A MOVING POEM FROM AN UNCOMPROMISING MAN

This austere 17C Dutch Hebrew scholar, Calvinist pastor, poet and polemicist was Jacobus Revius from Deventer. He was Secretary to the committee that made the official translation of the Old Testament; he had attended Duplessis-Mornay's Academy at Saumur on the Loire; he was a deeply devout man who, while his theology and politics were uncompromisingly Calvinist, had in his devotion and his devotional poetry learnt much from French Catholic verse. In a dusty corner of my computer's memory I came upon his one famous poem, a sonnet called "He Bore Our Sorrows", and thought I might try my hand at a translation.

‘t En zijn de Joden niet, Heer Jesu, die U kruisten,

Noch die verraderlijk U togen voor ‘t gericht,

Noch die versmadelijk U spogen in ‘t gezicht.

Noch die U knevelden en stieten U vol puisten.

‘t En zijn de krijgslui niet die met haar felle vuisten

De rietstok hebben of de hamer opgelicht,

Of het vervloekte hout op Golgotha gesticht

of over Uwe rok t'saam dobbelden en tuisten.

Ik ben ‘t, o Heer, ik ben ‘t die U dit heb gedaan

Ik ben de zware boom die U had overlaan.

Ik ben de taaie streng daarmee Gij gingt gebonden.

De nagel, en de speer, de gesel die U sloeg.

De bloedbedropen kroon die Uwe schedel droeg.

Want dit is al geschied, eilaas, om mijne zonden.

‘Tis not the Jews, Lord Jesu, crucified Thee,

Not they betrayed and dragged Thee to be tried,

Nor they that spat and mocked Thee far and wide,

Nor bound and whipped and loudly vilified Thee.

‘Tis not the soldiers with their fists defied Thee,

Held up the reed nor stabbed Thee in the side,

Raised up the cursèd tree where God’s Son died,

Nor diced over thy clothes as all decried Thee.

‘Tis I, O Lord, ‘tis I did this to Thee:

I am the beam that made Thee slip and fall,

I am the cruel cord that bound Thee in;

The nail, the spear, the scourge that wounded Thee,

The blood-soaked crown Thy skull bore for us all:

Alas, I made this happen, by my sin.

LITTLE GREAT MAN, GREAT POET

Today is the feast of that truly awesome small humble man Juan de la Cruz -- St John of the Cross -- who had the alarming experience of being befriended, and roped in, by St Teresa of Avila. He was a true mystic, a man of extreme devotion (a practice as rare as extreme mountaineering), and a very great poet. Here is his most famous poem, in an English translation:

On a dark night, 
Kindled in love with yearnings–oh, happy chance!–
I went forth without being observed, 
My house being now at rest.

In darkness and secure, 
By the secret ladder, disguised–--oh, happy chance!–
In darkness and in concealment, 
My house being now at rest.

In the happy night, 
In secret, when none saw me,
Nor I beheld aught, 
Without light or guide, save that which burned in my heart.

This light guided me 
More surely than the light of noonday
To the place where he (well I knew who!) was awaiting me–
A place where none appeared.

Oh, night that guided me, 
Oh, night more lovely than the dawn,
Oh, night that joined Beloved with lover, 
Lover transformed in the Beloved!

Upon my flowery breast, 
Kept wholly for himself alone,
There he stayed sleeping, and I caressed him, 
And the fanning of the cedars made a breeze.

The breeze blew from the turret 
As I parted his locks;
With his gentle hand he wounded my neck 
And caused all my senses to be suspended.

I remained, lost in oblivion; 
My face I reclined on the Beloved.
All ceased and I abandoned myself, 
Leaving my cares forgotten among the lilies.

And here it is in the original Spanish:

1. En una noche oscura
con ansias, en amores inflamada,
¡oh dichosa ventura!
salí sin ser notada,
estando ya mi casa sosegada.

2. A oscuras, y segura,
por la secreta escala disfrazada,
¡Oh dichosa ventura!
a oscuras, y en celada,
estando ya mi casa sosegada.

3. En la noche dichosa
en secreto, que nadie me veía,
ni yo miraba cosa,
sin otra luz y guía,
sino la que en el corazón ardía.

4. Aquésta me guiaba
más cierto que la luz del mediodía,
adonde me esperaba
quien yo bien me sabía,
en parte donde nadie parecía.

5. ¡Oh noche que guiaste!
¡Oh noche amable más que la alborada:
oh noche que juntaste
Amado con Amada.
Amada en el Amado transformada!

6. En mi pecho florido,
que entero para él sólo se guardaba,
allí quedó dormido,
y yo le regalaba,
y el ventalle de cedros aire daba.

7. El aire de la almena,
cuando yo sus cabellos esparcía,
con su mano serena
en mi cuello hería,
y todos mis sentidos suspendía.

8. Quedéme, y olvidéme,
el rostro recliné sobre el Amado,
cesó todo, y dejéme,
dejando mi cuidado
entre las azucenas olvidado.

