PERHAPS TO SING

HYMN

(tune: Melcombe)

The daily round, the common task

Are not enough for what we ask:

No Martha chose to cook the meal;

The hours of thought are what we steal.

The world is too much with us yet:

We little give and little get;

We lean to keep an even keel;

The hours of thought are what we steal.

Images swirl and whorl and sway

And tempt our eye to fill our day;

We see the world behind the wheel --

The hours of thought are what we steal.

The shouted words of angry men

Pretend that hell is come again

And order us to think them real;

The hours of thought are what we steal.

In hush of waking, barely heard,

Comes murmuring the living Word;

Rich thieves, in gratitude we kneel:

The hours of prayer are what we steal.

R.K.

(with a hat tip to John Keble and William Wordsworth)

ASTONISHING

As a pendant to my recent post on the importance of thought in faith, I thought I would mention a recent experience of quite another kind. I had been thinking about prayer and what it can legitimately request; and as so often, more and more of the things we tend to ask for came in my mind to resemble Huck Finn’s fish-hooks. To me this is still one of the great mysteries of faith. We are encouraged to pray for others; and if we love them or even merely wish them well, we quite naturally pray for their healing if they are sick, for their joy if they are miserable, for their victory if they are in any kind of battle. And yet such results may or may not come to pass, according to what seems either blind chance or materially explicable results. Clearly to any such prayer we must add a te Deo volente, ‘if it please thee, Lord’. 

For what, then, can we pray unconditionally? For ourselves to come, for others to be brought, to the (greater) knowledge and love of God, was my conclusion. For an increase in these may take place in sickness as in health, in unhappiness as in joy, in defeat as in victory. 
And as, in consequence, I made this prayer, feeling (and saying) that such an increase would be a great blessing for me, I had a sudden and vivid sense of the Risen Lord himself at my side, who said, “Oh, and such a blessing for me!” And who then left.

An extraordinary thought, which I suspect others than myself may also find new and inspiring. We know that from the Incarnation to the Passion, his life was a constant gift of love and humility. But how often do we stop to think that our coming (closer) to the knowledge and love of him may be experienced as a blessing by him? It is of course the point of the Parable of the Prodigal Son, and such points we often understand as it were at a distance; but here it was present, personal, and immediate. If you, Aardvark Zygote, in any way increased your openness to his love yesterday, you have given him a day of pure happiness and thanksgiving. Imagine a spontaneous smile of pleasure on his face as he puts another fish on the fire. “Shalom, Aardvark! I was so hoping you’d come! What joy!”


The image is of a crucifix in the castle of  Javier in Northeast Spain, known as 'the smiling Christ'. Probably 15th century.

THE JOY OF THOUGHT

Today is the Feast of St Anselm of Canterbury, the first to offer an ontological proof of the existence of God. What I found particularly pleasing was that this proof, so far from being an outmoded relic of medieval primitivity, was picked up and elaborated by one of the 20th century's greatest mathematicians, Kurt Gödel. As a Bear of Very Little Brain, I have never been any good at either philosophy or mathematics -- to my great regret, since I understand just enough to glimpse the extraordinary beauty that expert practitioners find in both. However, in the explanation given here, I think I can just follow it, and find it deeply pleasing.

I have cited Benedict XVI a number of times in this blog. I'm an Anglican, not a Roman, Catholic, but Benedict has always impressed me greatly by the quality of his thought and by the fact that he has always directed that thought to the relation of faith and reason in our time -- a problem far more important than the interminable arguments about sexuality and reproduction that seem to obsess churches these days. St Anselm might well be adopted as the patron saint of such endeavours.

In the little daily publication I subscribe to, Prions en Eglise, the admirable Sr Emmanuelle Billoteau recently wrote that in this Eastertide where we read Acts and the Gospel of John, we might fruitfully ponder the language we use to one another as Christians. What, she said, do we talk about among ourselves? What, in other words, do we use our minds on? I once frequented a small charismatic community of considerable devotion and spirituality; but I left them, saying to their leader that they seemed to regard God as having created every part of them except their intelligence.

In Spenser's Faerie Queene the Red Cross Knight, stumbling Patron of Holiness, in mortal combat with the serpent Error, is urged by Una, his companion, to "add faith unto your force!" We might suitably adapt this as an injunction to add thought unto our faith, at the highest level we can manage.