More than Me and Ted

Of all the various components that might make up a prayer (adoration, praise, thanksgiving, confession etc.), I think I find the element of intercession most difficult.

I find it difficult because it's the most easy to forget. Intercessory prayer shows me my self-centredness. It's a time when I realise that my worldview is so narrow, air-less and cramped. My attention, for the most part, is directed inwards, at my thoughts, my preoccupations, my concerns. I bring myself before God, and fill his vision with all my anxieties, my wants, my feelings.

In one sense I think this is right. I am the child, who artlessly comes before my papa, clutching my worn-out and dirty, but well-loved teddy. I sit upon my father's knee and tell him about the day I've had with my bear - our adventures, our joys, our hurts and scrapes. Never mind the greater world out there, with its larger doings and going-ons. My pervue is only for me and my bear.

Intercessory prayer takes me out of my myopic vision, to ask: what are the needs of those around me. It require me first to know the needs of those around me - and therefore to climb out of my own head and preoccupations. It then requires energetic partnership with God: How can I work, through prayer, for them? For, despite it feeling like mere thinking, or words into air, prayer is labour, and as Christians, we know it works. As one friend once wisely said: "If people are thinking, then they might be acting. But thoughts alone won't help anyone. Whereas prayers are actions in themselves."

Here's Dietrich Bonhoeffer on the transformative nature of intercessory prayers:

All Christians have their own circle of those who have requested them to intercede on their behalf, or people for whom for various reasons they know they have been called upon to pray. First of all, the circle will include those with whom they must live every day. With this we have advanced to the point at which we hear the heartbeat of all Christian life together. A Christian community either lives by the intercessory prayers of its members for one another or the community will be destroyed. I can no longer condemn or hate other Christians for whom I pray, no matter how much trouble they cause me. In intercessory prayer the face that may have been strange and intolerable to me is transformed into the face of one for whom Christ died, the face of a pardoned sinner. That is the blessed discovery for the Christian who is beginning to offer intercessory prayer for others. As far as we are concerned, there is no dislike, no personal tension, no disunity or strife, that cannot be overcome by intecessory prayer. Intercessory prayer is the purified bath into which the individual and the community must enter each day.

Life Together, page 89.

Of Cabbages and Kings

While most in Britain are gripped with Royal Wedding Fever, Australians are not impressed. A quick glance through my friends' facebook statuses (stati?) reveals that most will not have the TV switched on tonight, with one friend commenting: "I could watch the royal wedding, but I think there's a real possibility that the paint on my walls might dry out a little more tonight, and I think I'd better keep my eyes on them just in case."

A couple of good friends are so unimpressed as to rant about the hullaboo on their blog, making some good points about the unique way that Australians show affection.

I confess I'm not too excited about the whole thing either, and was tempted to boycott watching the ceremony on principle, because, well, people get married all the time, and no other couples get their faces plastered on tea-towels, mugs, ashtrays and notepads (although I guess that's not really Will and Kate's doing). Speaking of paraphenalia, you should really check out these knitted dolls! Why wed if you can't enshrine yourselves in finger puppets for your grandchildren?

However, I am going to watch the wedding, largely because I want to see what they'll do to the ceremonial side of things, and because I want to hear what Rowan Williams, the Archbishop of Canterbury will preach ....

Here's a couple of thoughts on the Royal Family, however.

Most Australians, I would hazard, dislike the idea of a monarchy, because we believe in equality, and in the benefits of a meritocracy. It's foreign, that a particularly family should be exalted, simply based on pedigree. I think I am like that too: I believe in total egalitarianism (how else can a poor, immigrant child gain an education and earn a living?) And yet, watching the wedding and thinking about Royalty has made me question, whether hierarchy holds a deep truth for us.

As a child I loved the Medieval period best, because of the kings and queens; the pomp and circumstance; the pagentry and chivalry of knights and battles.

And then I grew up. I learnt about the market economy, the class argument, and the horrendous plight of the peasantry - all of which is summed up hilariously in this Monty Python sketch.

Yet the idea of Kingship, and the ideal Rule of Christ Jesus, figures hugely in the theological imagination, and thus ought to dictate our understanding of the world from a Christian perspective. It's something I find at once moving, and yet supremely difficult to reconcile.