FOUND IN TRANSLATION?

 

                                                                         Robert Stamps                              Fr Alain Bandelier

It isn't often that a translation, or an adaptation, of a text -- especially a poem -- is as good as the original; and even rarer that it's better. But this is what I discovered when I decided to research a Communion hymn we sometimes sing in our Catholic village Mass here in the South of France, and which is one of the rare ones I love (post-Vatican-II RC liturgies have strange, meandering hymns in minor keys, perhaps as a dim memory of Gregorian chant?). It is called "Dieu a mis son corps entre nos mains" -- God has put his body in our hands. And as I pursued it on the Web, I found that it was an adaptation of an American hymn by Methodist minister and theologian Robert J. Stamps, called "God and Man at Table Are Sat Down". As I listened to it sung by Stamps' friend Jeff Ling, I recognised the tune and thought it a fine hymn; but not up to the French version. Researching that, I found that it had been written by Father Alain Bandelier, an elderly priest active in the Foyers de la Charité, a world-wide network of RC lay persons living in community. I think he should have received a modest prize for this quite lovely hymn.

Venez du fond des temps, du bout du monde,
Cœurs transpercés par la soif et la faim, 
Ouvrez la porte de la joie profonde:
Dieu a mis son corps entre nos mains.

Pourquoi creuser le puits des eaux dormantes,
Dans le désert où vous marchez en vain?
Entrez dans le jardin des eaux qui chantent:
Dieu a mis son corps entre nos mains.

Ce soir de l’eau se change en vin de noce,
Sur la montagne on multiplie le pain.
La vigne en fleur nous donne un fruit précoce:
Dieu a mis son corps entre nos mains.

Geste posé au milieu de l’histoire,
Question posée au bord de nos chemins,
Secret posé au fond de la mémoire:
Dieu a mis son corps entre nos mains.

Le cœur se vide au cœur de ce silence,
Le cœur se brûle au feu de ce lieu saint,
Le cœur s’éveille au cœur de la présence: 
Dieu a mis son corps entre nos mains.

Parole ouverte comme une blessure,
Mots d’un amour qui n’aura pas de fin,
Le Verbe se fait chair et nourriture:
Dieu a mis son corps entre nos mains.

Marie nous donne Dieu comme une enfance,
La multitude est le fruit de son sein;
Voici l’Epouse et la nouvelle alliance:
Dieu a mis son corps entre nos mains.


You can find the printed music here.

SO ANCIENT, SO NEW

Reading -- for the first time, to my shame -- through St Augustine's Confessions, I worked my way through his interminable inquiry concerning memory (fascinating, though), and suddenly came upon this, which of course I remembered as it is often quoted. But to find it embedded in its original context was an immediate and almost spine-chilling thrill: you can imagine Augustinus, having sweated away on his philosophical quest, suddenly breaking out in this immortal prose poem of pure devotion. How can you not love this man?

Sero te amavi, pulchritudo tam antiqua et tam nova, sero te amavi ! 
Et ecce intus eras et ego foris
et ibi te quærebam et in ista formosa, quæ fecisti, deformis irruebam. 
Mecum eras, et tecum non eram.
Ea me tenebant longe a te, quæ si in te non essent, non essent. 
Vocasti et clamasti et rupisti surdidatem meam, 
coruscasti, splenduisti et fugasti cæcitatem meam;
fragrasti, et duxi spiritum et anhelo tibi, 
gustavi, et esurio et sitio, 
tetigisti me, et exarsi in pacem tuam. 


Late have I loved you, O Beauty so ancient and so new, late have I loved you! 
And look, you were within me and I outside, 
and it was there that I searched for you, and into the lovely things you created all unlovely I plunged.
You were with me, and I was not with you. 
Those things kept me far from you which if they had not been in you would not have been at all. 
You called, you shouted, and you broke through my deafness, 
You flashed, you shone, and you dispelled my blindness; 
You breathed your fragrance on me, and I drew in breath and pant for you, 
I have tasted you, and I hunger and thirst. 
You touched me, and at once I burned for your peace.

And such a pleasure to find the original Latin, the compactness of which only increases the emotion.

THE REASONABLE GENIUS

Today is the feast of St Thomas Aquinas, not every modern person's favourite saint. But note him well; find something to read by or even about him: the Wikipedia article is a decent start. He is HUGE. In every sense: his fellow-students at Cologne called him "the dumb ox" because he was very large (if good-looking) and taciturn. But for the next 30 years or so he got up before Mattins every morning and read, thought, and wrote. And wrote, and wrote. It's not his fault that he became the Church's Official Spokesperson at the Council of Trent and got co-opted by every anti-modernist since. He is beyond brilliant. And his junction of faith and reason should be mandatory reading for everyone worried about how to live faith in a supposedly rational (and "therefore faithless") world today. He is a feast for the mind -- a faculty all too often exiled from our sentimental devotion. (I remember leaving an otherwise admirable Catholic prayer group because they lived as if God had created every bit of them except their mind.) And if you look at current cutting-edge images of the Universe, there is nothing there to contradict Thomas's ideas on the Creator and his Creation. Dumb Ox, indeed. From a castle in Sicily to a tomb in Toulouse, this was one stupendous Doctor Ecclesiæ.

