Envying Others' Gifts (GH Day 12)

Does this scene look familiar:
Susie: "It's not fair! Jimmy got to have an ice cream cone after his baseball game today. I want one too!"
Or
Jimmy: "Why does Susie get to sit in the front seat again? She sat there yesterday! I want a turn!"
Or insert a similar fight stemming from sibling envy that you've heard lately. The gist is this: one sibling has been given something that the other hasn't (for whatever reason), and that doesn't sit well.
 
Be honest now: have you ever envied a gift or talent given by God to someone else? Of course you have. We all have. We have no idea, most of the time, why God in His Providence has given wealth to one Christian and not other or a particular high-profile spiritual gift to one Christian and not another. And sometimes it's hard not to feel envious.*

George Herbert has what many, myself included, might consider an odd little poem whose scenario is sibling rivalry. It's one of his Latin poems, whose title might be translated "To John, Leaning on the Lord's Breast."** The title alludes to the poem's scene from the Apostle John's account of the Last Supper (John 13). I will quote the poem here from McCloskey & Murphy's translation, but the last 3 lines will be my own translation of the Latin:

Ah now, glutton, let me suck too!
You won't really hoard the whole
Breast for yourself! Do you thieve
Away from everyone that common well?
He also shed his blood for me,
And thus, having rightful
Access to the breast, I claim the milk
Mingled with the blood.
Where, if so much grace might be joined
To the forgiveness of my sin, perhaps
Falling with my shoulder I may provoke the Thrones themselves.

The speaker is envious that the Apostle John, leaning on the Lord's chest, is close enough to be able to "feed" from Christ Himself. While repulsive to modern sensibilities, the idea of Christ feeding believers with the blood that comes from the side of his chest (struck by the spear at the end of his crucifixion) was a familiar one from medieval art. Furthermore, this metaphor likening these siblings (both sons of God) to infants jostling to get close to the mother's nursing breast is not unlike the traditional image of the pelican, who supposedly would prick herself in dire circumstances, self-sacrificially feeding her young with her own blood.

So far, so good. And once we get the speaker's petulant attitude out of the way, the theological implications here are significant. Christ's "common well" is offered to all, and the speaker knows that he, along with the Apostles, has "rightful access" to that atonement. Moreover, Christ's blood (memorialized in the Protestant Eucharist) nourishes the believer, as a mother's milk does to her child.

But it's the last 3 lines, the ones I've been translating, that I'm really wrestling with. It's very tempting to fault my translation for the obscurity here, but the only 2 published translations I know of are no more clear. Having received forgiveness via God's grace, the narrator seems to take on the role of the Apostle John at the end. It is his shoulder focused on now, only instead of leaning, he's falling on Christ violently. The word (lacessam) used means to "strike," "provoke," or "challenge." The context suggests that he is falling dead (dying), and I'm going to suggest he is now dead to sin (Romans 6:2), the sins that have been forgiven via the shed blood of Christ.

Does his "striking" the Thrones (presumably a metonymy for Heaven, which is also a synonym for God) mean that he is like the spear that pierced Christ's side? In other words, who shed Christ's blood? I did. All sinners did. We are the spear that pierced his side.

Or, is there some defiant attitude on the speaker's part, suggested by the equally possible meanings for lacessam of "provoke" or "challenge"? Is he being over-confident? Something like "Move over, Apostle John; Christ's provision is mine, and I'll challenge all of the apostles to get it" (where "thrones" = the apostles' thrones in Heaven [Matt 19:28]). Yeah, strange. In fact, I'm rather reminded here of passages I've been reading in Homer's Iliad, where one mortal, Diomedes, takes on the gods in battle.

The lesson here is obviously not to challenge God to give you the same gift or talent that He has given a brother or sister in Christ, but perhaps to be grateful that Christ has shed his blood for all for the forgiveness of sins--and you don't have to beat any hoarding Apostles out of the way to get it. Christ has made that "well" open to everyone who comes.


*Envy is the correct word for this sin ("I wish I had what someone else has"), not jealousy, despite widespread incorrect usage.
**This is how McCloskey and Murphy translate the combination Latin/Greek title in their Latin Poetry of George Herbert.

Corporate Worship (GH Day 11)

I am blessed to be part of a university that is sincere about the Christian faith. This was powerfully demonstrated this week during the Fall Faculty Workshop, where all full-time faculty at the university assemble for 1-2 days prior to the start of the new school year. At one point during our gathering, we sang hymns and choruses together, declaring our common faith and praising our common Lord. Unlike my experience at most church services, the voices in this room of 200 disparate faculty lifted together into a full sound, filling the room. We come from several different denominations, but we serve one God.

