Imagining a poetry of Christian spirituality…

broken statue

I am still gathering poetry submissions for inclusion in an up and coming poetry collection to be published by Proost– please keep them coming in!

Proost is a company set up by Christians to gather together lots of the creativity coming out of the left field ragged edge of the church here in the UK. In doing this they have been incredibly encouraging to people (like me) whose output is unlikely to find other commercial outlets. The poetry collection was an attempt to broaden out this ethos still further.

In the process of looking at this, I have been forced once again to consider what I might understand as ‘Christian’ poetry, or even ‘spiritual’ poetry.

The tradition of church that I grew up has little time for poetry. The nearest we got to it were the lyrics of songs and hymns- with people like Matt Redman or Graham Kendrick as the most widely known contributors. The subject matter and style chosen for these songs is very limited, and goes something like this;

  • Substitutionary atonement
  • Over use of obvious rhyme structures- face/grace love/above died/justified
  • Over identification with love songs- ‘Jesus is my boyfriend’ kind of stuff
  • Substitutionary atonement
  • Lack of room for questions, for uncertainty, for doubt
  • Lack of room for lament
  • Often driven by commercialism- what sells in the American mid west.
  • Substitutionary atonement

These songs became the cultural carriers of our faith- they gave us a proscribed language to describe our understanding of God but this left us only with a set of rather clichéd phrases that we rehashed over and over again- usually strapped to a good tune to make them more palatable.

Hardly surprisingly, those people that wrote poems at all in the churches I went to tended to write poems along these lines too, although this was a marginal practice, as the feeling was that the main forms of expression of faith were preaching the word, evangelising the lost and worshipping through singing.

There is of course a rich tradition of writing poetry in other Christian traditions- Hildegard of Bingen, Francis of Asisi, Teresa of Avila, John Donne, Christina Rossetti, Gerard Manley Hopkins, R.S. Thomas, Thomas Merton to name but a few. However, most of us do not know the work of these wonderful poets well, if at all. Some of them we know as people of faith, but the relationship that poetry has to the development of their spiritual understanding is far less clear. It is not something that we are schooled to even ask.

Eastern traditions are much clearer about this relationship. The Sufi tradition of poets like Rumi, Sanai and Attar are all famous because they were poets. The words they made arose from their spiritual journey- they were the very process of engagement with the divine, not an accidental by product. Here is a bit of Rumi to make the point, written around 800 years ago;

Say who I am

I am dust particles in sunlight
I am the round sun.

To the bits of dust I say, stay.
To the sun, keep moving.

I am morning mist,
And the breathing of evening.

I amwind in the top of a grove
and surf on the cliff.

Mast, rudder, helmsman and keel.
I am also the coral reef they founder on.

I am a tree with a trained parot in its branches.
Silence, thought and voice.

The musical air coming through a flute
A spark off a stone, a flickering
in metal. Both candle
and the moth crazy around it.

Rose and the nightingale
lost in the fragrance.

I am all orders of being, the circling galaxy,
the evolutionary intelligence, the lift
and the falling away. What is
and what isn’t.

What makes this poetry so wonderful to us is the freedom that exists in the middle of it- the sense of generosity, wonder and beauty. It opens something up- a window into something deeper. It seems to arise as much from personal experience- revelation even- as from a desire to proselytise or sell a particular idea to us. This is not Christian poetry- but then again, perhaps it is the poetry that we Christians need to be reading.

We often forget that the Bible is a product too of middle eastern mystics, prophets and nomads in their search for God. We forget that around a third of the Bible is written as poetry- not just the obvious bits (Psalms) but we also have searing prophetic rants, apocalyptic weirdness  raunchy love poems, even St Paul seemed to be sneaking lyrics from hymns into his letters.

We needed the Bible to be a legal document, a constitional, foundational tool for life that we could mine for concrete instructional truth- what we got was lots of poetry- although we rarely see it as such. It is an interesting question as to whether reading the Bible as poetry changes how we engage with it.

But back to the point of this piece- which is a search for a new kind of Christian poetry- using language set free from the narrow cliches. An honest kind of poetry- that arises from a deep well of the Spirit within us. Poetry that does not shrink from pain, form ugliness, from doubt, from anger at God even. Poetry that asks questions as much as it answers them. Poetry that holds us to account for our actions- particularly those of us in power. Poetry that is skewed towards the weak, the broken, the poor (as these are the last made first.)