So here are my scattered thoughts:

As I say, something about the idea of Kingship needs to be felt with the imagination. You have to 'taste' the word King - which its attendant associations of battle, splendor, power and mercy. (Think of what you felt in the more moving parts of 'Braveheart' or reading about Aslan when you were a child).

Yet kingship in our modern day and age is paltry, trite and often embarrassing. The people who we call 'royal' fail our imaginations - they are hardly heroic, glorious figures. They do not inspire confidence, let alone fealty. We speculate that Will and Kate's marriage won't last the onslaught of the years; we laugh at Eugenie and Beatrice's fashion faux pas; and even the Queen, who's my favourite of the lot, is often represented as a stodgy, stoic figure, trying to do her diplomatic best with some idiotic family members.

So we abandon kingship and hierarchy, and hold onto democracy and equality. It's the 'least worst' option, and a way of protecting human beings, from Lord Acton's dictum, that absolute power will corrupt, absolutely. Of course, it would be most sensible and practical, to abolish the English Monarchy entirely, and for Australia to become a Republic. But what if, in acquiescing to political pragmatism and modern statecraft, we cut the one remaining, tangible thread to a larger reality about what it means to be human? What if the monarchy is the one remaining conduit, through which to channel the best and noblest sentiments and ideals of citizenship - "loyalty, the concecration of secular life, and hierarchical principle, splendor, ceremony and continuity"?

For, whatever idiotic persons within the royal family itself, and whatever kind of lunacy exists in Royalty Fever, the British Monarchy reminds us of that tingly feeling we had, when we once loved kings and queens. Something of the magic of hierarchical representation and the noble idea of giving one's unreservered allegiance to one entirely beautiful and deserving, lingers on. (And a ceremonial monarchy, together with a legal democracy like what Britain has, is, I think, the best way to hold onto both.)

CS Lewis writes, upon viewing Queen Elizabeth II's coronation ceremony on television, that the ceremony wasn't conducted with a sense of triumphalism, but an overwhelming sense of pathos. The young queen herself, then only 20 or so, seemed to be visibly moved by the sacramental side of things. Those watching, felt a sense of

awe - pity - pathos - mystery. The pressing of that huge, heavy crown on that small, young head becomes a symbol of the situation of humanity itself: humanity called by God to be His vice-regent and high priest on earth, and yet feeling so inadequate.

He goes on to observe that it is as if God says, in my inexorable love for you, I raise you from dust, from mere animal creatures, to a level of reason, of apprehension, in order that you might have a relationship with me. You are crowned a little lower than angels, and upon your head I lay responsibilities, splendors, glories and dangers that are beyond your understanding.

One misses the whole point of a coronation, a royal wedding, the existence of the royal family, if we do not feel, that in some way, we have all been crowned, we have all been married, we are all princes and princesses, though in a way that is deeply tragic as well as splendid.

One misses the whole point of human royalty as well, if we cannot see that all human kings fail, and cannot exist but as a pointer to the Real King Jesus, and the real rule of a perfect human being - righteous, and full of self-giving grace.

Well, carry on, carry on.

Locust Years

Today I discovered the poet Billy Collins, who's written a couple of simple but poignant poems on forgetfulness and memorisation. I have a horrible memory, and gathering the past always feel like following a trail of bread crumbs - some have disappeared, some are lodged amongst bramble, very few are whole and worth the keeping. A slow and futile scramble.

I wondered if, in the new heavens and new earth that I look forward to, that my memory will be restored to me: all the jokes that were so good and that I swore to remember, the unforgettable quotes, consigned to notebooks but irretrievable to memory, the smell of a new city overseas, the indescribable look on a half-obscured face, countless sermons heard and gone the following week, lines of music, the lost optative verb forms, books, poems, dates, numbers, faces, places. Even the piercing moments of pain or shame, might they be given back to me, and take on a different shade of feeling?

I love that verse in Joel, when God promises, after a severe famine in the land of Israel, to "restore to you the years that the locusts have eaten." I hope those words apply metaphysically too.

*******

FORGETFULNESS

The name of the author is the first to go
followed obediently by the title, the plot,
the heartbreaking conclusion, the entire novel
which suddenly becomes one you have never read,
never even heard of,

as if, one by one, the memories you used to harbor
decided to retire to the southern hemisphere of the brain,
to a little fishing village where there are no phones.

