felix hominum

John Keble’s The Christian Year: Confession & Forgiveness

When John Keble (1792-1866) published a collection of poems in 1827 based on the theme of the Christian year, he chose to remain an anonymous author.  The book, however, proved quite popular, and Keble became well known as a poet in his generation.  Though he was appointed to an Oxford professorship in poetry, he never lost his pastor’s heart.  And while his poetry contains many of the themes of his theological bent, I find the poems to be universal in the way they address some of our deepest spiritual longings, shortcomings and hopes.

For the next little while we will ask Keble to be our guide in the journey through “The Christian Year”.  For those not familiar with the theme, I would simply say that the idea of a liturgical year, a calendar with feasts and fasts and changing seasons is as old as the first prayer for rain, or the first thanks for harvest.

I want to look at Keble’s “The Christian Year” with two views.  First, what does Keble the poet and pastor have to say to our souls?  And second, it strikes me that we live in an age which runs counter to, and is often inimical to, the rhythms of creation and grace – the ways in which God has placed certain patterns into our lives.  It is these rhythms of creation and grace which we resist with our desire to be autonomous, or productive, or yes, even lazy.  So while there are specifics within the poems that are of themselves gems of wisdom, the entire collection calls us examine the patterns of our lives, and ask ourselves if we are being shaped by what another author has called the “rhythms of grace”.  Oddly enough, I am starting with Ash Wednesday, which means that I’m posting in a rather syncopated fashion.  I’ll have snippets, & give links to the full text.

 

Ash Wednesday, by John Keble  (full text here)

 

"Yes--deep within and deeper yet
The rankling shaft of conscience hide,
Quick let the swelling eye forget
The tears that in the heart abide…

 

One of the great frauds of the history of the Christian church is the pretence that we are better than we are.  We all have those “tears that in the heart abide”;  we all have those places, somewhere in the basements of our souls, where stuff is hidden away, hopefully never coming to light.

"The loving eye that watches thine
Close as the air that wraps thee round -
Why in thy sorrow should it pine,
Since never of thy sin it found?
And wherefore should the heathen see
What chains of darkness thee enslave,
And mocking say, 'Lo, this is he
Who owned a God that could not save'?"

 How we forget God’s presence!  I love Keble’s beginning point in this stanza:  “The loving eye that watches thine”.  There is a connection between God and us on at least two levels.  First, that we are under the gaze of God.  We cannot escape His presence, which is as close as the air in which we live, and which we breathe unconsciously.  There is also the wonderful image of God’s eye and our eye. This seems not only a reminder of being made in God’s image, but of the way in which the Incarnation, God-as-Jesus in the flesh, has made this “eyeing” literally true.  The courage to confess comes from understanding who God is, and feeling ourselves under that “loving eye”.

Thus oft the mourner's wayward heart
Tempts him to hide his grief and die,
Too feeble for Confession's smart,
Too proud to bear a pitying eye;

 Now Keble reminds us of the real reasons we do not disclose our faults.  We are perhaps tempted to think that God cannot save, that He cannot forgive.  And instead of confessing, we hide our grief, and die.  Keble also reminds us that it takes a certain spiritual courage and strength to confess.  It might be noted that practice of sacramental, private confession among Anglicans has its roots in Keble and his ilk.  I am reminded of a saying regarding private confession in the Anglican tradition:  “None must, all may, some should”.  Think on that.  But back to Keble’s insight.  We are often too proud to be seen as sinners in the presence of another, even if that other is full of mercy (“Too proud to bear a pitying eye”).  However, it is the one who stays outside who never tastes the feast.  I believe to be often the case that the deeper we experience repentance (however difficult that may be), the deeper we will experience the forgiveness and love of Christ.

How sweet, in that dark hour, to fall
On bosoms waiting to receive
Our sighs, and gently whisper all!
They love us--will not God forgive?
 
Else let us keep our fast within,
Till Heaven and we are quite alone,
Then let the grief, the shame, the sin,
Before the mercy-seat be thrown.
Between the porch and altar weep,
Unworthy of the holiest place,
Yet hoping near the shrine to keep
One lowly cell in sight of grace.

when you run out of birthday ideas for your wife,

just give her a sonnet

Upon Meeting a Lady by the River

Too long I’ve sat beside this stream
Content to watch her waters flow,
While drought diminished summer’s dream
Of currents filled with melting snow.

Meandering curves of gentle grace
Betray the Spring which gave her rise.
The Sun’s reflecting on her face
Bids me approach with lowered eyes.

