Saturday, May 28, 2011

Rambler 110, by Samuel Johnson - All Roads Lead to Rome?

A friend of mine from church sent me this essay on repentance by Samuel Johnson. It needs little from me (or anyone) in the way of an introduction. I should, however, mention that the reading of this essay by Johnson influenced a Benedictine monk, one Rev. James Compton, to leave the Church of Rome; while I'm not sure that the Church of England is the greatest place for any ex-papist to end up, the story is interesting and worth perusing. To be fair, however, the latitudinarian Anglican Church of the 18th century -- in some ways because of, in some ways in spite of, its doctrinal plasticity -- did have within it faithful ministers of Word and Sacrament, many of whom were (in the vein of Cranmer) more influenced by the conservative Reformation. Anyway, the story of a monk becoming disillusioned with Rome's obscurantism seems somewhat analogous to that of another monk some two centuries earlier, whose words, nailed to the door of the Castle Church in Wittenberg in 1517, would seem a fitting introduction to Johnson's lucid essay:

"When our Lord and Master Jesus Christ said, 'Repent' (St. Matthew 4.17), he willed the entire life of believers to be one of repentance."

+ Soli Deo Gloria +

HT: Aaron Lewis

+ + +

No. 110. Saturday, April 6, 1751

At nobis vitae dominum quaerentibus unum
Lux iter est, et clara dies, et gratia simplex.
Spem sequimur, gradimurque fide, fruimurque futuris,
Ad quae non veniunt praesentis gaudia vitae,
Nec currunt pariter capta, et capienda voluptus.
PRUDENTIUS, Cont. Sym. ii. 904.

We through this maze of life one Lord obey;
Whose light and grace unerring lead the way.
By hope and faith secure of future bliss,
Gladly the joys of present life we miss:
For baffled mortals still attempt in vain,
Present and future bliss at once to gain.

That to please the Lord and Father of the universe, is the supreme interest of created and dependent beings, as it is easily proved, has been universally confessed; and since all rational agents are conscious of having neglected or violated the duties prescribed to them, the fear of being rejected, or punished by God, has always burdened the human mind. The expiation of crimes, and renovation of the forfeited hopes of divine favour, therefore constitute a large part of every religion.

The various methods of propitiation and atonement which fear and folly have dictated, or artifice and interest tolerated in the different parts of the world, however they may sometimes reproach or degrade humanity, at least shew the general consent of all ages and nations in their opinion of the placability of the divine nature. That God will forgive, may, indeed, be established as the first and fundamental truth of religion; for, though the knowledge of his existence is the origin of philosophy, yet, without the belief of his mercy, it would have little influence upon our moral conduct. There could be no prospect of enjoying the protection or regard of him, whom the least deviation from rectitude made inexorable for ever; and every man would naturally withdraw his thoughts from the contemplation of a Creator, whom he must consider as a governor too pure to be pleased, and too severe to be pacified; as an enemy infinitely wise, and infinitely powerful, whom he could neither deceive, escape, nor resist.

Where there is no hope, there can be no endeavour. A constant and unfailing obedience is above the reach of terrestrial diligence; and therefore the progress of life could only have been the natural descent of negligent despair from crime to crime, had not the universal persuasion of forgiveness, to be obtained by proper means of reconciliation, recalled those to the paths of virtue, whom their passions had solicited aside; and animated to new attempts, and firmer perseverance, those whom difficulty had discouraged, or negligence surprised.

In times and regions so disjoined from each other, that there can scarcely be imagined any communication of sentiments either by commerce or tradition, has prevailed a general and uniform expectation of propitiating God by corporal austerities, of anticipating his vengeance by voluntary inflictions, and appeasing his justice by a speedy and cheerful submission to a less penalty, when a greater is incurred.

Incorporated minds will always feel some inclination towards exterior acts and ritual observances. Ideas not represented by sensible objects are fleeting, variable, and evanescent. We are not able to judge of the degree of conviction which operated at any particular time upon our own thoughts, but as it is recorded by some certain and definite effect. He that reviews his life in order to determine the probability of his acceptance with God, if he could once establish the necessary proportion between crimes and sufferings, might securely rest upon his performance of the expiation; but while safety remains the reward only of mental purity, he is always afraid lest he should decide too soon in his own favour; lest he should not have felt the pangs of true contrition; lest he should mistake satiety for detestation, or imagine that his passions are subdued when they are only sleeping.

