"--or something like that). In southern Louisiana it's on the signs wishing everyone a merry Christmas, or "Joyeaux Noel."

What is this joy we wish people during the holidays? Commercials seem to suggest that if we're simply given the right gift at Christmas, then we'll experience this joy. But when has a physical gift you've been given (and think of your favorite gift ever here) truly brought you lasting joy?

George Herbert (of course!) speaks to this problem in the opening stanza of his poem "Man's Medley":

     Hark how the birds do sing,
          And woods do ring:
All creatures have their joy, and man hath his.
     Yet if we rightly measure,
          Man's joy and pleasure
Rather hereafter than in present is.

Even his opening word "Hark" is reminiscent of Christmas time for us (e.g., "Hark, the herald angels sing"). (What other time of year do we use this word? Granted, it's because of Charles Wesley's lyrics 100 years after Herbert, but now "hark" has Christmas time associations for us readers.) Birds & woods (that is, trees, garland, pine sprigs, red berries): these are also associated with Christmas.

Yet in line 3 Herbert draws a contrast for us between the joy experienced by creatures and that experienced by humans. What is different? We humans can never know true joy in this lifetime. It is "[r]ather hereafter" (6), in Heaven, that we can know true joy. No earthly present, no matter how nice it is, no matter the thought that went into it, can give us lasting joy and pleasure.

Lest we give up on experiencing any joy, or "cheer," as Herbert also calls it, he reassures us in stanza 4:

     Not that he may not here
          Taste of the cheer;
But as birds drink, and straight lift up their head,
     So must he sip and think
          Of better drink
He may attain to after he is dead.

Using another word that we associate with Christmas time, "cheer" (line 20), Herbert draws his illustration from nature. Don't get lost in the pleasures of the here-and-now. They are but foretastes of what is to come, the "better drink" (23) of the joys of Heaven.

Of course, as you no doubt know, the Christmas carol, "Joy to the World, the Lord is come," is really pointing us toward this "hereafter": the 2nd advent of Christ, ushering in the joys to be experienced in His kingdom under His rule. So, as we experience the joys of this holiday season with family and friends, let us remember that this present is only a foretaste of the "cheer," "joy," and "pleasure" to come with our spiritual family in Christ.