I will not cross her at the ford,
No shallow waters shall I tread.
Nor bridge across, like some high lord
Who spray and stones and wave will dread.

Her deepest waters I will test
Though there I drown; I’ll find my rest.

happy birthday, Mrs Felix

a boxing day thought

He doesn’t fit
Too small (said some)
Too large (said others): He’ll take up all the space
until there’s no room left for me.

I wonder if there is still time to return Him
In exchange for something more...
comfortable

Sharon's Christmas prayer

She was five,
sure of the facts,
and recited them
with slow solemnity
convinced every word
was revelation.

She said
they were so poor
they had only peanut butter and jelly sandwiches
to eat
and they went a long way from home
without getting lost. The lady rode
a donkey, the man walked, and the baby
was inside the lady.
They had to stay in a stable
with an ox and an ass (hee-hee)
but the Three Rich Men found them
because a star lited the roof.
Shepherds came and you could
pet the sheep but not feed them.
Then the baby was borned.
And do you know who he was?
Her quarter eyes inflated
to silver dollars.
The baby was God.

And she jumped in the air
whirled around, dove into the sofa
and buried her head under the cushion
which is the only proper response
to the Good News of the Incarnation.

– John Shea, The Hour of the Unexpected

I had forgotten how much I loved this poem, until I read it recently on T19.  

thinking of Maundy Thursday; pt 1

"Turn these stones into bread"
I will turn this bread into flesh

"Turn this water into wine"
my hour has not yet come

My hour has come
this wine I turn into blood.

The steward's voice still echoes: 
You have saved the best ‘til now.

Rilke - The Last Supper

The Last Supper

They are assembled, astonished and disturbed
round him, who like a sage resolved his fate,
and now leaves those to whom he most belonged,
leaving and passing by them like a stranger.
The loneliness of old comes over him
which helped mature him for his deepest acts;
now will he once again walk through the olive grove,
and those who love him still will flee before his sight.

To this last supper he has summoned them,
and (like a shot that scatters birds from trees)
their hands draw back from reaching for the loaves
upon his word: they fly across to him;
they flutter, frightened, round the supper table
searching for an escape. But he is present
everywhere like an all-pervading twilight-hour.

Rainer Maria Rilke

On seeing Leonardo da Vinci's "Last Supper", Milan 1904.
Translated by Albert Ernest Flemming

Maundy Thursday, closing up

"If you are the son of God, command these stones to become bread."
        I will turn this bread into flesh.

Turn this water into wine
("woman, my hour has not yet come")

(my hour has now come)
this wine I turn into blood.
    can you hear the steward's voice? 
            again, you have saved the best wine until now

("you shall not eat, for in the day you eat of it, you shall die")
a new commandment:  take eat
drink this, all of you

I am the bread of life

...then again, reviewing what's been posted lately,
there is always this for a sermon illustration

"Unless I wash you, you have no share with me"

 

a prayer is a difficult thing

let us grow old together
you and I
as winter comes to me
for you a summer's eve

no longer remembering
both of us, we may look
and just forget until He
who holds the fullness
remembers both and gives
new life

you remember me
and I you, as you
were meant to be

(I believe in the resurrection of the dead, and the life of the world to come)

Just playin' around with words for a moment.

The connection between Down syndrome and Alzheimer's disease is complex. Studies of the brains of people with Down syndrome reveal that, by the age of 40, almost all develop the brain changes characteristic of Alzheimer's disease... info

I'll be about 75 when SJ is 40. God willing.

I've been asked to write a prayer for parents facing difficult prenatal diagnosis.  It is a difficult thing.  It is difficult to write such a prayer;  it is difficult to hear such news;  it is difficult to pray at such a time.

When the prayer is written, I'll post it.

Matthew 6.26:

Look at the birds of the air; they neither sow nor reap nor gather into barns, and yet your heavenly Father feeds them. Are you not of more value than they?

the rise and fall of christian poets

FOR the last century, serious poetry has been largely secular. Literary types see religion as something literature has gotten over. Poets who fail to vanquish any Christian spirituality beyond what is quaint are usually condemned to "inspirational poetry," except poor old T.S. Eliot. But it's his angst that people take seriously, not his prayer.
LA Times

I have several unsupported and false theses:

a]  there must be people whose calling is to be both poet and Christian
b]  they are not on the best seller list in the local Xian book store because sometimes poetry requires work on the reader's part
c]  if the church were more familiar with poetry, we would have more depth in our reading of scripture
d]  the church has conceded the arena of the arts to the "secular", and chooses to engage only in the realm of science and "facts"
e]  if the church does engage in the arts, it is mainly to force the arts to be a supporting argument for a theological position  (a liturgical dance showing the badness/goodness of my cause)

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

John Donne
Holy Sonnet XIV

A scribe on his way to Jerusalem
thought his words were sure to bamboozle them.
for the metrical word
has never been heard
since the age of the blessed Methusalem.

