The Lucky Poor (Peterson)

“Blessed are the poor in spirit”

A beech tree in winter, white

Intricacies unconcealed

Against sky blue and billowed

Clouds, carries in its emptiness

Ripeness: sap ready to rise

On signal, buds alert to burst

To leaf. And then after a season

Of summer a lean ring to remember

The lush fulfilled promises.

Empty again in wise poverty

That lets the reaching branches stretch

A millimetre more towards heaven,

The bole expand ever so slightly

And push roots into the firm

Foundation, lucky to be leafless:

Deciduous reminder to let it go.

(from Holy Luck: Selected Poems, © 2012 by Eugene H Peterson) 

After the bitter nights

After the bitter nights
and the gray, cold days
comes a bright afternoon.
I go into the creek valley
and there are the horses, the black
and the white, lying in the warm
shine on a bed of dry hay.
They lie side by side,
identically posed as a painter
might imagine them:
heads up, ears and eyes
alert. They are beautiful in the light
and in the warmth happy. Such
harmonies are rare. This is
not the way the world
is. It is a possibility
nonetheless deeply seeded
within the world. It is
the way the world is sometimes.

Wendell Berry, Sabbath Poems, 2008 (1)

Travelling Light

We travelers, walking to the sun, can’t see
Ahead, but looking back the very light
That blinded us shows us the way we came,
Along which blessings now appear, risen
As if from sightlessness to sight, and we,
By blessing brightly lit, keep going toward
That blessed light that yet to us is dark.

(Wendell Berry, Sabbath Poems 1999 VI )

Love's Perpetual Fire (Rossetti)

Christina Rossetti - Double Sonnet of Sonnets, No.11

***

Lifelong our stumbles, lifelong our regret,

Lifelong our efforts failing and renewed,

While lifelong is our witness, "God is good:"

Who bore with us till now, bears with us yet,

Who still remembers and will not forget,

Who gives us light and warmth and daily food;

And gracious promises half understood,

And glories half unveiled, whereon to set

Our heart of hearts and eyes of our desire;

Uplifting us to longing and to love.

Luring us upward from this world of mire,

Urging us to press on and mount above

Ourselves and all we have had experience of,

Mounting to Him in love's perpetual fire.

***

(from Everyman's Library Pocket Poets, p.179)

The Summer Ends (Berry)

The nights are drawing in, schools are set to re-open; it must be time to reflect with Wendell Berry (as well as Jeremiah) that the summer is past:


The summer ends, and it is time
To face another way. Our theme
Reversed, we harvest the last row
To store against the cold, undo
The garden that will be undone.
We grieve under the weakened sun
To see all earth's green fountains dried,
And fallen all the works of light.
You do not speak, and I regret
This downfall of the good we sought
As though the fault were mine. I bring
The plow to turn the shattering
Leaves and bent stems into the dark,
From which they may return. At work,
I see you leaving our bright land,
The last cut flowers in your hand.


Wendel Berry, Sabbath Poems 1984 IV.

Dissonance

Leaders who are looked up to constantly, who give out answers competently, who everyone assumes are living what they are saying, often have acute experiences of dissonance: “Who I am and what people think I am aren’t anywhere close to being the same thing. The better I get as a [pastor] and the more my reputation grows, the more I feel like a fraud. I know so much more than I live. The longer I live, the more knowledge I acquire, the wider the gap between what I know and what I live. I’m getting worse by the day...”

Eugene Peterson: Christ Plays in Ten Thousand Places, © Eugene Peterson, 2005

Wendell Berry - Sabbath Poems - 1982 VI

To Den 

We have walked so many times, my boy, 

over these old fields given up 

to thicket, have thought 

and spoken of their possibilities, 

theirs and ours, ours and theirs the same, 

so many times, that now when I walk here 

alone, the thought of you goes with me; 

my mind reaches toward yours 

across the distance and through time.

 

No mortal mind's complete within itself, 

but minds must speak and answer, 

as ours must, on the subject of this place, 

our history here, summoned 

as we are to the correction 

of old wrong in this soil, thinned 

and broken, and in our minds.

You have seen on these gullied slopes 

the piles of stones mossy with age, 

dragged out of furrows long ago 

by men now names on stones, 

who cleared and broke these fields, 

saw them go to ruin, learned nothing 

from the trees they saw return 

to hold the ground again.

But here is a clearing we have made 

at no cost to the world 

and to our gain—a re-clearing 

after forty years: the thicket 

cut level with the ground,

grasses and clovers sown 

into the last year's fallen leaves, 

new pasture coming to the sun 

as the woods plants, lovers of shade, 

give way: change made 

without violence to the ground.