George Herbert was a lover of music (see his poem "Church Music") and played at least one instrument, the lute. He set some of his poems to music during his lifetime, and many others of his poems have been set to music in the 4 centuries since. In fact, if you find a hymnal lying around and open it to the back index, you're likely to find at least one hymn whose lyrics are attributed to Mr. Herbert. The most common that I've seen is Herbert's poem "Antiphon (1)," also known by its first line, "Let all the world in every corner sing" (not that there are many hymnals around these days to glance through anymore, to the great detriment of sacred music, but that's a blog post for another day). 

"Antiphon" is a poem of communal praise. As its title suggests, the verses are sung by two different choirs, who join together for the chorus. Here is the poem from luminarium.org:

Antiphon (I)

Cho.  Let all the world in ev'ry corner sing,
                                    My God and King.
  Vers.
The heav'ns are not too high,
His praise may thither flie:
The earth is not too low,
His praises there may grow.

Cho.  Let all the world in ev'ry corner sing,
                                    My God and King.
  Vers.
The church with psalms must shout,
No doore can keep them out:
But above all, the heart
Must bear the longest part.

Cho.  Let all the world in ev'ry corner sing,
                                    My God and King.

It's a straightforward poem: praise God in heaven; praise God on earth. Then the poet narrows his focus to the church and finally to the human heart, while the chorus consistently reminds us that this praise should be coming from every part of the world. The last verse stresses that the heart is the most important part of worship. We can sing loudly, but it means little if the heart is not engaged.

Possibly my favorite version of this poem set to music is by the composer Ralph Vaughan Williams (from his Five Mystical Songs).

May we be praising the Lord with our hearts and our songs today. 

Restless Travelers (GH Day 10)

I am a restless traveler. I'm a go-er, doer, see-er. I always think I'll use 
vacation as a time to rest, but I end up trying to pack as much into my trip as 
possible, tiring myself out in the process. 
 
In George Herbert's poem "The Pulley," he plays on multiple meanings of "rest" 
in order to discuss how God withholds a key ingredient to a happy life-- 
contentment--from humankind in the hopes that, lacking this essential element, 
we will turn to Him. Here's the poem as borrowed from luminarium.org: 
 
THE PULLEY.                     
 
WHEN God at first made man, 
Having a glasse of blessings standing by ; 
Let us (said he) poure on him all we can : 
Let the worlds riches, which dispersed lie, 
            Contract into a span. 
 
            So strength first made a way ; 
Then beautie flow’d, then wisdome, honour, pleasure : 
When almost all was out, God made a stay, 
Perceiving that alone, of all his treasure, 
            Rest in the bottome lay. 
 
            For if I should (said he) 
Bestow this jewell also on my creature, 
He would adore my gifts in stead of me, 
And rest in Nature, not the God of Nature : 
            So both should losers be. 
 
            Yet let him keep the rest, 
But keep them with repining restlesnesse : 
Let him be rich and wearie, that at least, 
If goodnesse leade him not, yet wearinesse 
            May tosse him to my breast. 
 
The poem is a simple little story, retelling mankind's creation, where the 
Triune God, like a chemist or a chef, keeps adding ingredients until the formula 
is just right. Herbert plays on 3 or 4 meanings of "rest" here: "rest" as what 
remains, "rest" as a cessation of activity, & "rest" as contentment. To "rest" 
in Nature also has the idea of putting trust in something (to lean against). 
 
Isn't it true that contentment is possibly the hardest thing for us to attain in 
this life? And how often do we weary ourselves out from busyness: busy pursuing 
good things, busy pursuing vain things, busy just trying to keep on top of the 
mundanities things in  life (doing laundry, paying bills, checking email)? 
 
In the metaphysical conceit (that is, a far-fetched analogy) of "The Pulley," 
Herbert imagines God as using this lack of rest as leverage to pull us up to 
Him, so that we restless travelers through life find our contentment not in 
Nature, not in our pursuits, not in our gifts/talents, but in the bosom of our 
Lord.

Expectations (GH Day 9)

Who of us has not struggled with expectations in life that go unmet? My list grows ever longer, ranging from prolonged singleness to my potential as a scholar to my ability to cook a successful chicken dinner.

