A World Upside-Down

Editor's Note: I wrote the following piece several years ago after reading Chesterton's biography on St. Francis. I thought it might be appropriate for the season, especially given the Chestertonian theme of this blog.

We need thanksgiving. Yes, I enjoy turkey and mashed potatoes as much as the next man, but that’s not what I mean right now. We, American society—we, the Church around the world—we, you and I—need thanksgiving. Thanksgiving is what keeps sharp the ever-blurring lines between creation and Creator, gift and Giver. It’s what keeps our hearts from becoming hard. It’s what separates icons, which direct us to God, from idols, which take his place. Thanksgiving is the discipline which enables us to see all things as coming from God and to bless him for it.

When I think of thanksgiving in this way, I can’t help but think of St. Francis, for whom everything pointed to God. The sun and the moon, the cold and the fire, each made him clap his hands in delight and call them “sister” and “brother,” for he and they shared one Creator. What he had he gave freely, for he himself had received it as a gift. What he did not give away, he kept freely, for, again, he had received it as a gift. The Church says St. Francis was a mendicant; his father said he was a beggar. He did know how to work, and worked harder than anyone around him, but it was in the sacrament of begging that he learned to receive, to give thanks, and to see all things as coming from the hand of God.

In this way thanksgiving makes you a little bit crazy. What could possess the son of a wealthy textile merchant to go off, clad only in sackcloth, and live on the road, in the wild, or in a worn-down church? Yet he might answer that the sackcloth and the leaky roof were both gifts from one who loved him, and so to him they were as precious as any fine silk. Francis (they didn’t call him “Saint” back then) was known to stand on his head in order to see the world from a different angle. No self-respecting gentleman would do such a thing, yet do we not carefully and lovingly turn a well-received gift over and over in our hands to examine every side and show our appreciation to the giver? Gratitude overwhelmed him, and he turned the world upside down in his holy acrobatics.

Francis lived irrespective of self. A troubadour—a reckless romantic—for him there was only his Lover. Lovers don’t worry about appearances. Surely he knew that normal people don’t talk to birds or ferocious wolves. Surely he knew that normal people don’t embrace their own death and call it “brother.” But for him, all of these things were gifts, for they pointed him towards, and ultimately took him to, his Lover. Thanksgiving places our gifts, our burdens, our surroundings, even our very selves, in proper subordination to the One who gives us all things.

During a difficult season in my life recently, I started each day by praying the Prayer of St. Francis. Make me an instrument of your peace. Where there is hatred let me sow love; where there is injury, pardon... O Divine Master, grant that I may not so much seek to be consoled as to console, to be understood as to understand, to be loved as to love. Little by little I noticed how selfless that prayer was—how selfless my prayers were becoming. Little by little I was coming to God, not to be heard, but first to hear him. I never stopped bringing petitions, but as I took my eyes off of myself, I began to see that all around me was grace, and I fell into gratitude—even gratitude for the discipline that proved my sonship. A self-absorbed life can give only a satisfaction as hollow as the idols we fill it with. But a life of prayer and thanksgiving turns our idols on their heads, turns the world upside down, and makes everything point to God.

We have been given much, and we are faced with much. We have much to mourn, much to repent of, much to petition for, and much to be grateful for. We have many questions to ask, even many objections to raise. But somehow, in a mystery that is itself a gift, we know that all things come from the hand of the One who loves us. And so, in joy and sorrow, we give thanks.

November

I find November

settled into her favorite rocker

where it has been sitting all year,

as if she'd never left.

I'd offer her tea,

but she took the liberty

of brewing a pot, thank you,

and would I like some?

She is comfortably dressed

in browns and tans

with the old familiarity

of a close neighbor just dropping by,

but in no hurry.

Her scarf rustles and gusts

behind her as the chair

rocks back and forth,

back and forth,

like the passing of time.

One of the things I enjoy most about my job is the relative freedom I have to study whatever interests me. Poetry has been a part of my life to greater and lesser degrees for some time, but never have I had as much freedom to work my poetic pursuits into everything else that I do. I began preaching a series on the Psalms with the college students, largely as a way to improve my Hebrew, but I have been finding my literary skills in my own language stretched as well. Most English translations are very good at giving a faithful rendition of the content of the Hebrew Psalms, even making the English translation aesthetically pleasing. But part of the beauty of poetry is that the partnership between form and content is far more intimate than it is with prose. Which words are chosen to rhyme together affects which ideas are emphasized. The rhythm and meter of verse will affect the feeling one gets in reading. Even the kinds of sounds used--hard consonants versus soft--can create an atmosphere of dissonance or tranquility.

As I study the poetic devices utilized in these Hebrew poems, I have begun asking myself, "How might this have been written had it originally been in English?" While this is generally a very subjective process, I have found it helpful in my understanding of each psalm. Psalm 8, for example, incorporates wordplay that draws attention to the word "name" (the word for "your heavens" can sound like "your name"), emphasizing the importance of God's reputation or fame. The poem is also written in a symmetrical form (what scholars call a "chiasm"), so that each line in the first half corresponds to a line in the second half. This draws attention to "man" at the center. At several places, internal rhyme also drives the poem, making the question in v. 4 ("what is man?") all the more powerful. Noticing these things has helped me understand where to focus attention in my preaching. I have also tried to replicate them in my own translations, staying as faithful as possible to the content, but trying even more to utilize form in such a way as to recreate the same sort of effect that reading it in Hebrew might.

Psalm 8

O Master Yahweh, all the earth magnifies your great name!

You, who drape majestic fame across the skies;

Infants’ victory songs rise as vengeful foes are vanquished under foot;

Skies scream out, lunar and celestial luminaries—all your handiwork.

And what, then, is the son of Adam?

Insignificant, unremarkable, you humble him

to be just under yourself. You glorify him

and crown with honor your son Adam.

You stand him, crowned ruler over all your handiwork:

Flocks and cattle, beasts that work—all things are placed under his foot

You raise and put his claim over the hosts of the seas and skies

O Master Yahweh, all the earth magnifies your great name!