Wednesday, September 5, 2012

Unapologetic

Here's a beautiful excerpt from a book, the whole of which, I very much look forward to reading. It is about faith, but what it feels like to be a believer in God, rather than what intellectual arguments there are, for Christian belief. If you're a believer, perhaps this will resonate with you. If you're not, perhaps this might help you understand the emotional logic behind why your friends believe:  

Early on in this I compared beginning to believe to falling in love, and the way that faith settles down in a life is also very like the way that the first dizzy-intense phase of attraction settles (if it does) into a relationship. 

Rapture develops into routine, a process which keeps its customary doubleness where religion is concerned. It’s both loss and gain together, with excitement dwindling and trust growing; like all human ties, it constricts at the same time as it supports, ruling out other choices by the very act of being a choice. 

And so as with any commitment, there are times when you notice the limit on your theoretical freedom more than you feel what the attachment is giving you, and then it tends to be habit, or the awareness of a promise given, that keeps you trying. God makes an elusive lover. The unequivocal blaze of His presence may come rarely or not at all, for years and years – and in any case cannot be commanded, will not ever present itself tamely to order. He-doesn’t-exist-the-bastard may be much more your daily experience than anything even faintly rapturous. And yet, and yet. 

He may come at any moment, when and how you least expect it, and that somehow slightly colours every moment in the mass of moments when he doesn’t come. And grace, you come to recognise, never stops, whether you presently feel it or not. You never stop doubting – how could you? – but you learn to live with doubt and faith unresolved, because unresolvable. 

So you don’t keep digging the relationship up to see how its roots are doing. You may have crises of faith but you don’t, on the whole, ask it to account for itself philosophically from first principles every morning, any more than you subject your relations with your human significant other to daily cost-benefit analysis. You accept it as one of the givens of your life. You learn from it the slow rewards of fidelity. You watch as the repetition of Christmases and Easters, births and deaths and resurrections, scratches on the linear time of your life a rough little model of His permanence. 

You discover that repetition itself, curiously, is not the enemy of spontaneity, but maybe even its enabler. Saying the same prayers again and again, pacing your body again and again through the set movements of faith, somehow helps keep the door ajar through which He may come. The words may strike you as ecclesiastical blah nine times in ten, or ninety-nine times in a hundred, and then be transformed, and then have the huge fresh wind blowing through them into your little closed room. And meanwhile you make faith your vantage point, your habitual place to stand. And you get used to the way the human landscape looks from there: re-oriented, re-organised, different.

This section comes from a book by Francis Spufford, called Unapologetic. Here's the author speaking , with verve and conviction, about his new book:


(I read the excerpt above here.) 


Sunday, September 2, 2012

O For the Wings of a Dove

I am privileged to go to a church that specialises in sublime music, as well as great sermons and liturgy.

Here's what we got today:



The text is from Psalm 55, which we read out loud, as well:

Hear my prayer, O God, incline Thine ear!
Thyself from my petition do not hide.
Take heed to me! Hear how in prayer I mourn to Thee,
Without Thee all is dark, I have no guide.
The enemy shouteth, The godless come fast!
Iniquity, hatred, upon me they cast!
The wicked oppress me, Ah where shall I fly?
Perplexed and bewildered, O God, hear my cry!
My heart is sorely pained, within my breast,
my soul with deathly terror is oppressed,
trembling and fearfulness upon me fall,
with horror overwhelmed, Lord, hear me call,

O for the wings, for the wings of a dove!
Far away, far away would I rove!
In the wilderness build me a nest,
and remain there for ever at rest.

___________________

Mendelssohn's original text was in German, of course, and it's only fair that you get a chance to see that language!

Hör mein Bitten, Herr, neige dich zu mir,
auf deines Kindes Stimme habe acht! Ich bin allein;
wer wird mein Tröster und Helfer sein?
Ich irre den Pfad in dunkler Nacht!
Die Feinde sie drohen und heben ihr Haupt:
"Wo ist nun der Retter, an den wir geglaubt?"
Sie lästern sie täglich, sie stellen uns nach
und halten die Frommen in Knechtschaft und Schmach.
Mich fasst des Todes Furcht bei ihrem Dräu'n.
Sie sind unzählige - Gott, hör mein Fleh'n!
Herr, kämpfe du für mich. Gott hör mein Fleh'n.

