Faith as Poetry

Have patience with everything that is unsolved in your heart and try to cherish the questions themselves…Do not search now for the answers which cannot be given you because you could not live them. It is a matter of living everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps you will then gradually, without noticing it, one distant day live right into the answer.—Rainier Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet

What if creating our personal faith was like writing a poem? Not doggerel or a sentimental one-size-fits-all Hallmark card, but a creation of content, form, style — all of that welling up through hard-won experience.

What is “faith”? Is it a journey, a process, a procedure with a product at the end, a string of moments that our memories turn into a continuous experience? Should we tend our faith like we would a garden, yanking out the weeds and watering regularly? Is it like playing a piece that we’ve performed hundreds of times, each performance slightly different from the last because we have incrementally changed since last we performed it? Perhaps, as we are often told, it is a gift not received until we open it. Or is it the speaking into sound of our suffering, the dis-ease we feel being apart from God, the telos of our completion?

If it were simple we would not be having this communion. I don’t know all the ways in which faith is veiled to our comprehension, but I can give voice to what I am beginning to grasp about it in the light of poetry.

Like poetry, faith can form from a slight movement within our vision or from a word that drops into our life at an opportune moment. As in poetry, we form an idea and express it in a way that allows for both consistency and fluidity. The writing of it — and the living of it — takes attention, creativity, commitment, sacrifice, and an ability to lift thought to sound. There is something on the page and in the life that can be read and understood; there is something else that arises and moves beyond the meaning of the words, something that could not be entirely predicted from the arrangement of those words. It is a seeing-into, an awareness of the numinous sleeping inside the modestly mundane.

Mary Oliver says in A Poetry Handbook that writing poetry demands “a perfect seriousness. For the would-be writer of poems, this is the first and most essential thing to understand.” Rainer Rilke, in his incomparable Letters to a Young Poet, implores his young friend who is doubtful about his calling, “This before all: ask yourself in the quietest hour of your night: must I write?...And if this should be in the affirmative, if you may meet this solemn question with a strong and simple ‘I must,’ then build your life according to this necessity.” Could we ask for a deeper motivation for the building of our faith?

Rilke’s correspondent, a young officer in the army who longs to be a published poet, has asked for Rilke’s critique of his poems. Rilke responds gently: “You are looking outwards, and of all things that is what you must now not do. Nobody can advise and help you, nobody. There is only one single means. Go inside yourself.”

And we must work out our salvation with fear and trembling, a motion of utter seriousness, and yet not without its playfulness. Where do we begin?

Mary Oliver commends to beginning poets that “to write well it is entirely necessary to read widely and deeply. Good poems are the best teachers.” In flowing that out to faith we have no end of examples. For me, the two that I return to over and over are Abraham contesting with God for the souls in Sodom and Gomorrah, and Jacob desperately wrestling through the night by the river Jabbok. They are heroic figures, all the more appealing in their finitude, striving with all their might with a benignly awesome force that could flick them out of the way in a heartbeat. To read these stories is to wake up; it is to realize with a shiver that while God will not be mocked, He yearns for engagement at close quarters. Our faith is most alive when it is thrown on its back foot; whether reverently challenging God’s judgments as did Abraham or striving to realize our new identity in God as Jacob did, we learn first by seeing and then by doing.

Oliver continues her master class with an invitation to imitate. “Before we can be poets, we must practice; imitation is a very good way of investigating the real thing.” As she says, there is very little downside to this. In imitation we try on the unfamiliar, testing whether the expression we’re holding feels like it could be ours. “Imitation fades as a poet’s own style — that is, the poet’s own determined goals…Begins to be embraced.”

Are we the impassioned, but clear thinking Augustine of The Confessions, or the restrained tensile strength of Dorothy Day and Simone Weil? The gentle and comforting hand of Henri Nouwen or the stern ebullience of Martin Luther? The brilliant erudition of John Donne and Karl Rahner or the urgent intensity of Jurgen Moltmann and Dietrich Bonhoeffer?