From this natural and reasonable diffidence arose, in humble and timorous piety, a disposition to confound penance with repentance, to repose on human determinations, and to receive from some judicial sentence the stated and regular assignment of reconciliatory pain. We are never willing to be without resource: we seek in the knowledge of others a succour for our own ignorance, and are ready to trust any that will undertake to direct us when we have no confidence in ourselves.

This desire to ascertain by some outward marks the state of the soul, and this willingness to calm the conscience by some settled method, have produced, as they are diversified in their effects by various tempers and principles, most of the disquisitions and rules, the doubts and solutions, that have embarrassed the doctrine of repentance, and perplexed tender and flexible minds with innumerable scruples concerning the necessary measures of sorrow, and adequate degrees of self-abhorrence; and these rules, corrupted by fraud, or debased by credulity, have, by the common resiliency of the mind from one extreme to another, incited others to an open contempt of all subsidiary ordinances, all prudential caution, and the whole discipline of regulated piety.

Repentance, however difficult to be practised, is, if it be explained without superstition, easily understood. Repentance is the relinquishment of any practice, from the conviction that it has offended God. Sorrow, and fear, and anxiety, are properly not parts, but adjuncts of repentance; yet they are too closely connected with it to be easily separated; for they not only mark its sincerity, but promote its efficacy.

No man commits any act of negligence or obstinacy, by which his safety or happiness in this world is endangered, without feeling the pungency of remorse. He who is fully convinced, that he suffers by his own failure, can never forbear to trace back his miscarriage to its first cause, to image to himself a contrary behaviour, and to form involuntary resolutions against the like fault, even when he knows that he shall never again have the power of committing it. Danger, considered as imminent, naturally produces such trepidations of impatience as leave all human means of safety behind them; he that has once caught an alarm of terrour, is every moment seized with useless anxieties, adding one security to another, trembling with sudden doubts, and distracted by the perpetual occurrence of new expedients. If, therefore, he whose crimes have deprived him of the favour of God, can reflect upon his conduct without disturbance, or can at will banish the reflection; if he who considers himself as suspended over the abyss of eternal perdition only by the thread of life, which must soon part by its own weakness, and which the wing of every minute may divide, can cast his eyes round him without shuddering with horrour, or panting with security; what can he judge of himself, but that he is not yet awakened to sufficient conviction, since every loss is more lamented than the loss of the divine favour, and every danger more dreadful than the danger of final condemnation?

Retirement from the cares and pleasures of the world has been often recommended as useful to repentance. This at least is evident, that every one retires, whenever ratiocination and recollection are required on other occasions; and surely the retrospect of life, the disentanglement of actions complicated with innumerable circumstances, and diffused in various relations, the discovery of the primary movements of the heart, and the extirpation of lusts and appetites deeply rooted and widely spread, may be allowed to demand some secession from sport and noise, business and folly. Some suspension of common affairs, some pause of temporal pain and pleasure, is doubtless necessary to him that deliberates for eternity, who is forming the only plan in which miscarriage cannot be repaired, and examining the only question in which mistake cannot be rectified.

Austerities and mortifications are means by which the mind is invigorated and roused, by which the attractions of pleasure are interrupted, and the chains of sensuality are broken. It is observed by one of the fathers, that he who restrains himself in the use of things lawful, will never encroach upon things forbidden. Abstinence, if nothing more, is, at least, a cautious retreat from the utmost verge of permission, and confers that security which cannot be reasonably hoped by him that dares always to hover over the precipice of destruction, or delights to approach the pleasures which he knows it fatal to partake. Austerity is the proper antidote to indulgence; the diseases of mind as well as body are cured by contraries, and to contraries we should readily have recourse, if we dreaded guilt as we dread pain.

The completion and sum of repentance is a change of life. That sorrow which dictates no caution, that fear which does not quicken our escape, that austerity which fails to rectify our affections, are vain and unavailing. But sorrow and terrour must naturally precede reformation; for what other cause can produce it? He, therefore, that feels himself alarmed by his conscience, anxious for the attainment of a better state, and afflicted by the memory of his past faults, may justly conclude, that the great work of repentance is begun, and hope by retirement and prayer, the natural and religious means of strengthening his conviction, to impress upon his mind such a sense of the divine presence, as may overpower the blandishments of secular delights, and enable him to advance from one degree of holiness to another, till death shall set him free from doubt and contest, misery and temptation.

What better can we do than prostrate fall
Before him reverent; and there confess
Humbly our faults, and pardon beg; with tears
Wat'ring the ground, and with our sighs the air
Frequenting, sent from hearts contrite, in sign
Of sorrow unfeign'd, and humiliation meek?