Poetry that can become the songs of the Kingdom of God that is woven into the fabric of our world- in each leaf, each ripple, each stratum, each child, each crack addict.

If you should come across poetry like this, you will recognise it for what it is, even if it disturbs you, discomforts you.

And if you do- send it my way!

Creativity and failure…

Workshop bench

I spent most of today sorting out my workshop. I began making things out of wood a few years ago as some kind of therapy to assist with the stresses and strains of my day job. There is something about using your hands to create something that is really special- you begin with chaos, work through an idea, and then for good or ill, it is finished.

Well, not always to be honest as I was discovering today. It was like idea archaeology- each layer held evidence of a project, most of them unfinished rejects, bits of carving that went wrong, sometimes hours in the making, now gathered for the fire.

Some of the work could be recycled- bits were still usable. However, the idea, the moment of creativity had gone. All that hope and optimism and quiet excitement had gone from the object- it was just wood again.

As I rebuilt shelves and sorted piles of carefully collected driftwood into some kind of order, it occurred to me that all creativity is like this. It is necessary to immerse ourselves in the dust and dirt of what we a trying to create- but there are no guarantees of the final outcome. Failure is part of the process.

My workshop is still not sorted out- it needs another day of cleaning and tidying, ready for a season of creativity again. I find that I have to have a blank space- so I can stop worrying about what I used to do and get on with something new.

The other reason for having a really good sort out is that this year we are taking part in an event called Cowal Open Studios

Here is the link to our page on the website.

If you are here or here abouts in September, you can take a look into my cave, or have a go at some pottery…

Here is the photography I did for the website;

cowal arts 2

Our cricket season begins…

Cricket, Kilmartin glen

First game of the season for Will and I today- always a day to celebrate in our house. (Although the photo above is an old one from last year taken at Dunadd in Mid Argyll.) People who do not understand the noble game may stop reading now!

Today we played for the Greenock 2nd 11 in a cup match round in Helensburgh- against their 1st 11. Actually we only had 8 players in the end- so it was a bit of an uphill battle!

The pitch was, well, moist. The balls from the fast bowlers broke through the turf and either sat up to be smacked, or beetled along the ground. There was some turn, but slow slow turn. I did not bowl today but Will sent down a few overs- he got a googly back through the gate to bowl one of their openers. He also bowled the last over.

I dropped two catches- one should have been taken, the other whilst running in from the boundary- just managed to get a painful finger on it a deep mid on.

I batted at number 3, but by this time the wind had dried out the pitch a little and the ball was spinning and kicking up- I hit a couple of boundaries and then edged one to first slip- out for 11. Grrrr. William did really well too- he made 8 in a last wicket stand of 30 odd, looking comfortable for about 5 overs before a loose defensive shot was taken at silly point.

All out for about a hundred in reply to their 250.

But we both had a great day!

Visiting grand houses…

unfinished carving, mount stuart

 

National Trust

 

The door opened and the guide whispered us in

So as not to wake these pampered stones from sleeping

We complied –

Cowed by brass lions

Overcome by intricately carved columns

Hardly daring to step from our shadow

Into gilded light

 

‘Take no photographs’

I wondered why?

Might each impudent proletarian pixel

Pick away the privilege from these old walls?

Might the old masters be blinded in a flash?

 

So we shuffled like deep sea divers

Following monotone stories of accumulation

 

Despite my love of the shape of things, I found myself repelled

This was never a home

It was a machine that enslaved people

Every stone was stolen

Gay marriage, and a reason to sing…

Yesterday I was talking about the power of singing. Today I saw this in the Guardian, and it made the hairs on the back of my neck stand up.