Herbert’s poem “The Pilgrimage” is about unmet expectations and is presented in the form of an allegory. Here it is courtesy of luminarium.org:

THE PILGRIMAGE
by George Herbert

I travell'd on, seeing the hill, where lay
                              My expectation.
             A long it was and weary way.
             The gloomy cave of Desperation
I left on th'one, and on the other side
                              The rock of Pride.

And so I came to Phansies medow strow'd
                              With many a flower:
             Fair would I here have made abode,
             But I was quicken'd by my houre.
So to Cares cops I came, and there got through
                              With much ado.

That led me to the wilde of Passion, which
                              Some call the wold;
             A wasted place, but sometimes rich.
             Here I was robb'd of all my gold,
Save one good Angell, which a friend had ti'd
                              Close to my side.

At length I got unto the gladsome hill,
                              Where lay my hope,
             Where lay my heart; and climbing still,
             When I had gain'd the brow and top,
A lake of brackish waters on the ground
                              Was all I found.

With that abash'd and struck with many a sting
                              Of swarming fears,
             I fell, and cry'd, Alas my King;
             Can both the way and end be tears?
Yet taking heart I rose, and then perceiv'd
                              I was deceiv'd:

My hill was further: so I flung away,
                              Yet heard a crie
             Just as I went, None goes that way
             And lives: If that be all, said I,
After so foul a journey death is fair,
                              And but a chair.

Just to clarify, an allegory is, in the rather cumbersome definition from Holman & Harmon’s usually helpful Handbook to Literature, “A form of extended metaphor in which objects, persons, and actions in a narrative are equated with meanings that lie outside the narrative itself. Thus it represents one thing in the guise of another—an abstraction in that of a concrete image.” Clear as Herbert’s “lake of brackish waters” (23), right?

Often, characters or places in an allegory are named for the abstract quality that they represent. Herbert’s speaker here passes through Fancy’s Meadow and Care’s Copse. Readers might be reminded of Bunyan’s later Slough of Despond from Pilgrim’s Progress.

Rather than a specific, smaller expectation, this poem represents the speaker’s life as a journey, surviving significant obstacles all in the hope of getting to the “gladsome hill” (line 19). There the narrator has laid his hopes, he says, and his heart. He expects something (we’re not told what)—a great reward, perhaps—something to make his “long . . . and weary way” (3) worthwhile. What he does not expect is to have this expectation thwarted.

Have you ever expected a beautiful scene at the top of a hill, and all you got was brackish water?

Like Herbert’s speaker here, we probably felt somewhat “deceived” (30), betrayed—by God, by a significant other, by the travel brochure.

Herbert’s speaker picks himself up, dusts himself off, and starts again: “taking heart I rose” (29). Yet the hill he thought he was heading for, his end goal, the place that would make all the hardship worthwhile (he hopes), is further still. There are more hardships remaining for one exhausted from hardships already encountered.

What follows in the final stanza has always been a bit ambiguous to me. Does “flung away” mean away from the original path (that is, back or to the side somehow)? Or does “flung away” mean heave himself forward to continue, though very disheartened? Regardless, the speaker is so fed up with the difficulties of his journeying and especially the disappointing of his expectations that he feels that death is better than continuing.

It’s rather a downer of a poem, to some extent, as the main message seems to be that the Christian life is hard and disappointing, and the afterlife will at least be rest (“a chair”). No trace seems to be in this poem (although it is in several others by Herbert) of Christ, who promised us in this world we will have trouble, but He has overcome the world. Still, I find the reminder from this poem that we had better re-adjust our expectations so that they’re His expectations to be a good, albeit sobering, one.   

 (At this rate, it’s going to take a long, long time for me to reach my “One Hundred Days of Herbert! I’m still going to try, though. One must have some goal to reach for, however unattainable it might seem. As Robert Browning wrote, “A man’s reach should exceed his grasp, or what’s a heaven for?” Hmm, I’m teaching Browning this upcoming semester, so maybe more Browning later. . . .)

Hanging On (GH Day 8)

How hard it can be to come to a place of utter dependence on God, especially when He doesn't seem to provide any answers or certainty! There’s a lesser-known poem by George Herbert that touches on this very experience: “Perseverance,” an English poem found only in what scholars have titled the "Williams manuscript." Here is "Perseverance," taken from both the Wilcox and Hutchinson editions* of Herbert’s works. (I have modernized the spelling, which originally included Herbert’s abbreviations):

My God, the poor expressions of my Love

Which warm these lines, and serve them up to thee

Are so, as for the present, I did move

            Or rather as thou movest me.