Par. Lost. B. x. 1087


Monday, May 9, 2011

Cantores Vicarii + Glib Thoughts on Poetry and Prayer

I’m reluctant to post any of my more conventional, formal poetry because it always ends up sounding sing-songy, and  not to put too fine a point on it  it always ends up being generally bad. For this reason (and lest someone take my lede to mean that I have written some vast corpus of conventional, formal poetry which I have simply neglected to post, which is a frightening thought) I really just avoid writing it.

It is difficult for me to be concise in prose; formal, metered poetry demands not only that I be concise, but that I do so with the right number of syllables. Also, that I make sense while doing all of the above...

Hmmm. Tall order.

Needless to say, it’s not a challenge I usually take up, preferring instead to slide into the morass of white middle-class twenty-something poseurs who write free-verse.

So I was just about to throw together another batch of flabby no-knead free verse, when I thought to myself, “Why are you about to throw together another batch of flabby no-knead free verse? You should write a real poem.”

(I’ll spare you the excruciating middle part of this boring story, which covers my actual writing of the poem — it was an ungainly process.)

Then, after writing the poem, and after reflecting upon how difficult it had been for me to be concise, I realized that it was sing-songy. I also realized that it may actually fail to meet the stringent requirements of real poetry. For one, its meter is inconsistent. If you wanted to classify it, it would have to be a hybrid of iambo-trochaic numerameter and anapesto-pyrrhic numerameter. You know. It’s one of those. In fact, the only thing that made this remotely like a real, actual poem is that I shirked real, actual responsibilities in order to write it. Because writing a poem, even one that’s not very good, is still more satisfying than writing the comments on elementary schoolers’ mid-quarter grade-reports...

So here it is. This is a poem about prayer. It channels some of my recent reflections on the topic, some of which have arisen because of my distaste for the whole gamut of questions about how prayer works, whether God really responds to prayer (or whether He was never not always already going to answer it/already had answered it before the foundation of the world....chickens, eggs, carts, horses, et al), what does it mean for God to answer prayer, etc. For my part, I tend to disagree with the question, that is to say, I think that an important question is begged, actually, in the asking of it, i.e., that of whether prayer really can be said to “work” at all.

I’m not trying to make a Jesuitical distinction here, nor am I advocating some apophatic “no touchy” rule about prayer as a theological topic, but I frankly think that asking how prayer works is kind of like asking what the square root of purple is  to quote my freshman philosophy prof at Hillsdale, Dr. James Stephens. If there’s an answer to it, it’s not one we can understand; it would seem to follow, then, that it’s probably not beneficial for us to know — those two conditions seem to go hand-in-hand. It seems like the proverbial dog-chasing-the-squirrel scenario: if you’re the dog, what do you do when you catch the squirrel? But then the mix is enlivened even more when you consider that this is no ordinary squirrel: it is the square-root of purple. See? Difficult...

I tend to think (and I’m a hypocrite — thank God the liturgy makes me pray) that it’s better to pray than ask such questions. It’s certainly better to pray than to write bad poetry about prayer. Unsurprisingly, I chose the latter.

+ + +

Cantores Vicarii

Carefully wrapping a nickname
In the chanted tones of prayer,
Interceding thus for those bereaved,
The vicar treads a winding stair:

Although he has not left his knees,
His sung word lofty climbs
To the right hand of the Father,
Through the Holy Spirit’s sighs.

It settles in the Sacred Heart,
This word that he commends,
And the Triune God now listens
To the cries of mortal men.

Is not all prayer such sighing?
Are not our words all groans?
For here’s a mystery
The likes of which remain unknown:

Prayer does not work; it is.
All earthly parlance cracks.
There is no cause, and no effect,
We simply sing words back

Unto the Father, which He gave
To us so long ago
When sounds sank down into the world,
Yet Him we would not know.

The Word made Flesh then taught to us
Those words which we had lost:
“Our Father,” It is finished.”
“Peace.” “Receive the Holy Ghost.”

Hear Him, and Hear the Father.
Eat His Body, drink His Blood;
Prayer  like these  is sweet communion.
Taste, see, say that He is good.

“The word is near you, in your mouth
And in your hearts it rests.
In your hearts then, so believe,
That which your mouths confess.”

It must, then, be enough to pray,
And know that God is good.
Our reason need not part this veil,
Not that it even could.