At evening birdcall 

flares at the woods' edge; 

flight arcs into the opening 

before nightfall.

Out of disordered history 

a little coherence, a pattern 

comes, like the steadying 

of a rhythm on a drum, melody 

coming to it from time 

to time, waking over it, 

as from a bird at dawn 

or nightfall, the long outline 

emerging through the momentary, 

as the hill's hard shoulder 

shows through trees 

when the leaves fall.

The field finds its source 

in the old forest, in the thicket 

that returned to cover it, 

in the dark wilderness of its soil, 

in the dispensations of the sky, 

in our time, in our minds— 

the righting of what was done wrong.

Wrong was easy; gravity helped it. 

Right is difficult and long. 

In choosing what is difficult 

we are free, the mind too 

making its little flight 

out from the shadow into the clear 

in time between work and sleep.

There are two healings: nature's, 

and ours and nature's. Nature's 

will come in spite of us, after us, 

over the graves of its wasters, as it comes 

to the forsaken fields. The healing 

that is ours and nature's will come 

if we are willing, if we are patient, 

if we know the way, if we will do the work. 

My father's father, whose namesake 

you are, told my father this, he told me, 

and I am telling you: we make 

this healing, the land's and ours: 

it is our possibility. We may keep 

this place, and be kept by it. 

There is a mind of such an artistry 

that grass will follow it, 

and heal and hold, feed beasts 

who will feed us and feed the soil.

Though we invite, this healing comes 

in answer to another voice than ours; 

a strength not ours returns 

out of death beginning in our work.

Though the spring is late and cold, 

though uproar of greed 

and malice shudders in the sky, 

pond, stream, and treetop raise 

their ancient songs; 

the robin molds her mud nest

with her breast; the air

is bright with breath

of bloom, wise loveliness that asks

nothing of the season but to be.

(from This Day: Collected and New Sabbath Poems © Wendell Berry 2013)

The Therapy of Memory (Peter Craigie)

Commenting on Ezekiel 6:8-10, Peter Craigie wrote,

In Ezekiel’s prophecy, the blunted stimuli of memory are to be revitalised in the experience of judgment. But the process of vital memory, however activated, is vital to any healthy spiritual life. What we have become may be to a large extent the consequence of our experience of life; what we may become depends in large part upon our memory and understanding of that experience. And not least important, as Ezekiel makes so clear, is that central in our memory must be the knowledge of the experience of God.

Craigie, P. C. (1983). Ezekiel (p. 48). Westminster John Knox Press.

The beast and the burden: the battle between Romans 13 and Revelation 13

(This was written during the pandemic - as will be obvious - but I'm only just getting around to posting it)

The point has been made, with increasing frequency, that far too many church leaders are pointing to Romans 13 as justification for submitting to the state and not using their church buildings for collective worship, while giving far too little attention to Revelation 13, where the state is identified with the Beast. If they gave the latter more attention they would perhaps be reaching different conclusions and (in some eyes) ending the collusion.

There is, of course, no debate that both these passages are legitimate parts of scripture. They don't represent the totality of scriptural teaching on this whole area but they make for a helpful juxtaposition of essential points. So what does it mean to hold them both together? How should apocalyptic be meshed with the didactic?

This is, first and foremost, a hermeneutical question. Which is probably a topic better left in other hands. But I would like to make one observation: It is one thing to suggest that those who insist on highlighting Romans 13 have somehow forgotten Revelation 13, but it's a racing certainty that Paul hadn't. Would he have seen the Empire as the beast that John would later write of in Rev. 13? Without a doubt he would.

So Romans 13 was written with an understanding that the governing authorities are beastly in their true identity. And yet, still, Paul writes what he writes. We can't get away with thinking the essence of Revelation 13 is lacking from the apostle's thought as he pens Romans 13.

The same is also true of Peter as he writes 1 Peter 2. He was keenly aware of the true nature of the state - after all, he saw its grisly machinery up close at Calvary. But I'm guessing less is said about church leaders making too much of that and ignoring Rev 13 because it lacks the neat rhetorical flourish. (For the record, I'm all for rhetorical flourish, but its usefulness has limits.)

Just for good measure, the very same thing is true of our Lord Jesus and his teachings regarding the state and the response to it by Christians and churches. If anyone knew apocalyptic, it was Jesus. He added to the canon his own striking statements and portrayals. And he also spoke plainly about giving the emperor his due, being ready to go the extra mile when compelled to do so, turning the other cheek when struck and offering your tunic when your cloak is taken from you.

We might indeed be guilty of overplaying one at the expense of the other but the Bible isn't.

The issue is how do we mesh them in faithful interpretation? I'm eager to be helped with that.

