A Sunset's Challenge to Unbelief (GH Day 20)

Earlier this evening I was reading "Bishop Blougram's Apology" by Robert Browning for my poetry class. It's a lengthy poem & a dramatic monologue (where the narrator is speaking to someone else as if in a monologue or soliloquy within a play, but we only are given his voice and have to construct the surrounding story from what is revealed). It's also in part a work of apologetics (that is, a defense of the Faith: hence, the title).

At one point, the narrator, a bishop giving an interview to an unbelieving journalist, asks him to imagine that they are both unbelievers and to reason from that premise:

And now what are we? unbelievers both,
Calm and complete, determinedly fixed
To-day, to-morrow, forever, pray?
You'll guarantee me that? Not so, I think.
. . . how can we guard our unbelief,
Make it bear fruit to us?—the problem here.
Just when we are safest, there's a sunset-touch,
A fancy from a flower-bell, someone's death, . . .
And that's enough for fifty hopes and fears
As old and new at once as Nature's self,
To rap and knock and enter in our soul, . . .
The grand Perhaps! (lines 174-91)

In other words, writes Browning, humans can think they are safe from challenges to their unbelief, but all it takes is something as seemingly simple as a sunset to awaken the question within our soul: what if there is a God?

One of the joys of living only a few miles from the coast is that I can frequently grab the opportunity to view a sunset on the Pacific Ocean. A few weeks ago, watching one of these sunsets at my new favorite park, I remarked to a friendly passer-by that only God could have painted such a sunset, as it was beyond a human's ability to even conceive of something so varied and beautiful. He agreed, and it opened the door for planting at least this first seed of the Gospel: that God is our Creator.

George Herbert also reminds us that the sun should point us toward our Creator in his poem "Mattens," which is actually about the sunrise. Since I don't ever see the sunrise, I'll apply his words to the setting sun instead:

Teach me Thy love to know;
That this new light, which now I see
May both the work and workman show;
Then by a sun-beam I will climb to Thee. (stanza 5)

This final stanza of "Mattens" comes on the heels of a lament that man "did not heaven and earth create, / Yet studies them, not Him by Whom they be" (lines 15-16). Herbert's hope is that creation will reveal to us both itself ("work") and its Creator ("workman").

My picture above captures the sunbeams on the water at Dana Point, CA. In a play on words, Herbert alludes to Christ's cross (sun/Son + beam [of wood]) as the way he will "climb" to the Father. May our thoughts climb to Heaven when we view a sunrise or sunset, and may unbelievers that we know experience this "sunset-touch," as Browning calls it, and come to faith through the Son's beam.

Special Delivery (GH Day 19)

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Who doesn't like to receive real mail? You know, snail mail, the paper-and-envelope type. And the rarer it gets, the more special it becomes. I received a card the other day from a dear friend who ministers to people by sending them encouraging card notes.   

The same day I received her sweet card, I read the news that stamp prices will be going up yet again. I don't even know what a stamp costs now. That's part of the insidious scheme of the "forever" stamps: to keep us in ignorance of how much we're actually paying.   

Aren't you glad that mail to Heaven is still free? Or, rather, that Someone Else has paid the cost of that postage for us. I introduced George Herbert's poem "The Bag" in a previous blog, but only quoted from the first part of the poem: the Incarnation description. The second half of the poem (stanzas 3-6) picks up after Christ has died, accomplishing his mission in the crucifixion:

But as he was returning, there came one          

     That ran upon him with a spear.          

     He, who came hither all alone,          

     Bringing nor man, nor arms, nor fear,          

     Receiv’d the blow upon his side,

And straight he turn’d, and to his brethren cry’d, 

If ye have any thing to send or write,          

     I have no bag, but here is room:          

     Unto my Fathers hands and sight,          

     Beleeve me, it shall safely come.          

     That I shall minde, what you impart;

Look, you may put it very neare my heart. 

Or if hereafter any of my friends          

     Will use me in this kinde, the doore          

     Shall still be open; what he sends          

     I will present, and somewhat more,          

     Not to his hurt.  Sighs will convey

Any thing to me.  Harke, Despair away.*

      

What ties in the rest of "The Bag" with my theme today is its metaphysical conceit (or somewhat far-fetched extended metaphor). As is often the case with Herbert, the poem's title reveals its controlling metaphor: Christ is like a mailbag worn by a messenger (like a postman), delivering our mail to God.   