Whatever your views on gay marriage (and I have made mine pretty clear on this blog) you can not escape the burst of exuberant joy let loose in the NZ parliament. It was like captives being freed. What was lost had now been found;

 

New Zealand becomes the first country in the Asia Pacific to legalise same sex marriage. The public gallery in parliament breaks into song following the vote, singing the traditional Maori love song Pokarekare Ana. New Zealand is now the 13th country to legalise gay marriage, after Uruguay passed its law earlier in April

Meeting men from the internet…

FairTradeCoffee

 

Just met a lovely bloke for a coffee in Glasgow. My kids laugh at me when I meet people in person who I have met via ‘tinternet- as if they might be axe murderers or something. However this was another meeting that bucked the trend, not only did I survive unscathed but had a really great conversation about all sorts of things close to my heart.

The meeting was with David Anderson, who is one of the leaders of Garioch Church, a baptist church unlike any other. What they are doing, to people who are interested in new expressions of church as I am, is fascinating. They have an ethos based around small house church gatherings, with an emphasis on community, living lives in connected and honest ways, but also networking these small gatherings, and meeting as a larger group a couple of times a month. Kind of sounds a bit familiar right? A bit New Testament?

Today we talked a lot about the ups and downs of community, and our hopes for a life of faith that escapes from the old religious ghettos.

We also wondered why the climate of religion in Scotland makes some of these things more difficult, at least on the face of things, than south of the border.

It was great to share stories, and to dream of how our communities, at different ends of the country, might support one another in the future.

I think my kids were slightly disappointed that he was not armed with an axe however.

The other bombs…

The media has been constantly picking over the terrible scenes from Boston yesterday- in particular some footage taken on a mobile telephone of the bombs going off- each time in slow motion. There is something fetishistic about it all, despite the utter horror.

At the same time we have had endless speculation about who did it, why they did it, and heard the eye witness testimony of anyone and everyone who was there and prepared to discuss what they saw, and how horrible it was.

Three people dead, over a hundred injured, all reduced to endless infotainment.

iraq-car-bomb

It may come as a surprise to hear that these were not the only bombs that exploded in the middle of packed innocent humanity yesterday. In a wave of bombing across Iraq, at least 27 people were killed and over a hundred injured.

The news told us next to nothing about these other bombs. They were not newsworthy. People in Iraq die all the time, and are not like ‘us’ – there is no shock value, no sense of righteous outrage therefore no airtime required.

Please do not misread what I am saying. The death of an 8 year old boy on the streets of Boston is appalling, despicable, dreadful. But so is the death of an 8 year old boy on the streets of Iraq.

The news has never been just a provider of neutral, bald factual information- it has always been a cultural construct. There was a discussion on the radio this morning about how in the past the news could be regarded as a unifying force- we gathered round the wireless at set times, and (for good or ill) the news collectified our sense of being- it told is who we were.

Those days are gone. Now we can not escape the news- it comes at us full speed from a thousand different sources. It is spewed out so fast and the media machine is so hungry, that content now is increasingly instant, but somehow entirely predictable and repetitive. Stories are slotted into grooves dependent on what we are thought to expect- what will hold our attention, and cause us to retweet items, and share them on facebook.

Is this a problem? When it supports western centric colour blind prejudice it certainly is. Perhaps there are other issues too. Check out this article. Here are a couple of extracts;

In the past few decades, the fortunate among us have recognised the hazards of living with an overabundance of food (obesity, diabetes) and have started to change our diets. But most of us do not yet understand that news is to the mind what sugar is to the body. News is easy to digest. The media feeds us small bites of trivial matter, tidbits that don’t really concern our lives and don’t require thinking. That’s why we experience almost no saturation. Unlike reading books and long magazine articles (which require thinking), we can swallow limitless quantities of news flashes, which are bright-coloured candies for the mind. Today, we have reached the same point in relation to information that we faced 20 years ago in regard to food. We are beginning to recognise how toxic news can be.

News misleads. Take the following event (borrowed from Nassim Taleb). A car drives over a bridge, and the bridge collapses. What does the news media focus on? The car. The person in the car. Where he came from. Where he planned to go. How he experienced the crash (if he survived). But that is all irrelevant. What’s relevant? The structural stability of the bridge. That’s the underlying risk that has been lurking, and could lurk in other bridges. But the car is flashy, it’s dramatic, it’s a person (non-abstract), and it’s news that’s cheap to produce. News leads us to walk around with the completely wrong risk map in our heads. So terrorism is over-rated. Chronic stress is under-rated. The collapse of Lehman Brothers is overrated. Fiscal irresponsibility is under-rated. Astronauts are over-rated. Nurses are under-rated.