A Standing Ground (Wendell Berry)

Flee fro the prees, and dwelle with sothfastnesse,
Suffyce unto thy thyng, though hit be smal…(*)

However just and anxious I have been,
I will stop and step back
from the crowd of those who may agree
with what I say, and be apart.
There is no earthly promise of life or peace
but where the roots branch and weave
their patient silent passages in the dark;
uprooted, I have been furious without an aim.
I am not bound for any public place,
but for ground of my own
where I have planted vines and orchard trees,
and in the heat of the day climbed up
into the healing shadow of the woods.
Better than any argument is to rise at dawn
and pick dew-wet red berries in a cup.

(*) Berry is quoting lines from Chaucer's poem, Truth

Who could have imagined?

The second feature of God’s incomparable Word is the mystery of its doctrines. It acquaints us with  things far above our reach. “O the depth of the riches both of the wisdom and knowledge of God!” (Rom. 11:33). God’s Word contains a depth that no one can fathom:

• Who could have imagined that a woman could be both virgin and mother?
• Who could have imagined that millions of people would be members of one body, living wholly by one Head (Eph. 5:27–30; Col. 2:19)?
• Who could have imagined that three distinct persons would be one in nature and essence?
• Who could have imagined that God would become man, or that He who made all things would be born of a woman?
• Who could have imagined that the Bread of Life would be hungry, the Water of Life would be thirsty, the only Rest would be weary, and the only Joy would be sorrowful?
• Who could have imagined that millions would be enriched by another’s poverty, filled by another’s emptiness, exalted by another’s disgrace, healed by another’s wounds, eased by another’s pains, and absolved by another’s condemnation?
• Who could have imagined that infinite justice and infinite mercy would be made friends at the cross?
• Who could have imagined that the greatest fury and greatest favour, the greatest hatred and greatest love would be manifested in Christ’s death?

Could we have invented such mysteries?

(George Swinnock, The Incomparableness of God - I heard this passage being quoted on this podcast)

Last Winter

I thought I'd posted this here a long time ago but apparently not... Back in late 2017 I was invited to the church poetry group. Bring a poem, they said, on the theme of Christmas or Winter. I thought I'd read someone else's but the family said, 'No! You gotta write your own.' But I only do non-rhyming, barely-comprehensible, takes-itself-far-too-seriously kind of stuff ... and mostly when I wore a younger man's clothes. Anyhow, I caved in and this is what transpired. It's set in the winter of 1982/83 but rooted elsewhere.

******

Last Winter

That was the winter

I finally
came apart;
every rusted hinge and joint
sundered
by the moon's waxing
and the waning,
draining,
of my heart.

Every pound of
flesh, every ounce
of life's burden
heavier than could be
held aloft;
arms too leaden
to even raise
a surrender.
No more place

for
words
or
breath
or
silence.

The only necessity
the dissolution
of every last atom;
redundant
and craving its
release
into the blue nothing.

That was the winter
spring came in May,
its resurrection
and deliverance
a gift so unknown
it was beyond tears,
the

delicate and deliberate
unveiling
of a life
given, laid down, offered,
and a death
taken, embraced, suffered,
and a love
wider, deeper, broader
than the harrowed edges
of time and space.

That was the spring
winter

ended

for all time,
coffined

in a borrowed tomb.

The riddle of grace

The incompleteness of Samson’s story, and indeed the incompleteness of the entire book of Judges, is an invitation to hear the book of Judges in its larger canonical context, especially the context of the prophetic canon. The prophetic canon bears witness to the ultimate riddle or mystery—that a God who fervently wills faithfulness, justice, and peace remains unfailingly committed to people whose persistent unfaithfulness and disobedience regularly result in chaos and destruction. In a word, of course, it is the riddle of grace. The story of Samson, the entire book of Judges, and the whole prophetic canon fully articulate God’s fervent desire for the covenant loyalty that produces life as God intends it; they unflinchingly document the human unfaithfulness that yields chaos and destruction; and yet they affirm God’s abiding presence and commitment amid the messes that God’s people make. The prophetic books—including the book of Judges (and especially the book of Judges at its lowest point with Samson and the aftermath in chaps. 17–21)—are powerful statements of hope; not hope in “culture heroes” like Samson, but rather hope in a God whose grace is greater than our ability to comprehend and whose commitment to justice, righteousness, and peace surpasses our understanding.

