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George Herbert Week (IV) The Brittle Crazie Glasse of the Preacher

The Victorians knew how to produce a book as a work of craftsmanship. I have three very different old editions of Herbert's poems. Here is one of them published in MDCCCLXV – that would be 1865.

To be honest, I now discipline myself not to buy others and it would take something very special to tempt me to buy yet another edition.

I mean, I have the Cambridge critical edition which is a simply fabulous production, replete with learning and edited by someone whoknows the poems both intimately and critically;

the Everyman hardcover which also has fine notes, an excellent introduction and is produced in a series renowned for quality paper, printing and binding;

Tobin's Penguin edition is now 20 years old but remains a good, handy reference.

Patrides' older Everyman paperback is still the one I carry around and the most annotated of the ones I own;

even the small Everman pocket edition is a lovely volume, and the one I use when I read Love (III) at Communion.

And then there are the three Victorian editions.

For years now Herbert has been for me both a research interest and a favourite source of spiritual and intellectual stimulus. I've plenty other poetry interests but for reasons not easily explained Herbert is the one I have pursued with most energy, and is certainly the poet on whom I've read the most scholarly literature – (and spent the most money)

Here's one of my favourite Herbert poems – as a study of the spiritual psychology of the preacher, and the pastoral theology of preaching it offers a quite different take from the homiletical plot, narrative theology, post-modern hermeneutics and contemporary expressions of informal and IT communication. Instead it honours humility, reverence, availability to the light that shines through the brittle crazie glass that is the preacher, a window of grace. The appeal is to the conscience, the heart, the will – yes, Herbert understood the transformative core of faithful, and faith-filled preaching.

             THE WINDOWS.

LORD, how can man preach thy eternall word ?

He is a brittle crazie glasse :

Yet in thy temple thou dost him afford

This glorious and transcendent place,

To be a window, through thy grace.

But when thou dost anneal in glasse thy storie,

Making thy life to shine within

The holy Preachers, then the light and glorie

More rev'rend grows, and more doth win ;

Which else shows watrish, bleak, and thin.

Doctrine and life, colours and light, in one

When they combine and mingle, bring

A strong regard and aw :  but speech alone

Doth vanish like a flaring thing,

And in the eare, not conscience ring.

15 August 2013
Wildlife at Westhill – All Creatures Great and Small.

As an interval during George Herbert week here are a couple of photos taken at opportune moments. The first is of a young Sparrow Hawk which collided at speed with our glass patio doors.

It came round from unconsciousness, got to its feet, swayed drunkenly for a minute, looked me straight in the eye and said, "Where the H*** did that come from?"

And after this stunned adolescent learner flier recovered, and tidied up its language, it had a look at itself in the glass and thought, " Lookin' good – but won't do that again!"

Then early this morning I looked out the same patio windows and saw the biggest crane fly in the world flying over our house. (better known as daddy long legs)

Daddy Longlegs

By Ted Kooser from Flying at Night Poems, 1965-85, Pittsburgh Press.

Here, on fine long legs springy as steel,

a life rides, sealed in a small brown pill

that skims along over the basement floor

wrapped up in a simple obsession.

Eight legs reach out like the master ribs

of a web in which some thought is caught

dead center in its own small world,

a thought so far from the touch of things

that we can only guess at it. If mine,

it would be the secret dream

of walking alone across the floor of my life

with an easy grace, and with love enough

to live on at the center of myself.

This daddy long legs wasn't walking on a basement floor – it was attached to the patio doors spreadeagled as if pinned by an entomologist. Such fragile transience.

15 August 2013
George Herbert Week (iii) Trust, the Fusion of Humility and Confidence

(George Herbert's Church, Bemerton)

George Herbert's hymns are so old fashioned they are almost forgotten, not just out of favour but out of sync with
current taste and preference. His poem King of Glory, King of Peace recalls a spiritual atmosphere and
intensity of devotion requiring more of us than our usual contemporary
attempts at dumbed down intimacy and informal conversation with One who is Holy
Love, both transcendent and immediate.

It's a hymn best sung in a cathedral, a place where beauty and light, architecture and acoustics, give visual and aural expression to the same sentiments of devotion. And it should be sung with that restrained politeness that in Anglican spirituality comes near
to the spiritual quality of courtesy and quiet gratefulness, not
spiritually greedy or emotionally ambitious, but showing that quality of
balance that makes Herbert's poetry such a fine example of what he
himself called "my utmost art".

