SIMPLE BUT STRONG

O Lord, from whom all good things do come: Grant to us thy humble servants, that by thy holy inspiration, we may think those things that be good, and by thy merciful guiding may perform the same, through our Lord Jesus Christ. 

Deus, a quo bona cuncta procedunt, largire supplicibus tuis, ut cogitemus te inspirante, quæ vera sunt, et te gubernante, eadem faciamus. Per Jesum Christum Dominum nostrum. Amen.

This week’s small jewel is compact and simple, as if it were a quick reminder of basics before the major moments of Ascension Day and Whitsun. Cranmer as usual expands a few Latin nouns and verbs with adjectives and adverbs: te inspirante loses its verb strength but adds “holy”, and te gubernante, in the same way, adds “merciful”. The only real change, though, lies in what, inspired by God, we may think: in the Latin it is quæ vera sunt, things that are true; Cranmer changes that to “those things that be good”. A Platonic equation of the true and the good? A Protestant emphasis on daily life and its moral exigencies? Or simply an echo of the good things in the Acknowledgement?

As for the rhythms, by Classical quantities most would not make clausulæ, and it is interesting that while Cranmer follows the elegant parallelisms, he does not create clausulæ in English either; which, inview of his other perfect ones, I consider supporting evidence of his recognition of, and sensitivity towards, those carefully-constructed rhythmic endings. 

LAETARE: IT'S GRACE, STUPID.

The fourth Sunday in Lent is known as Laetare from the Psalm that begins "Rejoice". It is a pause, as it were, when we may breathe in the midst of our intense self-discipline -- yes, well. Most of us are not very good at intense self-discipline, and so we can feel mildly guilty at not having earned Laetare.
Which brings us to the whole topic of Lenten guilt. Somewhere around Ash Wednesday many of us fully intend this year to "do a good Lent", fasting, praying and giving alms with sincerity, assiduity and regularity. By the time of Laetare for many of us this lovely plan lies in ruins, and we feel guilty.

It is worth stopping to reflect on the similarity of this experience with that of New Year's Resolutions.  And with that of weight-loss plans. For these last, the permanent success rate, it has been proved, is between 2 and 5 per cent: the figures may be the same for New Year's and Lenten resolutions. Even if we consider slimming to be a form of vanity (which it is, health excuses notwithstanding) and Januarius to be a pagan idol (which he is), we are still left with the shards of our Lent.

 The key, of course, lies in the possessive pronoun. Our Lent. My Lent. Not selfishness: I wanted to bring God the offering of a "good Lent", because I love Him and want to do something for Him, as one does for a loved one. Uh, huh. Niet. Time and again, with a divine smile or a heavenly tear, God raps us over the knuckles and says "You've done it again! You've misunderstood me again! I don't want your immolated oxen, your roasted rams, nor do I want your good Lent!"

Right, Lord: what do you want, then? "I want you to realise, once and for all, that contrary to what you humans keep saying it is more blessed to receive than to give, and also a great deal more difficult. I have given you, and keep on giving you, my complete love. I have given you, and keep on giving you, my only-begotten son. I was under no illusion as to what you would do with him. But I knew that once you had done that, I could turn precisely that horror, that evil so typical of y'all, into the greatest good, for you. So look at what my Son said to Nicodemus, that intelligent believer. 'God did not send his Son into the world to condemn it, but so that it might be saved through him. He that believes in him is not condemned; he that does not is already judged. The world did not accept the Son because men of evil deeds prefer the dark to the light.'"

So we should work at doing good deeds? "Yes and no: what He went on to say was 'but whoever does truth comes into the light.'" Doing truth. Not doing good deeds. Doing truth. It sounds odd and illogical. Is truth something you do?

Here we are with the shards of our Lent. But Lent is still going on. And we have failed. Again. So we smile, say "Thank you, Lord, for the lesson," and get up and go on. Knowing that we can do absolutely nothing; that we have been given the gift of God's love free and without charge, and that it does not matter a tinker's fart whether we fast or eat, write cheques or save, and go to Church or not. God did not check up on all those things before deciding whether we were worthy of his love. What we do, being loved like that, is work at fully realising it, taking it in, letting ourselves be overwhelmed. That, I suspect, is what "doing truth" is. Being love, God's love is always the same as our love, which is why we can love him back. Being God's, it is always also different. Always a little unsettling. But not -- pace much modern church rhetoric of the "naught for your comfort" kind -- demanding. I'm not sure God ever demands. I think he gives, and waits for us to receive and accept. Learning to do that is "doing truth". And it results in rejoicing. Laetare, indeed.

BETTER LATE THAN NEVER -- A GREAT WOMAN

Thinking about something to write today, I realised that I had completely forgotten June 15, the feast of the Anglican saint Evelyn Underhill. I use the term “Anglican Saint” gingerly but confidently: the Anglican Church officially has no saints of its own, only those shared with the Roman Catholic Church from before the Reformation; but the Standing Commission on Liturgy and Music has created a very decent Calendar of “Holy Men, HolyWomen”, and when, a number of years ago, I went to Mass at my old Toronto Church of St Mary Magdalene I heard, in the Litany, among a long list of other saints asked to pray for us, “Saint George Herbert”! So I have little reluctance in calling Evelyn Underhill an Anglican saint, and indeed a Doctor of the Church. I first heard about her from my late mother-in-law Noel Wynyard, a rather saintly woman in her own right about whom my daughter Tessa Kuin Lawton wrote a very fine biography, and who greatly admired Underhill as a teacher of Anglican spirituality.