J. Clinton McCann, Judges: Interpretation, a Bible Commentary for Teaching and Preaching (emphasis mine)

Between subsistence and decadence

Today, I’m grateful to live in a space between subsistence and decadence, between scarcity and consumption. It feels like a gift. I can work for harvest, enjoying the fruit of my labor, while also knowing that my work was never going to be enough anyway. I can give tomatoes away, and I can leave a few on the vine without fear. And I wonder if this is what it means to flourish, to exist in a place where limits are no liability because abundance is sure. I wonder if this is Eden.

Grace to work. Grace to receive. Grace to know it never depended on me in the first place.

Hannah Anderson, from "Turning of Days: Lessons from Nature, Season, and Spirit", p.103

Rising through the stack of the past

But perhaps you would argue that, since you want to be a contemporary poet, you do not want to be too much under the influence of what is old, attaching to the term the idea that old is old hat - out-of-date. You imagine you should surround yourself with the modern only. It is an error. The truly contemporary creative force is something that is built out of the past, but with a difference.

Most of what calls itself contemporary is built, whether it knows it or not, out of a desire to be liked. It is created in imitation of what already exists and is already admired. There is, in other words, nothing new about it. To be contemporary is to rise through the stack of the past, like the fire through the mountain. Only a heat so deeply and intelligently born can carry a new idea into the air.

Mary Oliver, A Poetry Handbook, p.11f

******

There is much about this that could be applied to the task and calling of the preacher.

The differences are not profound

This comment by Mary Oliver regarding poetry might also be usefully considered in relation to how we see and understand people and their stories from long, long ago:

In looking for poems and poets, don't dwell on the boundaries of style, or time, or even of countries and cultures. Think of yourself rather as one member of a single, recognizable tribe. Expect to understand poems of other eras and other cultures. Expect to feel intimate with the distant voice. The differences you will find between then and now are interesting. They are not profound.

Mary Oliver, A Poetry Handbook, p.11

The root system of the visible now

[Eugene] Peterson’s various insights into the vocational benefits of reading are nowhere more compelling than in the places where he writes about pastoral caregiving. In Run with the Horses, one of Peterson’s earliest books, he writes, “Lives cannot be read as newspaper reports on current events; they are unabridged novels with character and plot development, each paragraph essential for mature appreciation.”

I have long been struck by his words “mature appreciation.” It’s as if Peterson is saying that, as pastors, to interpret human beings on the basis of the words they are currently speaking, or the problems they are currently presenting, is not only to provide an attenuated sort of pastoral care but also to telegraph a certain form of immaturity, one rooted in a fear of complexity and a need to offer quick resolutions—much as it would be to read about a lavish party at Jay Gatsby’s house and, knowing nothing of Gatsby’s humble origins, hastily conclude that he throws such parties simply to put on airs. It would be to completely miss the point. “The before,” Peterson writes, “is the root system of the visible now.”

"The Pastor's Bookshelf: Why Reading Matters for Ministry" by Austin Carty.

Going heavily when we might rejoice

Unacquaintedness with our mercies, our privileges, is our sin as well as our trouble. We hearken not to the voice of the Spirit which is given unto us, “that we may know the things that are freely bestowed on us of God” (1 Cor. 2:12). This makes us go heavily, when we might rejoice; and to be weak, where we might be strong in the Lord.

John Owen, Communion with the Triune God, p. 123

When faith cannot be expressed

Someone asked me,

If Jesus couldn't do many miracles in Nazareth, but he raises the widow's son without any active faith, then what's the difference between unbelief and whatever is happening in Nain?

It's a good question. My thoughts in response were:

Hmm, isn't that just wonderful? He acts when there cannot be explicit faith, either because evil has taken over (the Gadarene man) or when the chaos of grief has smothered the soul into lifelessness. In Nazareth, and everywhere that explicit faith ought to be capable of being expressed, there is an expectation of it, a call for it. But not when we are beyond our capability to believe or to ask - he is, as Paul says in Rom 4:17 "the God who gives life to the dead and calls into being things that were not."

To suffer is to act

Referring to the character Dilsey in William Faulkner's novel, The Sound and the Fury, Marilyn McEntyre comments:

As a white man, Faulkner had, as he acknowledged, limited access to the suffering of an old black female servant. But he gives us her tears. As she listens to the Rev. Shegog’s sermon, claiming the power of the blood of the Lamb, what she has suffered emerges in the safe space of a worshiping community where she can lay her burden down. As readers, we become aware that we are almost intruders upon the intimacies of her pain, which, though public, is as utterly personal as the wracked and worn body that sags beneath the purple Easter dress in which she appears, iconic and, Faulkner would say, indomitable. Dilsey’s weeping “signifies,” in the antique sense of bringing forth meaning in the story she inhabits. For her to suffer is to act, and her suffering is the only redemptive action in this whole bleak tale of spiritual squalor.

Where the Eye Alights p.71