His incarnate flesh is the bag, its opening the slit in his side produced by the Roman soldier's spear. Like the postman, Christ calls for our mail, for his job is to be the Mediator between God and men (1 Timothy 2), making intercession for the transgressors (Isaiah 53:12). He keeps our requests, writes Herbert, near his heart, and will deliver them safely to the Recipient.(How's that for  certified mail?)   

We have One who not only guarantees us access to God, but will add his "somewhat more" (last stanza) to our requests. Both now and "hereafter," Christ is the true forever stamp.

* “The Bag” quote from Christian Classics Ethereal Library

One Reason I Teach the Wife of Bath's Tale (GH Day 18)

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I was listening to an old sermon from my pastor today and at the same time contemplating the exam I’m giving my British Literature Survey class over medieval literature. My pastor was preaching on Christ’s “emptying himself,” as described in Philippians 2, and how Christ, in doing so, chose to give up his powerful, exalted position in Heaven in order to assume a fleshly form and live a life of poverty. As an example of just how humbled Christ was in the Incarnation, my pastor referenced Matthew’s account of Jesus, who, unlike the foxes with dens and birds with nests, had no place to lay his head. In this way, Jesus in his earthly life was humbled even below these animals.

What struck me was that these are the same two passages I had referenced last week in teaching Geoffrey Chaucer’s Wife of Bath’s Tale. Further, that Jesus chose to give up his exalted place and humble himself in the Incarnation is what Chaucer’s tale emphasizes as well, and now I think I understand better how the example of Jesus’ choice not only functions within the tale, but serves as a spiritual lesson for the tale’s readers (past and present).

Here’s the passage from Phil. 2:

Your attitude should be the same as that of Christ Jesus:

Who, being in very nature God,

did not consider equality with God

something to be grasped,

but made himself nothing,

taking the very nature of a servant,

being made in human likeness.

And being found in appearance as a man,

he humbled himself

and became obedient to death—

even death on a cross! (5-8)

The context is that of selfishness and disunity in the church: “in humility consider others better than yourselves,” writes Paul (3).

This is the lesson that the knight in Chaucer’s Wife of Bath’s Tale needs to learn. He has been married off to an old woman as a punishment of sorts and now objects to her being poor and of a low class. Hiding behind his aristocratic origins, the knight refuses to be in a union with this woman who is so obviously (in his and society’s minds) beneath him. In answer to his objections to her, the ugly old woman cites the example of Jesus:

The hye God, on whom that we bileve,

In willful povert chees to live his lyf.

And certes evry man, mayden, or wyf,

May understonde that Jesus, hevene king,

Ne wolde nat chese a vicious living.

If God the Son, Heaven’s King, chose (the woman uses this word twice) to give up his high position in order to live a life of poverty, states the woman, than to be poor must not be a bad thing. If it was good enough for Jesus, then it should be good enough for this knight that his new wife comes from a poor, low-class background. Furthermore, the implication is that the knight, who is of the highest class in medieval society, should take the example of Jesus and humble himself, letting go of his selfishness and his class prejudices, to consider this ugly, old woman above himself.

The lesson is just as applicable for us as for Chaucer’s readers or Paul’s readers. Why is it so hard to humble ourselves for the sake of others as the high God did for us? And, yet, it is as hard for us often times as it is for the knight before the low-class woman in Chaucer’s tale (which has a happy ending, by the way—it’s amazing what mutual yielding and a bit of fairy dust can do).

But what does this have to do with George Herbert, you’ve been wondering? Well, because every time I think of Christ’s kenosis in Philippians 2, I think of imagery from Herbert’s poem “The Bag,” in which Christ’s descending from Heaven to Earth in the Incarnation is depicted as a disrobing of the “God of power” (stanza 2). He begins riding through the heavens, clothed in “His majestic robes of glory,” but “one day / He did descend, undressing all the way” (stanza 2). In the next stanza he continues descending, disrobing as he goes:

The stars His ‘tire of light and rings obtained,

    The cloud his bow, the fire His spear,

    The sky His azure mantle gained;

    And when they asked what He would wear,

    He smiled, and said as He did go,

He had new clothes a-making here below (stanza 3).