But what shall issue, whether these my words

Shall help another, but my judgment be;

As a burst fowling-piece doth save the birds

            But kill the man, is sealed with thee.

For who can tell, though thou hast died to win

And wed my soul in glorious paradise,

Whether my many crimes and use of sin

May yet forbid the banes [banns] and bliss?

Only my soul hangs on thy promises

With face and hands clinging unto thy breast,

Clinging and crying, crying without cease,

                             Thou art my rock, thou art my rest.

  

As in “Dullness,” Herbert’s speaker is again concerned about his poetic output, only this time his sensitive conscience worries about whether his well-intentioned efforts might lead someone else astray and, in the speaker’s worst fear, damn him (the speaker) in the process. This poem feels "raw" to me in its emotion as it expresses these fears. In fact, Wilcox notes that the first definition for “expressions” (line 1) given in the Oxford English Dictionary is the literal one: “squeezings out under pressure.”

Herbert’s speaker is in a state of suspension as he presents himself in relation to his Lord in 3 metaphorical contexts: as poet-servant “serving up” his poems as an offering, as bride having been promised to the Bridegroom, and as a crying baby at his mother's  (possibly Father's) breast. In none of these scenarios does God respond to the speaker's fears. 

Have you ever felt that way? Like God seems to be giving no certainty, no comfort, no  answers? 

I think every Christian probably goes through such times. The Psalmist certainly did. Witness, for example, David in Psalm 39, verse 12a: “Hear my prayer, O Lord, and give ear to my cry; hold not your peace at my tears!” (ESV).

Unlike most Psalms, however, Herbert's "Perseverance," ends only with intellectual truth (“thy promises”: “Thou art my rock, thou art my rest”), without providing emotional comfort. The speaker remains “crying without cease,” although, granted, he is at least crying out the right thing. (Wilcox points out in her notes that the first crying in line 15 is weeping, but the second is the speaker exclaiming the phrase that follows.)

Not, as the old hymn goes, “standing on the promises,” but “hang[ing] on [God’s] promises” here. Once again, I find Wilcox’s note on the OED definitions of “hangs on” to be illustrative: 1) “Is dependent upon,” 2) “Relies upon with expectation,” & 3) “Literally, clings to.” In other words, the child of God gets through the tough, “no answers” times by being dependent upon the Lord, with expectation that He will provide, clinging to His promises (and Him!) while waiting.

"Perseverance" is not Herbert's strongest work, which is probably a reason why he left it out of his final collection, The Temple. Even if we don't have as much to say about the poetics here, the theme, and especially the emotion, culminating in the crying child image in the last stanza, is one that resonates, I should think, with many readers.

*F. E. Hutchinson, Works of George Herbert (1943); Helen Wilcox, The English Poems of George Herbert (2007)

Writer’s Block (GH Day 7)

Who hasn’t experienced writer’s block? I struggle with it all the time. That’s partly why I’ve begun this blog: to get myself into more of a habit of writing about literature, so that it will hopefully start to come more easily when I work on academic essays.

George Herbert has several poems that address his anxieties or insecurities related to something resembling writer’s block. One of these poems is “Dulness” (courtesy of www.ccel.org):

Dulnesse.

VVhy do I languish thus, drooping and dull,                         As if I were all earth? O give me quicknesse, that I may with mirth                                           Praise thee brim-full! The wanton lover in a curious strain                         Can praise his fairest fair; And with quaint metaphors her curled hair                                           Curl o’re again. Thou art my lovelinesse, my life, my light,                         Beautie alone to me: Thy bloudy death and undeserv’d, makes thee                                           Pure red and white. When all perfections as but one appeare,                         That those thy form doth show, The very dust, where thou dost tread and go,                                           Makes beauties here; Where are my lines then? my approaches? views?                         Where are my window-songs? Lovers are still pretending, & ev’n wrongs                                           Sharpen their Muse: But I am lost in flesh, whose sugred lyes                         Still mock me, and grow bold: Sure thou didst put a minde there, if I could                                           Finde there it lies. Lord, cleare thy gift, that with a constant wit                         I may but look towards thee: Look onely; for to love thee, who can be,                                          What angel fit?

Herbert’s goal is to write clever and fitting poems praising his Lord. He feels that it comes easily to the secular poet to praise his beloved, so why can’t Herbert experience that “constant wit” (last stanza) as well?

I’m not a poet, just a prose writer, but I’ve often wondered the same. Why is it that I, who am trying to write as if unto the Lord, not unto men, struggle so much to write with cleverness? I’ve sometimes asked for the kind of inspiration, or “quickness” (first stanza), that Herbert asks for here.