News kills creativity. Finally, things we already know limit our creativity. This is one reason that mathematicians, novelists, composers and entrepreneurs often produce their most creative works at a young age. Their brains enjoy a wide, uninhabited space that emboldens them to come up with and pursue novel ideas. I don’t know a single truly creative mind who is a news junkie – not a writer, not a composer, mathematician, physician, scientist, musician, designer, architect or painter. On the other hand, I know a bunch of viciously uncreative minds who consume news like drugs. If you want to come up with old solutions, read news. If you are looking for new solutions, don’t.

Society needs journalism – but in a different way. Investigative journalism is always relevant. We need reporting that polices our institutions and uncovers truth. But important findings don’t have to arrive in the form of news. Long journal articles and in-depth books are good, too.

Dying is easy…

armchair

A poem written whilst reflecting on conversations with people contemplating suicide. Not one person, I hasten to add.

My previous post might suggest the reason for my preoccupation.

Dying is easy

She told me she was not afraid of death

No- she was ready

It was hanging like a curtain between us –

This last taboo

For her, death was just waiting

A vacant arm chair under her weary body

It promised nothing more

Than nothing

But as for me, I felt death to be

Foreign

A country I knew existed

But never planned to visit

Moldova perhaps

Belize

Dying is easy

She said

And I believed her

 

 

The last taboo…

A friend of ours gave us a book to read the other day. Nothing unusual about that, we are blessed with friends who know what moves us, and love to share things they have discovered.

However, this friend is from a different generation- she is almost 80 years old, and has lived a life of adventure. Her father was a famous movie producer/director, who fled from the Nazis and lived his life in England. She grew up in a privileged world, against which she rebelled, becoming an author, a book editor, and eventually meeting her husband, who had been a pilot in the war. They then spent much of their married life living aboard boats, making their last voyage out to St Kilda when her husband was almost 80. Sadly he died about 6 years ago. Since then our friend has travelled the world- Australia, China, India to name but a few of her destinations. In her deep grief she has decided to live life to the full.

Strange then that she is a firm advocate of euthanasia- the right to choose when and where she wants to end her life. Our friend is a firm atheist and humanist, and brings a fierce integrity to her understanding of death.

Or perhaps it is not strange at all. Perhaps the strangeness is to be found in our own attitudes towards death.

The book she gave us is this one;

seize the day

Marie de Hennezel is a gifted psychologist who works as part of a remarkable team of doctors and nurses in a hospital for the terminally ill.  In this eloquent book, she shares her unique perspective on what life and death really mean – and explores how talking about death, and facing up to it, can actually help us lead more abundant lives.

The men and women who come to the palliative-care unit do not always know that they are dying.  It is de Hennezel’s aim to bring them and their loved ones to this knowledge, and then to encourage them to live each day as fully and serenely as possible.  Through insight and humanity, and the unforgettable people she helps, we learn how precious the final days of a person’s life can be and how deeply moving it is to share these moments with someone else.

In an age where people hesitate to talk about dying, Seize the Day lends us the strength to confront the mysteries of death, gives us hope and celebrates the courage of the human spirit.

It is a beautiful book, full of life, grace and deep love of humanity.

Though I walk in the shadow of death, I will fear no evil. So says the psalm that we always hear at funerals. It has often occurred to me that when those words were written, the culture that sang them had no concept of an afterlife. By this I mean that the Old Testament makes no mention of life after death- it was not part of their religion, their culture or their understanding. Yet when we hear the words of Psalm 23 at funerals, we are using them precisely to give us hope of life beyond.

I make this point not as criticism- I too hope and believe that we are spirit as well as body.

However, it is worth thinking again about how our culture has sanitised and compartmentalised death almost as if to pretend it will never happen.

We come to believe that death can be defeated- by healthy life style, good eating, expensive health care. There is so much to distract us from the fullness of what life can be- all that entertainment, electronic isolation etc.

What Marie de Hennezel reminds us of is that we can choose whether we LIVE or not, but we can not choose whether or not we will die. And that to understand this makes us live in a way that transcends the temporal.