We must begin in faith to find our “style” of faith. We are beginners and we do not know ourselves enough to know what is truly ours. Rilke, advising the young Herr Kappus, says, “To love is also good: for love is difficult…Therefore young people, who are beginners in everything, cannot know love yet: they have to learn it.”

And we have to learn faith — it’s not self-evident or obvious nor is it a matter of simply trusting the smirking and coiffed televangelist. Whatever else we may learn about faith, we can know by example, by story — eventually by experience — that it is supple and flexible rather than hard and brittle. It not only adapts to changes, it is change; if it were not so there would be no possibility of surviving our pasts.

“What might it mean to be drawn into meanings that, in some profound and necessary sense, shatter us?” asks Christian Wiman in My Bright Abyss. “This is what it means to love. This is what it should mean to write one more poem. The inner and outer urgency of it, the mysterious and confused agency of it. All love abhors habit, and poetry is a species of love.” The spark that jumps where love and faith touch is enough to renew us in responding to the God who “makes all things new.”

Our experience is all we’ve got, but it’s enough. Our bodies, ourselves, our needs and wants, may coalesce into some kind of coherent narrative over time, but that usually appears in the rear-view mirror. Going forward, and in the present moment, it’s much more difficult to know where we are. Christian Wiman, commenting on the American poet, Hart Crane, muses that “he did to some extent confuse meaningful experience with mere turbulence, as if one weren’t truly in one’s life unless one were being overwhelmed by it.” We needn’t feel ashamed if our experience is quiet, even reticent, rather than crackling with drama. We get the conversions we need, not the ones we envy.

There is a way of relating to faith that is indolently passive. We go about our business, occasionally mildly surprised that nothing has bloomed in the no-mans land between us and God — a change of situation, an uplifting feeling, a new viewpoint on our life’s journey — something that should happen to us. But when we attempt to make something happen it inevitably falls flat. Maybe we read our Bible for fifteen minutes a day, pray for fifteen, start going to church more or even for the first time, disconsolately trudging down the path mapped out by spiritual self-help consultants. These actions can seem like we’re priming the pump or cutting down on the odds that lightning will strike and we’ll have a spiritual experience. This is not the dark night of the soul, it’s more like twilight for spiritual zombies. If that sounds harsh it’s because there is no formula for writing great poetry any more than there is a formula for walking, open and unafraid, in faith.

Great poetry, I am convinced, is the result of being rooted in this world while seeing beyond it. It takes our full attention, both as writers and as readers. It is often difficult, because speaking life through our words is hard, just as folding our words into our waking lives is hard. All this can be said of faith, no doubt.

For poets, and for the rest of us, what really matters in life and in poetry begins with questions. For the poet, as for the traveler in faith, there is an active waiting, not straining, that is as much about hope as it is about faith. As the epigram from Rilke says, “Live the questions now,” and we may “one distant day live right into the answer.”

Barry Casey taught religion, philosophy, and communications for 28 years at Columbia Union College, now Washington Adventist University, and business communication at Stevenson University for 7 years. He continues as adjunct professor in ethics and philosophy at Trinity Washington University, D.C. More of the author’s writing can be found on his blog, Dante’s Woods.

Photo by Stefan Kunze / Unsplash.com

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This is a companion discussion topic for the original entry at http://spectrummagazine.org/node/8903
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That is why the Psalms are so dear.

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“The message of poems about life and the state of affairs may be understood and are to be applied in our personal life. In this way, poetry teaches us the lessons about how to live life providing the meaning of life.”