Let’s unpack his images. In the first stanza, the poet imagines himself as like Adam before God breathed into him the breath of life (Gen 2:7). He is “all earth” (just clay, with no life yet) and therefore asks for “quickness,” life, inspiration in the more complete meaning of the word (to have a spirit put into him).

Stanzas 2 & 5 complain about the secular poets, who can easily find ways to praise their “fairest fair,” their lady loves. But “[w]here are my lines, then?” asks Herbert? After all, as he explains in stanzas 3-4, he has a Lord who is “loveliness” and “beautie” and “perfection,” especially because of his sacrificial death on the cross (stanza 3).

Stanza 6 seems to reveal the reason: the poet is “lost in flesh.” His inherent sin nature opposes his attempts to praise his Lord. Significantly, this reference to our sinful flesh comes in stanza 6, six being the number of man (imperfect, while seven = completeness and perfection). “Sure Thou didst put a mind there,” muses the poet. It’s just matter of finding it, right?

But only God can “clear [His] gift”: the poet’s mind and poetic talent. Herbert ends with his noble goal here: “that with a constant wit / I may but look towards Thee.” He desires clarity of thought and clever wording so that he may write of God to the glory of God, concluding with humility that he is not even “fit” enough to love God, just to look upon Him.

Perhaps God blocks us up sometimes in order to redirect our intentions, our goals, and draw our focus back upon Him, keeping us dependent on Him for our talent and wit?  

Whose Vision?: GH Day 6

There’s a poem by George Herbert that I really haven’t noticed before, and it’s titled “Submission.” It is framed by the idea that the poet’s eyes belong to the Lord. I will quote the entire poem, courtesy of the complete Temple provided by Christian Classics Ethereal Library (http://www.ccel.org/h/herbert/temple/TempleFrames.html):

Submission.

But that thou art my wisdome, Lord,        And both mine eyes are thine, My minde would be extreamly stirr’d        For missing my designe. Were it not better to bestow        Some place and power on me? Then should thy praises with me grow,        And share in my degree. But when I thus dispute and grieve,        I do resume my sight, And pilfring what I once did give,        Disseize thee of thy right. How know I, if thou shouldst me raise,        That I should then raise thee? Perhaps great places and thy praise        Do not so well agree. Wherefore unto my gift I stand;        I will no more advise: Onely do thou lend me a hand,        Since thou hast both mine eyes.

Because the Lord is his wisdom, says Herbert in the opening stanza, the poet’s eyes belong to God. This thought prompts at least 2 great questions: How does the Lord become our wisdom? And especially how can I relinquish my vision to God?

I am reminded of the wonderful old hymn, “Be Thou My Vision,” a later verse of which begins “Be Thou my wisdom.”

Lately I’ve been watching the U.S. version of Masterchef, which this 2012 season features a contestant who is blind. She, therefore, has to depend heavily on aural instructions and descriptions, as well as her other senses. I’m only half-way through the season, but it seems that relying on these other senses and being such a careful listener to others has made her a better cook than many in the competition who have depended on their own sight.

Submitting one’s vision to God, both literally (what I perceive today) and figuratively (what my goals/dreams are for my future), is a scary thought, especially because it’s a loss of control. Like most humans, I like to be in control of my own life. I’d rather put on “God glasses,” but have my own eyes underneath. What the poet is suggesting here, though, is that submission of one’s vision to God means a complete giving up of the use of one’s eyes.

Trinity College, Cambridge (Herbert's alma mater)

Herbert suggests in the opening stanza that if he were to rely on his own sight, he would miss God’s “design” for his life. The next stanzas play this idea out and, for some of us more ambitious folk, are very convicting. It seems rational, right? Surely if God put me in a higher/better position I’d be able to bring more praise to Him because of being more in the public eye? The poet acknowledges his struggle with this logical idea versus the reality in the next 2 stanzas. He is more likely to take from God than give: “How know I, if Thou shouldst me raise, / That I should then raise Thee?” (13-14). Ouch! So true. When things are going well, when we’re reaching our goals and ambitions, when we’re prospering, we tend to forget the One to Whom we owe our position/prosperity. “Perhaps great places and Thy praise / Do not so well agree” (15-16). God knows best. The question is can I submit my vision for my life to Him?

In the final stanza, the poet accepts the lot that God has given him and submits his vision for his life to God, but, just as a blind person might, asks for God to “lend me a hand” (19) to make up for the poet’s inability to see.