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Wednesday 18 March 2015

TWO FOR TODAY


Today, two verses from the Psalms. A good Lenten exercise, I find, is reading the Psalms daily, as they are divided in the Book of Common Prayer, morning and evening. And Coverdale's translation, though sometimes inaccurate, is incomparable in resonance and beauty. So here are two quotations from this morning's Psalms:

And the glorious Majesty of the Lord our God be upon us : prosper thou the work of our hands upon us, O prosper thou our handy-work. (90:17)

And our handy-work may be the grading of mid-term examinations, the concluding of business contracts, or the spring-cleaning of teenagers' bedrooms. All of which, as George Herbert knew, may be prospered by the presence of God's glorious Majesty, and made finer by dedicating it to Him.

Whoso dwelleth under the defence of the most High : shall abide under the shadow of the Almighty. I will say unto the Lord, Thou art my hope, and my strong hold : my God, in him will I trust. (91:1-2)

After all, we have no other strong hold, or stronghold. Much as we recite the old Marine's version of Psalm 23 ("Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil : for I am the meanest son of a bitch in the valley"), we know, as the Marines did, that that is just a charm to recite; and although the very Bible-nourished General Orde Wingate called his parachuted bases behind Japanese lines in Burma "strongholds", we know that there are no strong holds for us poor, bare, forked creatures but the shadow of the Almighty, and the defence of the most High.

For thou, Lord, hast made me glad through thy works : and I will rejoice in giving praise for the operations of thy hands. (92:4)



                                                          George Herbert                                                     Orde Wingate



Friday 13 March 2015

MALKUT

(go to 1:25 in this video)


Re-reading Joseph Ratzinger’s magnificent Jesus of Nazareth, I am struck by his discussion of the Kingdom of God. I’d long worried about one aspect of it: the fact that in English it is called the Kingdom but in Latin regnum and in French règne, which means reign or kingship. It is not a place, not even in Heaven or in the hereafter. In Heaven, we may hope and trust, God’s kingship, His reign, will be complete, thus making Heaven His kingdom; but meanwhile, there is the regnum Dei, the kingship or reign of God.

Jesus talks about it in varied and often startling ways, of which (says JR) the common denominator is Christocentric: for Israel, and from Jesus on for everyone, the regnum Dei is: following him. In the Sermon on the Mount, which is the new Torah – the Messiah’s Torah --, he keeps saying “You have heard it said . . . but I say unto you . . .” He does not abrogate the law of Moses but “fulfils” it: in him it has reached its full range and weight. He is the embodiment of God’s Law, the incarnation of it.

What he has done is to internalise the Law. At one point he says, “The Kingdom of God has come upon you.” (Mt 12:28) In other words, it is present to his hearers, they can enter it at that moment. How? That depends. You have to fulfil the law and commandments with the inner identification with him that the Sermon suggests; and sometimes you have to do something more in your own individual case. The rich young man kept all the commandments, yet he felt shut out of that regnum. So Jesus said to him, “Go, sell everything you have, and then come and follow me.” Not, sell your stuff and go to Temple regularly, or, sell your stuff and pray more; no, sell it and “follow me”.

For us, JR suggests, the true regnum accessible in this life is described by Paul in his letter to the Galatians: “I am crucified with Christ: nevertheless I live; yet not I, but Christ liveth in me:.” (Gal. 2:20) In other words, we have a lot of baggage to get rid of. Which is sometimes a pleasure: many of us have moments of wishing we could see less of ourselves. We need to become hollow, like a water-pipe or a pen. Hollow in order to be filled with the Holy Spirit, like John the Baptist (Lk. 1:15) . And not just for the Spirit to fill us and remain in us: hollow at both ends, for the Spirit to flow through us to reach others. (What others? Any and all: see the Samaritan.)

Lent, as Sr Emmanuelle Billoteau wrote, means learning to stop taking the relative for the absolute, the partially important for the absolutely important. That’s what turning away from idols boils down to. When we do so – whether by fasting, or seeing our cell phone for what it is (and no more: see video, above), or discerning the relative importance of the next board meeting --, and then, set free, internalise not only the teaching of Christ but the person of Christ; then we are in the basileia, the malkut, the regnum, the kingdom, and it is in us.