Our friend, approaching the end of her life, is putting her affairs in order. But she is very much alive.

 

Hermit…

hermit

 

Have you been following the story of Christopher Knight, who aged 19 walked into the woods in Maine and lived there alone for the next 27 years, surviving by making raids at night to steal food and camping gear? He lasted all those winters with no fires lest he was discovered, wrapped in sleeping bags, until he was arrested stealing food in a trap laid for him. He is now in prison, exhibited like a circus freak.

Writing in the Guardian, Jessica Reed said this;

…for me, hermits, tramps and assorted train-hoppers are a source of hope. They remind me that no matter how caught up we might be in the rat race, there is always a way out. If towering buildings, fumes and overcrowded buses become too overwhelming, those freedom seekers remind us that we can make the choice to just opt out and hit the road. It’s not a lifestyle which would be adopted by many – the vast majority of us would never dare to leave our comfortable life behind – but it is there…

… those who truly master the art of the disappearing act acquire an unworldly quality: they become ghosts, mysterious presences, part of the local folklore, floating unshackled in the wild. This may not be what Thoreau had in mind when he spoke of transcendentalism, but for me it comes pretty close to transcending what capitalism expects of its subjects…

…If the truth be told, I really wish they hadn’t caught him.

I feel the same- sad that he is not still out there in his tent, reading the changes in nature, familiar with the birds and looking forward to everything that spring has to offer.

Which is strange, as I am at my most content when at home with my family. I love to be with my friends and hold on to a high ideal of community. But I entirely understand the longing for a cave or a shelter in the deep woods that is all my own.

There is of course a long tradition of seeking solitude and isolation in the Christian tradition. I always get the impression that famous religious hermits even then had something of a freak show value- they became some kind of celebrities and their stories live on even now.

There was Simeon Stylites for example;

On one occasion, moving nearby, he commenced a severe regimen of fasting for Lent and was visited by the head of the monastery, who left him some water and loaves. A number of days later, Simeon was discovered unconscious, with the water and loaves untouched. When he was brought back to the monastery, it was discovered that he had bound his waist with a girdle made of palm fronds so tightly that days of soaking were required to remove the fibres from the wound formed. At this, Simeon was requested to leave the monastery.

He then shut himself up for one and a half years in a hut, where he passed the whole of Lent without eating or drinking. When he emerged from the hut, his achievement was hailed as a miracle.[2] He later took to standing continually upright so long as his limbs would sustain him.

After one and a half years in his hut, Simeon sought a rocky eminence on the slopes of what is now the Sheik Barakat Mountain and compelled himself to remain a prisoner within a narrow space, less than 20 meters in diameter. But crowds of pilgrims invaded the area to seek him out, asking his counsel or hisprayers, and leaving him insufficient time for his own devotions. This at last led him to adopt a new way of life.

In order to get away from the ever increasing number of people who frequently came to him for prayers and advice, leaving him little if any time for his private austerities, Simeon discovered a pillar which had survived amongst ruins, formed a small platform at the top, and upon this determined to live out his life. It has been stated that, as he seemed to be unable to avoid escaping the world horizontally, he may have thought it an attempt to try to escape it vertically. For sustenance small boys from the village would climb up the pillar and pass him small parcels of flat bread and goats’ milk.

In this last and lofty station (15 M high, 1M square), the Syrian Anachoret resisted the heat of thirty summers, and the cold of as many winters. Habit and exercise instructed him to maintain his dangerous situation without fear or giddiness, and successively to assume the different postures of devotion. He sometimes prayed in an erect attitude, with his outstretched arms in the figure of a cross, but his most familiar practice was that of bending his meagre skeleton from the forehead to the feet; and a curious spectator, after numbering twelve hundred and forty-four repetitions, at length desisted from the endless account. The progress of an ulcer in his thigh might shorten, but it could not disturb, this celestial life; and the patient Hermit expired, without descending from his column.[3]

This degree of asceticism, to a lazy and easily distracted contemplative such as myself has a similar effect to the story of Christopher Knight.

The possibility of a life beyond what we understand is tantalising- not because it offers a real choice to us, but because it allows is to imagine a life beyond. A richer, more vibrant, more connected life; to the order of things, and to God.

where the wild things are