Reading her famous book Mysticism, first published in 1911, I am struck by the civilised ease of the style and the enduring freshness of her intellectual approach. An example, from the introduction:

“All men, at one time or another, have fallen in love with the veiled Isis whom they call Truth. With most, this has been a passing passion: they have early seen its hopelessness and turned to more practical things. But other remain all their lives the devout lovers of reality: though the manner of their love, the vision which they make to themselves of the beloved object varies enormously. Some see Truth as Dante saw Beatrice: an adorable yet intangible figure, found in this world yet revealing the next. To others she seems rather an evil but an irresistible enchantress: enticing, demanding payment and betraying her lover at the last. Some have seen her in a test tube, and some in a poet’s dream; some before the altar, others in the slime. The extreme pragmatists have even sought her in the kitchen, declaring that she may best be recognized by her utility. Last stage of all, the philosophic sceptic has comforted an unsuccessful courtship by assuring himself that his mistress is not really there.”

And a little further: “the mystics are the pioneers of the spiritual world, and we have no right to deny validity to their discoveries, merely because we lack the opportunity or the courage necessary to those who would prosecute such explorations themselves.”

And it occurred to me that in this current age, when Islamist terrorism has given rise to a whole new materialist atheism that (in order not to seem to discriminate) now considers all religion not only as ridiculous but as inherently toxic; reading, marking, learning and inwardly digesting sages such as Underhill – who includes Muslim and Buddhist mystics in her considerations – may be a crucial antidote.

PURE JOY

Psalm 96. Cantate Domino

O SING unto the Lord a new song : sing unto the Lord, all the whole earth.
2. Sing unto the Lord, and praise his Name : be telling of his salvation from day to day.
3. Declare his honour unto the heathen : and his wonders unto all people.
4. For the Lord is great, and cannot worthily be praised : he is more to be feared than all gods.
5. As for all the gods of the heathen, they are but idols : but it is the Lord that made the heavens.
6. Glory and worship are before him : power and honour are in his sanctuary.
7. Ascribe unto the Lord, O ye kindreds of the people : ascribe unto the Lord worship and power.
8. Ascribe unto the Lord the honour due unto his Name : bring presents, and come into his courts.
9. O worship the Lord in the beauty of holiness : let the whole earth stand in awe of him.
10. Tell it out among the heathen that the Lord is King : and that it is he who hath made the round world so fast that it cannot be moved; and how that he shall judge the people righteously.
11. Let the heavens rejoice, and let the earth be glad : let the sea make a noise, and all that therein is.
12. Let the field be joyful, and all that is in it : then shall all the trees of the wood rejoice before the Lord.
13. For he cometh, for he cometh to judge the earth : and with righteousness to judge the world, and the people with his truth.


This morning's Psalm. The trees rejoice before the Lord.

ABSOLUTE AND UNSENTIMENTAL

A lot of sentimentality surrounds Francesco Bernardone of Assisi. What that means is that he attracted -- and attracts -- much unsophisticated affection, which is a Good Thing. He wrote the Canticle to the Sun, and a few other texts, but scholars do not believe he wrote the one below, often attributed to him. My own feeling is that the word "tristezza" gives the game away: it seems 19th-century at the earliest. But on the other hand, it is not attributed to St Francis for nothing: it reflects his spirit perfectly, and is satisfying, moving, and inspiring (though monumentally more difficult to put into practice than its exquisite sound makes it seem -- but then, Italian is the planet's most seductive language). Let's say that he would certainly have written it had he thought of it.

Oh Signore, fa' di me un’istrumento della tua pace

dove è odio, fa' ch' io porti l'amore

dove è offesa, ch' io porti il perdono,

dove è discordia, ch' io porti l'unione,

dove è dubbio, ch' io porti la fede,

dove è errore, ch' io porti la verità,

dove è disperazione, ch' io porti la speranza,

dove è tristezza, ch' io porti la gioia,

dove sono le tenebre, ch' io porti la luce.

Maestro, fa' ch' io non cerchi tanto

di essere consolato, quanto di consolare,

di essere compreso, quanto di comprendere,

di essere amato, quanto di amare.

Perchè si è dando, che si riceve,

perdonando, che si è perdonati,

morendo, che si resuscita a vita eterna.

Oh, make me, Lord, an instrument of Thy peace

where there is hatred, let me bring love,

where there is offence, let me bring forgiveness,

where there is discord, let me bring unity,

where there is doubt, let me bring faith,

where there is error, let me bring truth,

where there is despair, let me bring hope,

where there is sadness, let me bring joy,

where the shadows are, let me bring the light.

Master, make me not seek so much

to be consoled, as to console,

to be understood, as to understand,

to be loved, as to love.

For it is in giving that we receive,

in forgiving that we are forgiven,

in dying that we rise to life eternal.

The image is by Giotto (1267-1337): 'St Francis preaching to the birds' in the Basilica of St Francis in Assisi.