This essay by Barry Casey serves as a great reminder that in whatever form or a language the poetry is written, poetry is after all poetry with an objective of inspiring, consoling, encompassing a great power and appeal to delight the reader while heightening an awareness of various situations and discussing the aspects of life. This leads us to understand and interpret what has been written, with what objective so that the purpose of a poem or specific verses may be served well.
For example, I find that in the great poem “Thanatopsis” by Bryant, the voice of God also tells us that when we die, we won’t be alone. Bryant attempts by using beautiful poetry to show the relationship between death’s eternal questions and the ongoing cycle of nature and life. The last stanza is my personal favorite:

"So live, that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, which moves
To that mysterious realm, where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
_About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams." _
by William Cullen Bryant

Every person who has ever lived is in the ground (“the great tomb of man”) and everyone who is alive will be soon be dead and in the ground too. This idea is meant to be comforting, and the poem ends by telling us to think of death like a happy, dream-filled sleep, “caravan”.

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Nothing teaches better than experience; and nothing better than the mistakes we make. Mistakes create questions and questions make life a quest. As a child, we make plenty of mistakes - if allowed to - and the earlier we’re allowed make them, the better. Later the mistakes cost more. As children, we give our faith generously; as we grow we become more cautious. Why did Jesus say we should become like little children?------ Now there’s a question to “live into”.

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…and then there are Bob Dylan’s seemingly paradoxical lines from Love Minus Zero: “She knows there’s no success like failure / And that failure’s no success at all.”

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In the book of Hebrews, it is written, “Faith is the substance of thinks hoped for, the evidence of things not seen”; but “substance” and “evidence” are poetic. In a modern paraphrase, expressed in plain English, it might best be written, “Faith is the sincere belief that you will get what you hope for, the childlike trust that things are really just as you were told they are.” It comes across clearly in David’s soliloquy, Psalm 23, a reflection, a realization, an exclamation, as it were, that God, wonder of wonders, loves him:

  • I
    The Lord is my shepherd;
    I shall not want.
    He makes me to lie down in green pastures;
    He leads me beside the still waters.
    He restores my soul;
    (He leads me in the paths of righteousness
    For His name’s sake.)

    Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
    I will fear no evil;
    For You are with me;
    Your rod and Your staff, they comfort me.

  • II
    You prepare a table before me in the presence of my enemies;
    You anoint my head with oil;
    My cup runs over.

    Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me
    All the days of my life;
    And I will dwell in the house of the Lord
    Forever.

Faith and love indeed are intertwined, for one must have faith to accept that one is truly loved; and love demands faith of the beloved: “I will never leave you, nor forsake you,” Jesus said. “I am going to prepare a place for you. Then I will come again for you and receive you to Myself that where I am, there you may be also.” Remember when Peter saw the wind and waves? He was afraid and, beginning to sink, cried out, “Lord, save me!” Immediately Jesus reached out his hand and caught him. “You of little faith,” he said, “why did you doubt?” Mat. 14:22-36 cf. Heb. 11:6

For the fruit of faith is COURAGE expressed in as many ways as there are people on the earth: “Are we the impassioned, but clear thinking Augustine of The Confessions, or the restrained tensile strength of Dorothy Day and Simone Weil? The gentle and comforting hand of Henri Nouwen or the stern ebullience of Martin Luther? The brilliant erudition of John Donne and Karl Rahner or the urgent intensity of Jurgen Moltmann and Dietrich Bonhoeffer?” – Barry Casey, Philosopher :slight_smile:

///

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Barry, I find that compartmentalizing helps me to keep clarity and “sanity.” I make the distinction of the Bible that we are to embrace “the faith” as Christians. I find that I do that both in a cognitive and emotional way. “My faith” is in “the faith.” My “hope” is “the faith” I have embraced is true and worthy of hope. I as the rest of you will likely acknowledge the faith I acknowledge is not always equal to my “experiential” actions as I always come up short. So of the “faith,hope and love”, I cherish “He loved me and gave himself for me” because it is love that helps carry me when I am at my wits end and also when I so often see my expressed faith doesn’t always match my experiential faith.
That is my way of expressing some of your thoughts. Again, I appreciated your article on the importance of words.
Cheers,
Pat

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