Long ago you kissed the names of the nine Muses goodbye
and watched the quadratic equation pack its bag,
and even now as you memorize the order of the planets,

something else is slipping away, a state flower perhaps,
the address of an uncle, the capital of Paraguay.

Whatever it is you are struggling to remember,
it is not poised on the tip of your tongue,
not even lurking in some obscure corner of your spleen.

It has floated away down a dark mythological river
whose name begins with an L as far as you can recall,
well on your own way to oblivion where you will join those
who have even forgotten how to swim and how to ride a bicycle.

No wonder you rise in the middle of the night
to look up the date of a famous battle in a book on war.
No wonder the moon in the window seems to have drifted
out of a love poem that you used to know by heart.

- Billy Collins

Rodrigo y Gabriela

This makes me want to get up and stomp my feet. Brilliant.

Unintended audiences

I've been intrigued to read the following article from Christianity Today.

While I might take issue with the writer's assumptions and approach, it did make me think quite a bit about what happens with blogging, and what sort unintended consequences it produces, once an idea has been unleashed into the blogosphere.

In his latest post, Alan Jacobs records a conversation with the excellent Miroslav Volf. It highlights, in passing, something about the nature of 'conversations' on the internet. He notes our inability to change and adapt our language rhetorically, as according to our audience (something we do naturally in conversations and in other written media - cf. persuasive essay, thesis, polemic letter to the editor.) This is because our intended audience, that is, the audience we're writing for, is too big, and too unpredictable. For good or ill, we don't know who's eavesdropping on our conversation. And that ought to have implications, not only for what we say, but how we say it, in our blogs. Here's Alan Jacobs, putting it more eloquently:


... while one might want to speak differently in different rhetorical situations, might strive to adjust one's language to suit different audiences that have different needs, in practice we do not live in a world with "bounded" rhetorical situations. "Everyone is listening," he said, thanks to the World Wide Web, as it is accurately called, which takes what you say to one audience and broadcasts it — as text, audio, video, or all of the above — to pretty much anyone who's interested in finding it.

One of the most fundamental principles of rhetoric has always been decorum, that is, suiting one's language to occasion and audience. Those of us who teach writing typically think it vital to get our students to think in these terms — to see that they must adjust style and diction, evidence and argument, to reach the readers they most want to reach.

Such imperatives will never cease to be important. But it also seems likely that we will have to train students to be aware — and will have to train ourselves to be aware — that much of what we say and write can find audiences we never intended. And the consequences of our words' extended reach will not always be positive ones.

Imitatio/Ersatz

I've been enjoying a show on ABC TV called Forger's Masterclass. The premise: John Myatt, a British art forger, evidentedly rehabilitated, hosts a show during which he shows three fine art students how to paint in the style of one of the great masters - Monet, Hockney, Braque, Van Gogh etc. It's brilliant viewing. Apart from the kooky art students, you realise just how difficult, technically, some of the deceptively simple works of modern art are. And, of course, in the imitation of others, one discovers something of one's own style.

So I'd been thinking about the art of imitation, when I got my first piece of German homework last week. We were given a painting (see below), and asked to write a 200-word story, about the three people in it. I was sceptical, at first (what were we, in High School again?), but soon fell into the project. It's a challenge, to construct something interesting within narrow confines.

I thought about Vermeer - how his pictures capture a moment in time in lives of his figures; a sharp juncture in the storyline. Amongst short story writers, the American Lydia Davis is well-known for her elliptical single paragraph or one page-long stories. And I've always wanted to try a story à la Peter Bichsel, my favourite Swiss writer. His whimsical, deceptively simple short stories often focus on the mundane - small incidents of everyday life - which, when at the centre of a short piece of writing, come into sharp focus, and reveal something deeply moving about human existence.

So here's my attempt at a Bichsel-Davis-esque piece. (I know it's pretentious, but I've included the German, 'cos it looks good. :P FYI: The German exercise was to test our knowledge of adjectival and article agreements - hence the plethora of them!)

Oh, by the way: While I was writing, I asked one of my housemate what the story of the picture was about. He came over to where I was sitting, and peering over my shoulder at the laptop, said: "Oh, that guy's lost his car keys over the cliff. She's pointing them out to him, while he's trying to get them without going over the edge. The other guy's just standing apart, laughing."