Image: Fra Angelico, Virgin & Child with St Dominic and St Thomas Aquinas (detail)

THE JOYS OF TRANSLATION

My priestly daughter suggested I translate into English the admirable little French book on the Mass about which I wrote here in October 2014, Missa Est by Daniel-Rops with stunning photographs by Laure Albin-Guillot. Little did I think what joy the work would give me. One may read a book, which is already an improvement to skimming it; but when you translate it you read it a far more profound way: you have not only to find the words' equivalents but their meaning, which includes their resonance and their overtones. It is this meaning that must be recreated in the new language.
   (I have since discovered that there exists a 1950s American translation put out under the aegis of the very media-oriented Bishop Fulton Sheen, with photographs by the great Canadian Yousuf Karsh; but I don't want to see it before finishing my own, as you can perhaps imagine.)
   Apart from a whole new appreciation of Daniel-Rops's writing, both in the historical explanations and in the fervent meditations on each part of the ceremony, I've been struck by the intricacy, the structure, the profundity of significance and the potential for spirituality of the 1570 Tridentine Roman Mass. We non-Roman Catholics often grew up with an apprehension of things Papist on the one hand; and on the other, our Roman brethren have now, since the Second Vatican Council, so altered the liturgy that it often bears only the faintest, reminiscent resemblance to its magnificent forebear.

   The intricacy, first: as Daniel-Rops explains in his Preface, not one of its 30 parts can be considered, as the Tridentine Catechism puts it, 'as useless or superfluous'. 'The smallest versicle, the sentence it takes only seconds to pronounce, are an integral part of a whole where are associated and proclaimed the gift of God, the oblation of Christ and the Grace we receive. It is like a spiritual symphony, where all the themes come back, complete one another, and unite in a single intention.'
   The structure, second: we enter with anticipated joy; find our emphatically-imperfect inner mess a block, so confess; are absolved; hear the Church's teaching in readings and homily; include the world in our preparatory prayers; offer the fruits of the earth that will be transformed; assist, in wonder and prayer, at the Consecration; communicate; are brought back to the world in the Postcommunion; are blessed, and go back to our lives. It is as structured as a great play. 
   Profundity of significance. There is not a detail -- as I once explained to student to whom all this was new and fascinating -- that does not have at least six centuries of meaning attached to it; that does not come from years, decades or centuries of intelligence feeding devotion. Take the Confiteor, the General Confession: the priest who leads it, and who is sometimes followed in this by members of the congregation, strikes his breast three times, an ancient sign of humility. These three strikes are knocks: Christ's knocking at the door of our closed and stubborn heart. If we open to them in the Confession, we may be freed from our burden by the Absolution. 
   Finally, the potential for spirituality. If we participate entirely, with our whole being, in such a Mass, we will emerge as from a great tragedy: scoured and cleansed, washed and slightly trembling, but with a renewal of joy, hope and courage for the days to come. 

But where to find such a Mass, today? The international and universal intelligibility of Latin has gone, and visitors can barely follow what is going on. The Mass as I experience it in my cluster of French villages is a travesty; the gestures are hurried if not suppressed, half the words are missing, the atmosphere is that of an amicable chat among friends; the texts are half improvised, the homilies bellowed into an unnecessary microphone --- and yet the villagers are happy. The flow of the liturgy is brutally checked by the exchange of the Peace, as if King Lear were interrupted in the middle of Act IV by a loquacious bumpkin engaging the audience; yet the elderly peasants smile and say 'La paix du Christ' to their neighbours. It is all very Evangelical and sort of Baptist in atmosphere. It is, apparently, what the Council Fathers in the Sixties wanted, and one suspects it suits our present Pope perfectly. 

Yet those who want something else, who need, who crave a true, silent, adoring worship; who need time and stillness for intense prayer but time and stillness not alone but in community; they are short-changed. Those who yearn for worship of the Highest in reverence, in beauty, in quiet, in a movement of the spirit they can join in, in a 'spiritual symphony', are neglected and, if they are not close to some major city where there is an eccentric Church more or less frowned upon by the authorities, have nowhere to go.

   I do not know the answer to this. I simply hope that those of us who have the need for such a Mass (or Eucharist), replete with the history of our faith and of our Church, filled with the wealth of symbolism it carries, will have the courage to make our needs felt and not to let ourselves be treated as antisocial, egocentric and reactionary aesthetes. 
   As for us Anglicans, who have long had good reason to feel dubious (to say the least) about the Council of Trent, perhaps we should look again at this Mass, which our otherwise admirable ancestors dismissed as diabolical flummery: if we look again, with a devout eye and an open mind, we shall find such a wealth of nourishment for the soul as will last us days, weeks, months, and even years.