O, könnt' ich fliegen wie Tauben dahin,
weit hinweg von den Feinden zu flieh'n,
in die Welt eilt' ich fort,
fände Ruh an schattigem Ort.

O könnt' ich fliegen wie Tauben dahin,
Weit hinweg vor dem Feinde zu fliehen!
In die Wüste eilt ich dann fort,
Fände Ruhe am schättigen Ort.

Saturday, August 18, 2012

A (Second) Confession

Tonight I met a girl who loves David Mitchell as much as I do. That is to say, we love him ardently. And we don't even mind that he is most probably short. This one is for you, Jess.

A Confession

I love TS Eliot, but this is glorious....

I am so coarse, the things the poets see
Are obstinately invisible to me.
For twenty years I’ve stared my level best
To see if evening–any evening–would suggest
A patient etherized upon a table;
In vain. I simply wasn’t able.
To me each evening looked far more
Like the departure from a silent, yet a crowded, shore
Of a ship whose freight was everything, leaving behind
Gracefully, finally, without farewells, marooned mankind.

Red dawn behind a hedgerow in the east
Never, for me, resembled in the least
A chilblain on a cocktail-shaker’s nose;
Waterfalls don’t remind me of torn underclothes,
Nor glaciers of tin-cans. I’ve never known
The moon look like a hump-backed crone–
Rather, a prodigy, even now
Not naturalized, a riddle glaring from the Cyclops’ brow
Of the cold world, reminding me on what a place
I crawl and cling, a planet with no bulwarks, out in space.

Never the white sun of the wintriest day
Struck me as un crachat d’estaminet.
I’m like that odd man Wordsworth knew, to whom
A primrose was a yellow primrose, one whose doom
Keeps him forever in the list of dunces,
Compelled to live on stock responses,
Making the poor best that I can
Of dull things…peacocks, honey, the Great Wall, Aldebaran
Silver weirs, new-cut grass, wave on the beach, hard gem,
The shapes of horse and woman, Athens, Troy, Jerusalem.

- CS Lewis.

I could move to Sydney for the bookshops

This weekend finds me in Sydney.

It'll take another post to ruminate on the city, but let me just say that they have some damn excellent bookshops.

I spent yesterday afternoon in Kinokuniya, which is sort of Japanese version of Border's, only much better stocked. (For example: a whole aisle of poetry, and one entire bookshelf devoted to Renaissance history!)

Today I whiled away most of the morning in Berkelouw. The ground floor is new books, funky stationary and a vegan cafe (I didn't have to tell them that I wanted a soy flat white. It was already soy). And then you climb the stairs and GLORY: shelves and shelves of second-hand and rare books. And more coffee and food, with the sun making golden coin shapes across the tables.

And tonight, while waiting for my Thai take-away to cook, I ducked into Gould's (open at 9pm!), and brought a very clean copy of Dorothy L. Sayers' Lord Peter Views the Body and a battered but serviceable copy of George MacDonald's At the Back of the North Wind. All for 8 bucks!

What a winner!

On CS Lewis


“That being said, I can only confess to being repeatedly humbled and reconverted by Lewis in a way that is true of few other modern Christian writers. Re-reading works I have not looked at for some time, I realize where a good many of my favorite themes and insights came from, and am constantly struck by the richness of imagination and penetration that can be contained even in a relatively brief letter. Here is someone you do not quickly come to the end of — as a complex personality and as a writer and thinker.”

- Rowan Williams on C S Lewis.

Tuesday, August 14, 2012

As the Ruin Falls

All this is flashy rhetoric about loving you.
I never had a selfless thought since I was born.
I am mercenary and self-seeking through and through:
I want God, you, all friends, merely to serve my turn.

Peace, re-assurance, pleasure, are the goals I seek,
I cannot crawl one inch outside my proper skin:
I talk of love --a scholar's parrot may talk Greek--
But, self-imprisoned, always end where I begin.

Only that now you have taught me (but how late) my lack.
I see the chasm. And everything you are was making
My heart into a bridge by which I might get back
From exile, and grow man. And now the bridge is breaking.

For this I bless you as the ruin falls. The pains
You give me are more precious than all other gains.

-- Clive Staples Lewis