The Lord throws his weapons of war and his finery onto the stars and other inhabitants of the heavens as one would toss trousers and shirt onto an obliging chair. I’m reminded once again of Chaucer’s knight in The Wife of Bath’s Tale, who stands in the bedroom without his shining armor, coat of arms, and clothing made of fine fabrics as he is confronted by his ugly wife. After all, bedtime is a leveler of classes: peasant and prince both look the same in a humble nightgown.

But back to Christ’s much greater humbling: the “God of power” having shed his attire continues to descend:

When He was come, as travelers are wont,

    He did repair unto an inn.

    Both then, and after, many a brunt

    He did endure to cancel sin;

    And having given the rest before,

Here He gave up His life to pay our score (stanza 4).

From riding majestically in the heavens, God the Son descends to a humble inn, and, having given up his glory, he gives up what remains, his life, for our sake.

What else is there to say?  

The Limits of Book-Learning (GH Day 17)

I love books, which is no doubt rather obvious: just look at my blog title. I read the great books, of course (usually to teach them), but I also read books of information--you know, the self-help-ish type. If only books were all we need to have all of the answers about life. Wouldn't that be simple and time-efficient? Sadly, despite all the advice out there, no book can actually tell me how to write my current academic article or how to be organized all the time or how in the world to find a spouse.

Probably my favorite stanza from George Herbert's poem "Affliction (1)" (one of 5 poems named "Affliction" in The Temple) expresses this kind of frustration and more:

Now I am here, what Thou wilt do with me
          None of my books will show:
I read, and sigh, and wish I were a tree,—
          For sure then I should grow
To fruit or shade; at least some bird would trust
Her household to me, and I should be just. (stanza10)

Samuel Johnson by Joshua Reynolds (

Huntington Library, CA)

Herbert's speaker here feels thwarted and therefore useless in his life. Surely we've all felt that way: the things we've sought after, desired, worked toward have not come to fruition, and now we're "lost," aimless. So now what, we wonder? That's the point where the speaker is in this poem. (I'll have to go into other parts of the long-ish poem at a later time.)

Feeling  thwarted and useless, the speaker somewhat humorously wishes he were not a human, but a tree. Why? Trees have an obvious function and literal + figurative direction of growth. They can't have a different trajectory in their lives (can't decide to try out life as a dandelion or an armadillo, for instance), and it must be nice to have an exact destiny and use: bearing fruit to nourish or a place to nest. In some way contributing to life and the lives of other creatures.

Interestingly, "I am here" is similar to what Isaiah's response to his calling is: "here am I, Lord" (Is 6:8). So, is Herbert's speaker offering himself up for service to "what Thou wilt do with me," or is Herbert's reversal of Isaiah's wording significant? In other words, a factual statement, but not an attitude of readiness. The final stanza in the poem suggests this speaker, suffering through affliction of both body and soul, is not yet ready to submit himself to the Lord--that is, until perhaps the last 2, admittedly ambiguous lines:

Yet, though Thou troublest me, I must be meek;  
          In weakness must be stout.
Well, I will change the service, and go seek
          Some other master out.
Ah, my dear God, though I am clean forgot,
Let me not love Thee, if I love Thee not. (stanza 11)

Still in a position of struggling to find answers, the speaker seems finally to yield: his ultimate desire is to love and serve God, despite affliction and even despite feeling strongly that God has abandoned him (a sentiment not uncommon in the Psalms--see Ps 22, for example). It's frustrating not to have all--or sometimes any--of the answers for why our often good ambitions are thwarted, but "I am here," and, to re-organize Herbert's words into an imperative, "do what Thou wilt with me."

The Philosopher's Stone (GH Day 16)

I'm quite fond of the Harry Potter series. Currently, I'm listening to the first book, Harry Potter and the Sorceror's Stone (the misnamed American title), on audiobook in my car. In that book, Harry, Ron, and Hermione learn that the philosopher's stone (the book's original, more appropriate name) has two desirable properties: (1) it turns base metals to gold and (2) it is used to create the elixir of life, which can grant immortality to the one who drinks it.