The structure of the poem is both simple and flawless; the rhythm is as easy as breathing; the only word of more than two syllables is 'eternity's', and it's always reckless to assume such conceits are unintended in Herbert – the longest word for the vastest concept; Praise, thankgiving, petition, confession and dedication are forms of prayer represented in lines that are brief arrows of devotion; and the encounter is intimate without being familiar, the personal pronouns of address showing the fusion of humility and confidence, which together make up trust. It is a beautiful hymn, a technically brilliant poem, and one of my favourite personal prayers:

King of glory, King of peace,

I will love thee;

and that love may never cease,

I will move thee.

Thou hast granted my request,

thou hast heard me;

thou didst note my working breast,

thou hast spared me.

Wherefore with my utmost art

I will sing thee,

and the cream of all my heart

I will bring thee.

Though my sins against me cried,

thou didst clear me;

and alone, when they replied,

thou didst hear me.

Seven whole days, not one in seven,

I will praise thee;

in my heart, though not in heaven,

I can raise thee.

Small it is, in this poor sort

to enroll thee:

e'en eternity's too short

to extol thee.

14 August 2013
George Herbert Week (ii) Making Drudgery Divine

Amongst the more amusing forms of serendipity is to do a search on Amazon. A search for the more recent books published on George Herbert is a case in point. As well as the 17th Century priest poet there are works by the American social philosopher and psychologist George Herbert Mead, himself an influential thinker around areas of pragmatism and social behaviour. The juxtaposition of Anglican country parson and a philospher contemporary with Tiffany Glass and Art Nouveau is odd enough. But then a few items further down come books about George Herbert Walker Bush, previous President of the United States, and father of the other George W Bush who was also U S President, and the inevitable collision of ideas that happen when world views are a couple of universes away from each other.

I'll get to the point in a minute. Amongst my favourite books on the Bible and Art is Painting the Word by John Drury. That is a fine book which opened up a lot of windows when I was trying to get a handle on the role of Art as a form of biblical exegesis and as evidence of how biblical texts were received and interpreted through the centuries. So when I put in George Herbert and came across the social philosopher and the two previous Presidents, I also discovered that John Drury has a full length monograph coming on the poetry of George Herbert. The description on Amazon says:

For the first time, John Drury convincingly integrates the life and poetry of George Herbert, giving us in Music at Midnight the definitive biography of the man behind some of the most famous poems in the English Language.

That I think is saying too much too soon. Others have convincingly integrated the life and poetry of Herbert, including Amy Charles, Helen Vendler and my favourite by James Boyd White, "This Booke of Starres". Still, a New Testament scholar who is immersed in Christian Art and Christian text, and who has spent decades reading and working through Herebrt's "The Temple", is a good choice of critic and expositor. So I'm looking forward to reading this latest addition to some of the more thoughtful and accessible treatments of Herbert's "utmost art".

Here's another of the better known poems, familiar to those who still sing old hymns, and for whom daily holiness is found in the ordinary services and courtesies of human exchange:

Teach me, my God and King,

in all things thee to see,

and what I do in anything

to do it as for thee.

A man that looks on glass,

on it may stay his eye;

or if he pleaseth, through it pass,

and then the heaven espy.

All may of thee partake;

nothing can be so mean,

which with this 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 the 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.

13 August 2013
George Herbert Week: (i) Quaint complexity and Spiritual Intensity

The quaint complexity, spiritual inensity and metaphysical reach of George Herbert's poetry have made him one of the most popular devotional poets in the English tradition of religious poetry. In the 19th Century he was printed and re-printed in all kinds of editions, from the leatherbound deluxe to the small popular fit in your pocket devotionals. I have several copies, of various ages and values, and I try to resist the temptation to pick up others as they are published, or older ones with their copper plate illustrations, extravagant fonts and decorated pages.

The critical edition by Helen Wilcox, published by Cambridge a few years ago, and costing an arm and a leg in hardback ( in my case a gift from Sheila) but mercifully now available at an affordable paperback, is definitive. The introduction, critical notes and comments demonstrate the editor's easy expertise in the history, culture and religious thought of the 17th Century, and as a reader who loves the poetry enough to be a true critic – wise, informed, erudite and generous in the rich flow of information and comment.

