♦ May 20, 2015 ♦
“Where is that fire that once descended on thy apostles?” (George Herbert)
There has been another Pew survey released, once again noting the steady decline in the number of Americans who self-identify as Christians, let alone religious. We are getting used to such reports, I suppose. The temptation is to lament our own failures as Christians in spreading the good news, and perhaps for some of us simply to get used to the fact that we are in a steadily dwindling minority—that’s at least the tack the various media pundits expect us to take.
Well
, Christianity has a long history of ups and downs—times when the work of the Spirit seemed all too evident, and times when the work of the Spirit seemed all too absent. As Paul knew well, the Spirit blows where the Spirit wills. In fact, in Christian thought the sense of God’s absence is often as powerful as a conviction of God’s presence, and in some ways more accurate and, paradoxically, more attuned to the way God seems to work—in a negative way, a kind of via negativa.
As evidence, I offer two magnificent Pentecost poems, separated by more than three centuries, both of them by Christian priests for whom the opposite of faith was not doubt, but certitude. The first is by George Herbert, who knew something about the Spirit’s unpredictable presence (“… Scarce a good joy creeps through the chink: …”). The second is by R.S. Thomas, whose faith found its voice in his sense of the Spirit’s persistent absence (“… He keeps the interstices/In our knowledge, the darkness/Between stars. …”) They celebrate a Pentecost for the “nones” among us.
Whitsunday (George Herbert, 1593-1633)
Listen sweet Dove unto my song,
And spread thy golden wings in me;
Hatching my tender heart so long,
Till it get wing, and flie away with thee.
Where is that fire which once descended
On thy Apostles? thou didst then
Keep open house, richly attended,
Feasting all comers by twelve chosen men.
Such glorious gifts thou didst bestow,
That th’ earth did like a heav’n appeare;
The starres were coming down to know
If they might mend their wages, and serve here.
The sunne, which once did shine alone,
Hung down his head, and wisht for night,
When he beheld twelve sunnes for one
Going about the world, and giving light.
But since those pipes of gold, which brought
That cordiall water to our ground,
Were cut and martyr’d by the fault
Of those, who did themselves through their side wound,
Thou shutt’st the doore, and keep’st within;
Scarce a good joy creeps through the chink:
And if the braves of conqu’ring sinne
Did not excite thee, we should wholly sink.
Lord, though we change, thou art the same;
The same sweet God of love and light:
Restore this day, for thy great name,
Unto his ancient and miraculous right.
Via Negativa (R.S. Thomas, 1913-2000)
Why No! I never thought other than
That God is that great absence
In our lives, the empty silence
Within, the place where we go
Seeking, not in hope to
Arrive or find. He keeps the interstices
In our knowledge, the darkness
Between stars. His are the echoes
We follow, the footprints he has just
Left. We put our hands in
His side hoping to find
It warm. We look at people
And places as though he had looked
At them, too; but miss the reflection.