A small word on the poetic

My readers will probably be surprised at my suggestion that any entry of mine is 'small' - I suppose the difficulty for the 'anchorites' of any era is that, with so much solitude, blessed though it may be in itself, those of us who love words have little chance to share them and can tend to rather overdo that for which we seldom have the chance to indulge. Yet resuming my 'blogging' is rather like trying to ride a bicycle after years away from the practise (not that I ever did that well either.) I was seeking to have some inspiration and produce an interesting entry - and, with no such inspiration at hand, I decided just to share a few rambling thoughts.

I sat my final exams for my divinity degree in May, and, anxious though I am about my results (I shall reassure the young that this approach never varies, even when one has been a student for half a century), I am happy that I survived intact. :) In fact, I found I was rather enjoying myself during my Philosophy of Religion exam, though whether the examiners will enjoy my glibness and originality remains to be seen. (See previous blog entries to get some of the flavour...) I believe I did well enough on Old Testament, but I had a bit of a memory lapse during Old Testament Theology.

I was most fortunate that, during that same period, I had the chance to spend ample time with dear friends whom I do not often see. They are a diverse bunch, with varied interests and usually others in attendance, equally delightful, for me to meet, and it was a great pleasure. On one occasion, when I arrived slightly earlier than the other guests for a lunch party, I found myself involved in a marvellous discussion (with my two friends who were the hosts) of Cranmer, development of the Book of Common Prayer, and the brilliance of the language of Anglican liturgy. (I have heard that, here and there, there are those who have never engaged in such conversations socially - I suppose that could be true. Then again, I've also heard that there are a few people in the world who do not love Shakespeare, Chaucer, great music, or art - that's a bit too incredible for me to believe.)

I've noticed that it is not unusual for those who are devout, especially when their focus is on the liturgical, to have interests in the arts and literature. Cranmer may not have met any standard of heroic sanctity (the earliest days of the Church of England were no more dominated by those of great holiness than were their contemporaries in Rome... just what was it about the Renaissance?). Yet he was a liturgical genius, not only able to join elements of texts from ancient practise with common worship accessible to all in his time, but to demonstrate a facility with the language which was on a par with the great writers who were his near contemporaries.

I am well aware that the very recent liturgical reforms often centred on simplicity of text. (I shall refrain from commenting about avant garde versions in dialects. I suppose that everyone, who speaks any tongue, converses in dialect... but it's an insult to people's intelligence to think they wish to use the same in worship. It would be rather like being in a courtroom and having the judge call out, "Hey, listen up!") Repetition was often frowned upon, for example. Yet, as I was mentioning to my companions, it was a sad loss, in the Roman Catholic Church, when, just as one example, Ostiam Puram, Ostiam Sanctam, Ostiam Immaculatum (no comments about my Latin, please - I know it is rusty) was excised from the Eucharistic Prayer. I believe the Host should have been permitted to remain pure, holy, and immaculate - for repetition, beautiful use of language, capture the poetry which so enriches worship.

Many Christian doctrines are wonderfully captured in our prayer, even if, as I've mentioned in previous posts, we cannot explain them in 'essay form.' "Felix culpa," so magnificent in liturgy, can seem a rather bizarre concept. "Glory be to the Father, etc." makes perfect sense during the Offices, though one cannot explain the Trinity. We need to be reminded of divine transcendence, and the limitations of our own vision, even as we glorify the divine nature we have been privileged to share.

Coincidentally, this past Sunday I attended an excellent lecture about Gerard Manley Hopkins. (I must write an entry about him one day. It is unfortunate that one who had such an appreciation for beauty, and wonderful artistry with language, became so totally focussed on crucifixion, suffering, and sacrifice that his own life would be dismal - and that his desire for detachment and severance of connections with a previous way of life, good though that life had been, caused much of his early poetry to be destroyed.) The lecturer was emphasising how Hopkins' poetry leaves us with wonder, not full understanding.

The poetic expresses eternal truth - not necessarily religious, of course - yet equally reminds us of the limitations of our own vision. We tend to be both too literal today and too afraid of violating political correctness to capture the poetic. "Almighty God, to whom all hearts are open, all desires known, and from whom no secrets are hid; cleanse the thoughts of our hearts by the inspiration of thy Holy Spirit, that we may perfectly love thee and worthily magnify thy holy Name..." Well, liturgy can hardly get much better than that, can it not? Yet it is excised from many celebrations, or merely used as a suggested meditation before the service. I suppose the fear of alienating others makes some hesitate to suggest that God knows all... I must be slow, because I would have thought that the divine knowing all would mean being able to bestow the grace to cleanse us to perfectly love, even if we ourselves cannot see the obstacles in our path.

...Now, I shall stop being so pedantic for the moment, and consider whether my next essay for the web site should be, perhaps, on the Wife of Bath...