The Everyman Edition is a lovely volume, as the new Everyman volumes are – clothbound, high quality paper, clear print in a good sized font, and again good introduction and notes full of information. And in hardback at £12.99 almost one tenth!! of the cost of the hardback Cambridge Edition.

The Editor is Ann Pasternak Slater – her middle name one of the celebrated names of Russian literature – she is Boris Pasternak's niece. Describing Herbert's capacity to take ordinary things and discern eternal significance, and commenting on his phrase 'heaven in ordinarie', she says, "The commonplace is not merely capable of sanctity; it is what can most easily explain the transcendent to us".

Only a few of Herbert's poems are anthologised these days; understandable for a writer whose every line is resonant with biblical words, ideas and associations, and whose every other line alludes to Christian experience, or classical reference, or theological or liturgical connections. Take the poem below; replete with suggestion yet no active verb – he never says what prayer IS. But every clause is a facet glinting with possibility and hesitant insight. If you know it, enjoy it. If you haven't come across it before, enjoy it. Maybe, when all is said and done, the most we should hope for in our prayers is that there is "something understood."

Prayer (I)

Prayer, the Church's banquet, Angels' age,

God's breath in man returning to his birth,

The soul in paraphrase, heart in pilgrimage,

The Christian plummet sounding heav'n and earth;

Engine against th' Almighty, sinner's tower,

Reversed thunder, Christ-side-piercing spear,

The six-days'-world transposing in an hour,

A kind of tune, which all things hear and fear;

Softness, and peace, and joy, and love, and bliss,

Exalted manna, gladness of the best,

Heaven in ordinary, man well dressed,

The milky way, the bird of Paradise,

Church bells beyond the stars heard, the soul's blood,

The land of spices, something understood.

12 August 2013
A morning on Scolty Hill, and Reflection on God’s Ridiculous Profusion.

Scolty Hill gives a panoramic view of Deeside, and now and then we go walking up there as a bit of wider horizon scanning. In other words it helps with life perspective when you stand on higher ground and pay attention to all that's around you.

Then there are the colours. A symphony in purple – heather, thistle, fox glove – with the cantus firmus of green. This is taken looking up the hill, and a panoramic photo would show the same vision of colours blending, contrasting and complementing.

And then two of my favourite things to look at, touch and smell – a Scotch Pine, covered in lichen. The smell part was about the exposed root, oozing pine sap, its smell sharp, clean, spicy and head clearing. Forget disinfectant – this is an aroma that for me is as satisfying and evocative as brewing coffee. And lichen the coplour of pale jade is one of the most beautifully crafted random patterns.

All of this adds up to a day when prayer is about paying attention, praise is having our eyes opened to the mystery of the ordinary and thanksgiving to wonder at the gift of moments and minutes simply to enjoy. The doctrine of creation in Genesis and the Psalms and Isaiah and the Sermon on the Mount is not a bone of scientific or theological controversy and contention; instead it is the theological framework within which we see the handwork of God, intimations of a presence not always obvious, and a recognition that we as human beings belong within the richer more humbling context of God's creative and redeeming love.

Amongst the most wonderful moments on a walk like this is when you come to a ditch, and amidst the profusion and extravagance of a Scottish moor covered in heather, thistles, ferns, bracken, trees in seedling and mature forms, there are amongst the generality, specific and particular displays of beauty there for the seeing. The photo is the right way up, the flower growing out horizontally. " Look at the flowers of the field…..they neither toil nor spin…but not even Solomon shopping on Fifth Avenue with limitless credit is clothed anything like this."

11 August 2013
Lost in Translation: Ephesians 1.11

Language is a funny thing – and a very serious thing. Words never convey exactly 'the thing in itself'. But then if two people use the same word, it will resonate with different tones and notes depending on experience, personal usage, accepted meaning and much else. It gets more complex translating words into another language where none of the foregoing can be assumed, and where questions of accuracy oscillate between literal and dynamic equivalents. Add to that a gap of two thousand years and a cultural gulf between Greco-Roman and Postmodern Western civilisations and ways of life, and translation becomes pure dead complicated. (Pure dead is a compound adjective used in the West of Scotland for 'very', as in its phonetic use puredeadbrilliant) Oh, and by the way, I have a friend who also uses the term 'pure disgrace' as his ultimate term of moral opprobrium by oxymoron.