In this first Harry Potter book, J. K. Rowling drew from a long history in literature and the early natural sciences regarding the search for this mythical, miraculous philosopher's stone. George Herbert, nearly 400 years earlier, draws upon this same imagery for the central metaphor of his poem, "The Elixir." Here's the text from Luminarium.org:

THE ELIXIR.                       
TEACH me, my God and King,
In all things Thee to see,
And what I do in anything,
To do it as for Thee.

Not rudely, as a beast,
To run into action ;
But still to make Thee prepossest,
And give it his* perfection.

A man that looks on glass,
On it may stay his eye,
Or, if he pleaseth, through it pass,
And then the heav'n espy.

All may of Thee partake ;
Nothing can be so mean
Which with his* tincture (for Thy sake)
Will not grow bright and clean.

A servant with this clause
Makes drudgery divine :
Who sweeps a room as for Thy laws,
Makes that and th' action fine.

This is the famous stone
That turneth all to gold ;
For that which God doth touch and own
Cannot for less be told.  

*Note that "his" both times should probably be translated "its."

Playing with the two benefits of the philosopher's stone and melding them into one, Herbert as poet-alchemist also transmutes a physical object providing tangible benefits into an attitude of the mind and heart yielding spiritual benefits.

The spiritual attitude that becomes the key to kingdom living is introduced for us in the first and second stanzas: seeing God in everything and keeping that perspective foremost in our minds. This overview is followed in stanza 3 by an analogy illustrating the concept: looking at the window versus looking through or beyond the window is like looking at our task versus seeing beyond it to the attitude we have while performing the task. We can have just the glass in front of our noses, or we can have "heaven" (line 12).

The words "mean" and "tincture" in stanza 4 take some clarification, and I find this to be the least lucid stanza. "Mean" is not an attitude, but refers to something low or base and is a hierarchical classification (e.g., a mean and humble cottage versus a grand palace). "Tincture" is an alchemical term. Helen Wilcox's note in her English Poems of George Herbert references the OED definition: "a spiritual principle infused into material things," probably, Wilcox comments, alluding to the sacraments, through which we may "partake" of Christ (line 13). I also think that "partake" applies to partaking of the divine perspective that forms the central idea of the poem and is the "famous stone" (line 21).    

Herbert follows his earlier analogy with the example in stanza 5 of sweeping a room, a mundane task that is like a base metal. An attitude of doing the task for God (1 Corinthians 10:31) is like the philosopher's stone: our mundane task can be turned into a "golden" one with the perspective that we're working heartily unto the Lord (Colossians 3:23).

It's a perspective that keeps the eternal in focus, reminding us that Jesus said he came into the world that we might have life and have it more abundantly. If we let him "own" us (line 23), he will turn us, through the process of sanctification and the renewing of our minds (Romans 12:2), into gold. 

"Words, words, words"* (GH Day 15)

I am just too impatient to be an adequate crafter of words, to wrack my brain and rummage through my wordhoard to find the absolute best term to fit the meaning I want. Yet yesterday, working on a paper abstract, I tried to do just that. I scanned over the same sentences again and again until I had started second-guessing myself and looked up the dictionary definitions and possible synonyms for nearly every major word in my abstract. It drove me crazy, and I finally threw in the towel. "Oh, well--it's good enough!" And off the conference abstract went via email.

I've previously written about George Herbert's professed struggles with his poetic language. His problem was a bit different from mine (trying to write something good enough for God), but not too far off. I also struggle with writing something "good enough" (for others whose opinion I either value or fear and for God as well): "For whether you eat or drink or whatever you do, do it all for the glory of God" (1 Cor  10:31).

