Words to bridge the gap between faith and life…
No greater than our Master, but
like Him, walking in His steps, we
hear the snarls, the accusations,
watch the backs turn as we near,
see the rulers run to the trenches
and hear our names sworn in fear.
Walk: the Cross has its many stations
and the road is long and sore.
Look, look up: the nations turn their heartbeats
to the Son of Man in His glory.
Meanwhile, walk:
there are villages sick
with demons and dust:
cast out the demons, shake
the dust from your feet. Speak
the powerful truth:
The kingdom is here! You
are the hands and feet of this
kingdom. See
how the hands and feet
will be pierced.
Bach’s ‘Cello Suites are for me the supreme example of contemplation in music. They don’t deal with the emotions very much, there is nothing spectacular but just a single line unfolding itself. And I always see it as a kind of silver line in the middle of darkness…
As a child, I adored Bach’s Brandenburg Concerti, especially No.4. Today’s poem, prompted by Rowan Williams’ poetic tribute to Bach’s Cello suites, takes that magnificent and rich piece as its inspiration – as well as its composer, for whom music existed “for giving honour to God and for the permissible delight of the soul”.
Concerto No.4 (After “Bach for the Cello”) Polyphony dances the three-in-one’s consummate joy. Staves undulate, conflicting as the cantor gathers multiples together. Where strings’ thrum and wood’s wind intersect, there the rejoicing ordinary is captured, beneath manifold sound: Mourning and marriage run deep together; necessity, glory, a prince’s pleasure, all find common, circling breath, interweaving soft as light, The soul’s delight.
Bach for the Cello – Rowan Williams By mathematics we shall come to heaven. This page the door of God’s academy for the geometer. Where the pale lines involve a continent, transcribe the countryside of formal light, kindle with friction. Passion will scorch deep in these sharp canals: under the level moon, desire runs fast, the flesh aches on its string, without consummation, Without loss.
Do the hills bring comfort?
Soon He will ascend His penultimate hill,
crown on brow, chest weighed down,
wrath upon His soul.
From where will come His aid?
He leaves the tabernacle, the comfort
of union, the certainty of feet
which cannot stumble.
I lift up mine eyes…
The glorious handiwork of hands soon scarred
stretch into horizon, the resting stool
of feet bent upon a cross…
What does God require in the sixth, seventh and eighth commandments?
Sixth, that we do not hurt, or hate, or be hostile to our neighbour, but be patient and peaceful, pursuing even our enemies with love. Seventh, that we abstain from sexual immorality and live purely and faithfully, whether in marriage or in single life, avoiding all impure actions, looks, words, thoughts, or desires, and whatever might lead to them. Eighth, that we do not take without permission that which belongs to someone else, nor withhold any good from someone we might benefit.
So, when order is perfect –
when what’s mine is not mine but
a loan, a trust,
when all’s laid out by hands that know,
each portion wisely portioned, each
gift a chance to give –
then we will not look, haughty,
across our neighbour’s fence, nor
desire, require
what has not been placed in our hands.
Outstretched arms must come with open palms,
open eyes to see
not boundary, not deprivation,
but the plenty which grows in
fields, in furrows
which, ordered, know the times, the ways,
upturned mouths expectant of
each daily gift of grace.
And who is He who shines upon mountains,
walks and talks with the prophets of old,
yet stands without tabernacle?
Who is He whom hills and fields adore,
to whom sun defers when light’s of need,
the one true radiance of day?
And who is He who bids mouths be closed,
who commands the demons’ silence,
who climbs down this hill of glory?
Who is He who spans the heights of day
yet descends that He might know the night,
and walks alone to death?
The old garment is bursting;
the new patch will not fit.
Well-known threads fray everywhere;
holes take place of whole.
Who is this man? He takes the dross
and debris, sits and eats with them?
He takes our pious sackcloth and flings
it on the heap where sin should be.
Reversal confuses: the bridegroom stands
before head-scratching guests,
waiting fulfilled, sickness granted answers,
yet fasting where He should find feasting.
And He commands:
the wind obeys,
the pigs all plunge
in the sea;
the waves subside,
the demons cry;
our hearts are full
of questions.
Who is this man
that He commands
the wind, the seas
and demons?
Follow where
His boat will lead;
follow into
His kingdom.
Roots grow deep in rich or sickened soil;
Trees bear fruit to turn their insides out.
Many come with leaves which win, beguile:
Look again when fruit’s season arrives…
Plant yourself in soil, rich and deep;
Watch the good fruit burst forth from your stems.
Do not let gloss or sheen of leaves deceive:
Only roots which draw from Him will live.
Well, it’s high time that I got down to sharing with you some of the quite extraordinary poetry of former Archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams. When Williams became Archbishop, many were unsure of his theology or what he stood for in his faith. Yet read his poetry and you see that, at heart, he is a poet: both a blessing and a curse, because poetry is full of nuance and complexity, something which can both aid and challenge our understanding of orthodox faith.
Today’s poem is based on Williams’ poem “Great Sabbath” (not readily available online, sadly, but you can view it here courtesy of Google Books). One of Williams’ gifts as a poet is his use of camouflage: the way that both his poetic form and the Biblical truths in his poetry creep up on you unexpected. So, to let my poem and his speak for themselves, I will say no more.
Now I tell you (After “Great Sabbath”)
Once before, they’d gathered by a peak
While gnats and flies buzzed around sore ears
And sun beat down on dull heads. It was a time
When mountain peaks had seemed too tall to climb
And law, they’d reasoned, must come to meet them here.
Yet law, tenacious, raised its voice to speak
In volumes which could never be ignored.
Higher than their ears could reach, it had come
Down to their dark, while scent of melted gold
And stink of drink and hot revelry turned cold
Lingered with them, and the righteous sun
Had blasted into every hidden store.
Today, the day at zenith, the sun burst
Across the bright-lit ridge where he stood.
Ears itched to hear his new-fangled thoughts:
Would he teach them a battle-cry? Sharp retorts
To put tyrants and bullies in their place for good?
The air rustled, scalps burned, and at first
They thought they heard familiar strains of songs
Taught at bedsides by mothers, aunts: that word,
Blessed, a promise of no-one begging bread
And lands overflowing. (Milk and honey, they’d said.)
Today was dry; heat ate up much of what they heard.
Yet here and there a shock: cheeks turned toward wrongs,
The extra mile walked, the second tunic given.
Here, Simeon knew Eli still had his shirt
And Eli frowned when Enoch passed him by.
Hearts had excuses, but still the same reply:
A hand which rose to take in every hurt,
A back which gladly let itself be riven.
What, then, was blessing? A code? Sheer wordplay?
Some scratched their heads, others left for softer fare;
Some stayed, ears prickly, consciences seared.
Yet something of sheepish hope also appeared,
And as he paused, his lips a constant prayer,
He burnt their hearts with all his brightest day.
The Consolations of Writing 