Anyway, I was reading Stephen Fowl's commentary on Ephesians, and his translation of verse 11a. I'm used to the phrase, 'In Christ we have an inheritance….' Fowl translates 'In Christ we have an allottment…'. a long footnote justifies this choice of word because 'it does not invoke the image of passing on property through death.' The commentary explains this further, quite persuasively. However. Language is a funny thing. The word 'allottment' may not invoke the inheritance theme, but to one brought up in the West of Scotland it certainly evokes the image of a fertile vegetable allottment. Those collective squares of quilted horticulture, 10 metres square or so, have been so important in staving off starvation, and then during the two World Wars providing fresh produce, and now husbanded by many an amateur gardener. You can read the history of the British Allottment movement here. Of course land development has bulldozed over many of them, to build yet more business opportunities. But the word allottment is still a powerfully evocative word for soil cultivation, food production and many a productive hour of gentle labour.

I will forego the children's talk formula, "That's a bit like Jesus…. In Jesus we have an allottment." But I think I'll have to retrain my mind if I'm to manage to read this verse in Fowl's translation without the extraneous connotations of something entirely different. Which of course is one of the major headaches for a translator – what seems fitting and appropriate to one mind, seems strange to another, because, well, words do not contain all the resonances and associations from one mind to another. Stephen Fowl in Baltimore, Maryland, cannot possibly be expected to know that his chosen word when heard by Scottish ears evokes very different images.

That aside, I think Fowl's commentary is puredeadbrilliant. :))

The photo of allottments is by Kate Davies whose own blog you can find here. I hope you don't mind its reproduction here Kate.

9 August 2013
Theological Reflection on a Frog.

We have a new addition to our family, defined as the various denizens who live in and around our house. In the wee pond at the foot fo the garden we now have a resident frog. Andrew who is the acquaculture expert around here dug a small 18 inch hole, planted it with water plants and marsh plants and created a mini-ecosystem which our frog clearly approves.

My favourite nature poet, John Clare, had a sensitive and compassionate understanding of creaturely life. His poetry reveals his intimate knowledge and alert experience of nature around him. His bird poems are amongst the best in our language. His poem Summer Evening, which I've quoted below, shows just how observant, sympathetic and "green" Clare was, a couple of centuries before any of us caught up with his way of looking at the world around us. More than most he saw human activity as despoiling, threatening and wasteful of nature's gifts, and understood human behaviour to be more about replenishing the earth rather than dominating it. Sure he recognised that nature has its cruelties and necessities; but these are natural in a way that human activity is not; manufacturing on an industrial scale, a free for all for the earth's resources of land, minerals, forests and wood, fossil fuels, tolerance of polluted oceans, and addiction to processes that accelerate climate change. Human greed is one of the original sins and is the primary ingredient in the setting agent that enables us to build structural sins into the machinery and plant of the human economy. The last two lines of Clare's poem capture exactly the inward groan of a looted creation awaiting its redemption.

John Clare didn't live to see the full impact of the Industrial Revolution. But for his illness he might have been a David Attenborough though, or at least a presenter on Countryfile. In any case, he would have smiled and nodded appreciatively at Andrew's handiwork, and the provision of a purpose built home for our frog.

Summer Evening

The frog half fearful jumps across the path,
And little mouse that leaves its hole at eve
Nimbles with timid dread beneath the swath;
My rustling steps awhile their joys deceive,
Till past, and then the cricket sings more strong,
And grasshoppers in merry moods still wear
The short night weary with their fretting song.
Up from behind the molehill jumps the hare,
Cheat of his chosen bed, and from the bank
The yellowhammer flutters in short fears
From off its nest hid in the grasses rank,
And drops again when no more noise it hears.
Thus nature's human link and endless thrall,
Proud man, still seems the enemy of all.

John Clare

8 August 2013
“A non religious language…but liberating and redeeming”; Bonhoeffer’s Advice to the 21st Century Western Church

"The day will come …when people will once more be called to speak the word of God in such a way that the world is changed and renewed. It will be in a new language, perhaps quite non-religious language, but liberating and redeeming, like Jesus' language, so that people will be alarmed. and yet overcome by its power – the language of a new righteousness and truth, a language proclaiming that God makes peace with humankind and that God's kingdom is drawing near."