Wish I'd written that story! Hey, why don't you have a go at your own? Might be fun.

Kreidefelsen auf Rügen

Ihre Kutsche war zu schnell über den steinigen Weg gefahren, und armer Caspar hatte immer einen empfindlichen Magen.Hier lag er, wie eine große, schwartzbraune Motte, flatternd, auf dem grünen Gras. Sein Gesicht, blaß und schweißig, war genauso wie die weiße Farbe der Kreidefelsen vor ihnen. Er starrte ungläubig auf die kleinen Boote am Meer. In der Form ihres dreieckigen Hutes, schaulkelten sie auf dem Wasser. Ihre Bewegung ließ ihm wieder erbrechen. Diese Seeleute! Das war nichts für ihn. Er hasste Boote.

Their carriage was too fast over the stony path, and poor Caspar had always had a weak stomach. He laid there, like a large, black-and-brown moth, fluttering on the green grass. His face, pale and sweaty, was exactly the colour of the white chalk cliffs before them. He stared out, unbelievingly, at the small boats on the sea. The form of his three-cornered hat, they bobbed on the water. Their movement made him sick again. These sailors! That was not for him. He hated boats.

Christiane war auch dankbar für die frische Luft. Für sie hatte der Tag früh angefangen. Sie hatte nichts gegessen; hatte mit jedem gesprächigen Gast geredet; und jemand hatte auf ihrem Brautschleier getreten. Jetzt war es schön, einfach in dem hellen, winterlichen Licht zu sitzen. Sie beobachtete die Boote. Sie mochte ihr großes blaßes Segelwerk, so zart dennoch groß, das es einen Windstoß enthalten konnte. Sie hoffte, dass Caspar und sie segeln würden. Sie hatte nie gesegelt.

Christiane was also thankful for the fresh air. For her, the day had started early. She had not eaten anything; had spoken with every chatty guest, and someone had trodden on her wedding veil. It's lovely, now, simply to sit in the bright, winter light. She watched the boats. She liked their large, pale sails, so fragile yet capable of holding a great gale. She hoped, that she and Caspar will go sailing. She had never sailed.

Der Kutscher dachte, Es ist spät, wir müssen schon wegfahren. Er wollte nach Hause gehen. Er wollte seine Frau küssen. Er wollte sich zu Tische setzen und ein warmes Abendessen essen. Später, brächte er die Kleineren ins Bett. Dann säße er sich am Kamin, und mache ein kleines Segelboot. Das Segelboot wäre aus Holz, und war für seinen zweitjüngsten Sohn. Er pfiff lautlos, durch die Lücken zwischen seinen ungleichen Zähnen.

The driver thought: It is late, we must go soon. He wanted to go home. He wanted to kiss his wife. He wanted to sit at the table and eat a warm dinner. Later, he will put the little ones to bed. Then he will sit before the fire, and work on a small sailing boat. The boat was made of wood, and was for his second youngest son. He whistled soundless, through the gaps between his uneven teeth.

Poetry and Theology

Religions are poems. They concert
our daylight and dreaming mind, our
emotions, instinct, breath and native gesture

into the only whole thinking: poetry.
Nothing's said till it's dreamed out in words
and nothing's true that figures in words only.

A poem, compared with an arrayed religion,
may be like a soldier's one short marriage night
to die and live by. But that is a small religion.

Full religion is the large poem in loving repetition;
like any poem, it must be inexhaustible and complete
with turns where we ask Now why did the poet do that?

You can't pray a lie, said Huckleberry Finn;
you can't poe one either. It is the same mirror:
mobile, glancing, we call it poetry,

fixed centrally, we call it a religion,
and God is the poetry caught in any religion,
caught, not imprisoned. Caught as in a mirror

that he attracted, being in the world as poetry
is in the poem, a law against its closure.
There'll always be religion around while there is poetry

or a lack of it. Both are given, and intermittent,
as the action of those birds - crested pigeon, rosella parrot -
who fly with wings shut, then beating, and again shut.

- Les Murray.

If ever I could write the syllabus for a theological subject, I'd make sure that the students' reading list included some poetry or fiction, as well as usual books and articles ... The imagination should should illuminate before God, even as Reason strain after Him.