After that, Heaven is simply a change of dimension, like going from caterpillar to butterfly.

Sunday 8 March 2015

SPRING CLEANING?




The current Catholic guidelines for Lent emphasise its triple nature: fasting, prayer and sharing. I have never been good at fasting, perhaps because there was a famine in occupied Holland when I was 3. Giving up chocolate and similar tiny deprivations have always seemed jejune, yet one should do (without) something. The best Lenten fast I ever had was a few years ago when, recognising myself to be choleric in nature, I gave up anger: not only did it work but it was of genuine spiritual value. This Lent I’ve gradually given up Scotch whisky, though abandoning prejudices would have been even harder and much more valuable . . . .    
The Catholic texts I’ve read stress the fact that all three exercises, and Lent generally, are intended to clear our inner decks of the clutter that comes between us and God. This I sympathise with. Prayer, the second item, would appear at first to be a much more direct line to God than fasting; yet John Donne already noted in his Devotions how difficult silent prayer on one’s own can be. “I throw myself down in my chamber, and I call in and invite God and his angels thither, and when they are there, I neglect God and his angels, for the noise of a fly, for the rattling of a coach, for the whining of a door.” The mind’s capacity for distraction is so extensive that one wonders if it is not diabolical.
            As for sharing, enough envelopes from worthwhile charities turn up in my mailbox that an increased level of giving is easy; yet then one wonders if that ease itself is not a snare and delusion. Shouldn’t it be harder, less pleasant, more sacrificial? That depends, I conclude, on the purpose of the exercise. If the purpose is to torment oneself, as in flagellation, then indeed one should do something more painful or at least demanding, like working in a soup-kitchen or hospital visiting. If the purpose is to bring the greatest possible amount of help to many, significant giving to good and well-run charities probably accomplishes that better. If the underlying (Lenten) purpose is to bring one closer to God and His values, each such gift should perhaps be accompanied by a serious and prolonged meditation on the people it is helping.

            Can one wish people a “Happy Lent”? It seems like a contradiction in terms, or even a sarcasm. Yet spring cleaning a house, while tiring, is a joyful experience, as everyone who has tried it knows. If we see  Lent not as a gloomy penitence but as a spiritual spring cleaning before Easter, it takes on a different colour.

            But. 

            But, says an inward voice, what about the Cross? The recent CNN documentary on  Jesus used what looked to me like clips from Mel Gibson’s “The Passion of the Christ” to remind us of the sheer gory and humiliating horror of crucifixion. They were perhaps overdoing it: the expression on the Roman soldiers’ faces is likelier to have been one of bored distaste than the Gothic leers we saw on the screen. But it was a useful reminder that elegant crucifixes hide a damned unpleasant truth. Being nailed to two chunks of wood and left to die of choking was the execution method for rebellious slaves. In some way or other, we need to share in this, however great the distance.
            The prayer of the Angelus asks “that, as we have known the incarnation of thy son Jesus Christ by the message of an angel, so by his cross and passion we may be brought unto the glory of his resurrection.” Our cheerful spring cleaning metaphor breaks down on Good Friday. So what do we do?
            This, I think, is where prayer shows itself to be superior to all but the most extreme forms of fasting and almsgiving. For through prayer we can move to Galilee, to Jerusalem, even to Golgotha. Prayer, when supported by the twin pillars of reading and meditation, is the temple where we can share in the suffering, the silence, and finally the morning joy of Easter. It is the house of the Lord which we must first clear of its merchants, its money-changers, its ox and ass, its doves, its noise of fly and its rattling of coach; when we have done that, it is the house of the Lord into which, with the Psalmist, we can be full of joy to go.

            On Good Friday I try always to follow the old Dutch Protestant custom of listening to Bach’s St Matthew Passion. Doing this with real concentration is one of the finest ways I know of living that extraordinary day of pain, sacrifice and salvation. At its end, one is emptied of all emotion as the church’s tabernacle is empty of the host, and open as its door. I’ll try and write a little more about this in the days to come.