Joseph Walker
Holy Limerick I
(on second thought, I think I've just proven that I am not this generation's answer to the question; although the article offers a few authors for your consideration)

geography and memory

A number of  years ago I was attending a retreat with some colleagues at Star of the North - a local retreat center.   It was a good event, and during one evening session our speaker brought up the book Adam:  God's Beloved  by Henri Nouwen.   It is the story of Nouwen's time of accompanying a young man with disabilities to the time of the young man's death.

At the time of the retreat Alisa was about 3 months pregnant, and we were looking forward to a younger sibling for E.G.  I was fascinated by the "role" that Adam played in Nouwen's life - joy and sorrow and learning from one who could not even speak, and seeing Christ in a way which cannot be described, but only lived.   As the speaker was concluding his talk, a thought was gathering momentum and presenting itself to my mind.

"This child is your Adam".

Every time I visit that place, I hear clearly the memory of that thought, that "voice" if you will, still speaking to me.  It is full of the memory of a truth which is lived, and which is full of joy and sorrow and learning and seeing Christ in a way which cannot be described but only lived.

Sarah Joy was born on July 29, 2001.   

Sometimes I look at the statistics of life expectancy for persons with her disabilities and medical conditions,
and I think about how old I am,
and wonder if I will bury her
and though there is a kingdom in this world
there is freedom in the next

glorious body

I've heard
(he said)
that they are very happy and content children.
Yes, yes they are. 

For the most part. 
(I've been in the trenches 4 years now - I consider myself a veteran.)
but when they are not, they are inconsolable,
for they cannot tell us where it hurts or why
perhaps they themselves do not even know.

Some folks write about the resurrection from the dead wrought for us by Christ, and what it means to them. 
I have not lately considered what it means to me. 

Rather, I find myself thinking of what it might mean for her...

a short Good Friday sermon

Greetings, fellow Christians.

I was recently involved with a ministry at the “Edmonton Max” prison.

I was given the opportunity to speak to a room full of  murderers.

(glancing to the cross, and then out over the congregation)
I did not think that I would have the chance to repeat the experience so soon.

Amen.

self-examination

This lent I examine my sins.

I am profoundly jealous of people who write poetry. 

I love to read it;
to eat the fruit of those who plant words.

Once, I tried
to write such things,
but ended up like
Peter, rethinking baptism.
(do I journey as the crow flies
as the cock crows?)

listening for sounds of water, laying on my bed
and he is gone (or was it I who fled?)
thinking on the rain that falls outside.
Suddenly again I am a rock upon the river
and know in time, his washing-over-me
will shape and carve this stone.
Looking up from underneath
it seems to me transluscent now.
through it
I can see the sky
and almost touch
the heavens.

words

Craig Romkema lives with his family in a log house in the Midwest. He types his poems on a computer, with physical support to stabilize his body. After graduating from high school with honors, Craig spent a year writing, and is now attending college part-time.

In this collection of poems, Craig Romkema describes the daily journey of an individual whose body is encumbered with the symptoms of autism and cerebral palsy.

Alisa is using Craig's poems to teach her grace 12 English class about words.

Encounter

“Answer!”
I told my mouth
but the message
froze,
while seconds dragged into minutes
and the restless woman
said fast
goodbyes
swiftly dashing
assumptions of
intelligence
behind her.

Words are
power;
speechlessness,
an endless abyss;
garbled speech,
a target for dishonor;
persistent rotten storytelling,
a huge annoyance;
boring tapes that demean my image.

You whose language flows
coherently,
whose ideas sparkle like wine
on the tongue,
remember your gift
and use it well,
for me.

From the collection "Embracing the Sky:  Poems Beyond Disability" .

ordinary time

[There are big and exciting things going on in the church.]

Sitting in the rocking chair, singing Adam to sleep. 
Making a tent with Emily out of a blanket and her bunk bed. 
Helping Sarah Joy figure out how to work the zipper on the front of her PJ's.

[There are big and exciting things going on in the church.]

Whoever gives a cup of water to one of these little ones...