There's a stanza I'd like to focus on from the middle of Herbert's poem "Jordan (2)" (courtesy of www.ccel.org), which I think describes well the situation of the writer struggling to glorify God with her or his output:

Jordan (II)

WHen first my lines of heav’nly joyes made mention, Such was their lustre, they did so excell, That I sought out quaint words and trim invention; My thoughts began to burnish, sprout, and swell, Curling with metaphors a plain intention, Decking the sense, as if it were to sell. Thousands of notions in my brain did runne, Off’ring their service, if I were not sped: I often blotted what I had begunne; This was not quick enough, and that was dead. Nothing could seem too rich to clothe the sunne, Much lesse those joyes which trample on his head. As flames do work and winde, when they ascend, So did I weave my self into the sense. But while I bustled, I might heare a friend Whisper, How wide is all this long pretence! There is in love a sweetnesse readie penn’d; Copie out onely that, and save expense.

In the poem, the speaker perceives his poetic verse to have begun well, with lustrous lines that seemed appropriate to describe his "heavenly joys" (ll. 1-2). But the poet tries to go further and make his poetry more complicated than it perhaps needs to be, adding all kinds of bells and whistles, as if, he admits, he were trying to "sell" something (6) insincerely, like a mountebank.

What writer does not battle all the ideas swirling around in her/his head? Who doesn't scratch out and rewrite and scratch out again? The goal for Herbert here is language with enough vibrancy and vitality to be an adequate complement (and compliment) to a living Lord, yet "[n]othing could seem to rich to clothe the sun" (11).

I witnessed a lovely sunset last night. The sun was the one giving rich colors to the surroundings (the clouds, sea, sky, etc.), not the other way around. How could any "clothing" be a match for the brilliance of the sun? It will always outshine whatever attempts to cover it. And the Son (Herbert's wordplay is intentional) will always outshine our offered efforts at the best wordsmithing we can do. Herbert always seems to reach this conclusion: it's the motive, the love for God, that counts, not the "pretense" (16).

Perhaps it's best to reduce time spent "bustling" lest we miss the "whisper" (15-16).


* Title quote is from Hamlet   
  

We’re having a heat wave . . . (GH Day 13)

Grrr! My air conditioning has been out for 3 days, and, needless to say, that means I’ve been battling the incessant heat.

On that note, I think it’s time to bring forth one of George Herbert’s earliest poems, a sonnet that at age 16 he apparently sent to his mother, basically announcing his intention to become a devotional poet. Luminarium.org supplies the text:

[Sonnet (I)]             

My God, where is that ancient heat towards thee,     Wherewith whole showls of Martyrs once did burn,     Besides their other flames? Doth Poetry Wear Venus livery? only serve her turn? Why are not Sonnets made of thee? and layes     Upon thine Altar burnt? Cannot thy love     Heighten a spirit to sound out thy praise As well as any she? Cannot thy Dove Out-strip their Cupid easily in flight?     Or, since thy wayes are deep, and still the same,     Will not a verse run smooth that bears thy name! Why doth that fire, which by thy power and might     Each breast does feel, no braver fuel choose     Than that, which one day, Worms, may chance refuse?

The young Herbert here plays with the images of martyrs burned at the stake, worshippers offering sacrifices to the gods, and love poems written by a man burning with passion for the woman of his dreams.

In lines 1-3 the poet wonders where the zeal for God has gone. After all, once upon a time whole schools of martyrs (“showls” = schools) were willing to be burned at the stake rather than renounce their faith or doctrine.

He shifts quickly in line 3 to poetry and its purpose. By “Wear Venus’ livery” Herbert means verse solely being used for secular love poems. Line 5 brings the sonnet to its point: Many poems are written about love, so why aren’t poems written about God?

The following lines compare and contrast the subject of secular love poems (“any she”) with the ultimate love interest: God Himself. “Thy Dove” is the Holy Spirit, while “their Cupid” represents the inspiration for secular love poems.

In lines 10-11, the poet argues that a poem written about God can certainly make for good poetry. There’s plenty of depth to plumb (“Thy ways are deep”), and His constancy (“still the same”) should make for a smoother verse.

Finally, in the last 3 lines, Herbert brings his sonnet back to the “burning up” theme with which he began: God is the one who has made us capable of passion, so why not direct that passion toward poems about Him, since flesh and blood will decay, but He lasts forever?

Thankfully, the talented George Herbert fulfilled this ambition, leaving for us the clever and pious poems of The Temple.