"The most important question for the future is how we are going to find a basis for living together with other people, what spiritual realities and rules we honour as the foundations for a meaningful Christian life."

These words were written by Bonhoeffer a year or so before Bonhoeffer was executed. They seem to me to be an important comment on the words of jesus, spoken a year or so before he was executed, "I have come that you might have life, and have life in all its fullness."

This identification with Jesus is spelt out further in another of Bonhoeffer's letters: "Our relationship to God is no 'religious' relationship to some highest, most powerful and best being imaginable – that is no genuine transcendence. Instead, our relationship to God is a new life in 'being there for others,' through participation in the being of Jesus."

"Liberating and redeeming like Jesus' language". If only Jesus' ambassadors could echo the tone and content of Jesus' language, words formed and gifted by grace to set free and make possible a new and renewed beginning. "The whole creation groans awaiting its redemption", and that was as clear to Bonhoeffer in his cell, when his life was forfeit, his family at risk, his nation embroiled in a fight to the death and its military responsible for mass death by blitz, Holocaust and the madness of power. His words were written and his thought shaped by concern for what the church would be, and need to be, in a post-war world.

As Clifford green comments, quoting Bonhoeffer further, "The overall emphasis is on service, not domination, on demonstrating by example what new life in Christ means, of speaking with 'moderation, authenticity, trust, faithfulness, steadfastness, patience, discipline, humility, modesty, contentment.'" The italics are mine, because these ten words provide a barcode for ecclesial speech, Christian witness, a discipleship that so shapes emotion, will, and thought, that what is articulated in words is recognisably, and startlingly reminiscent of Jesus.

They may be one of the vital clues to what disqualifies the church from the attention of a secular, post-modern culture. Speech that is self-excusing and self-defensive yet critical and judgemental of "the other", the world; on too many occasions words that are carefully chosen as if witness was a synonym for diplomacy; unchristian attitudes of moral superiority, betraying a profound unawareness that is itself sin at its most toxic; and pervasive in the language and apologetics of the church, a fear and anxiety of the world of culture and technology, an ambivalence about human progress and human crisis; and most tragic of all, the gradual disappearance over time of Jesus Christ as the living centre of the church and the dynamic source of Christian life, thought and action.

In a prison cell, facing his own death, looking to a future he would not see, Boinhoeffer wrote letters to his friend containing seeds and seedlings of some of the most crucial ideas required for the Church facing a world where assumptions of religious commitment could no longer hold, and in which the status quo of religious institutions and their influence and power would disappear. In both senses his words were prophetic – speaking into the future, and speaking necessary truth inspired by the Spirit of God.

Amongst the miracles of providence, was the relationship established between Bonhoeffer and Corporal Knobloch, a member of the guard detail in Tegel Interrogation Prison. But for Corporal Knobloch, the letters to Eberhard Bethge would not have survived, may not even have been written. By such coincidences of providence, the gates of Hell shall not prevail…..

7 August 2013
Hiroshima, August 6, 1945 ; And a Mother and Children’s prayers

When all the arguments are stated and heard, whether military, strategic, historic, or even moral, I am much more persuaded by the theological solemnity of the late George Macleod's contention that atomic warfare is a blasphemous abuse of God's creation and of nature's energy.

The photo is of a mother and children praying for surviving victims 68 years on from the dropping of the atomic bomb on Hiroshima. The only nation on earth that has been attacked with nuclear weapons speaks and acts with a different authority when addressing the problem of nuclear weapons, human fallibility and our capacity as humans to self destruct. Such voices can never be on the side of deterrence; they are on the side of peace.

For myself, I too want to place my hands together, and love this world with all its brokenness and possibility, and hold a wounded creation before the loving Creator, and align my hope and trust with my faith in the God of resurrection whose gift is life, and whose light is not the blinding flash of nuclear death, but the brilliance of love magnified by the splendour of holiness, earthing its energy and power in our world in the stable, the cross and the empty tomb.

And my favourite prophet points to an alternative reality:

Come let us go up to the mountain of the Lord, that we may walk the
paths of the Most High. And we shall beat our swords into ploughshares
and our spears into pruning hooks. Nation shall not lift up sword
against nation – neither shall they learn war any more.
And none shall be afraid, for the mouth of the Lord of Hosts has spoken.

6 August 2013