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Malachi Black, "Entering Saint Patrick’s Cathedral" (2020)
Read the poem here:  https://poets.org/poem/entering-saint-patricks-cathedral
Explore more poems by Malachi Black here: http://www.malachiblack.com/
Hello there. Corinna Laughlin here with the poem of the week.
This week, I’ve chosen “Entering Saint Patrick’s Cathedral” by Malachi Black, a brand-new poem which appeared earlier this year. Scott Webster will read the poem, and then I’ll be back with some brief commentary.
Thank you, Scott.
Malachi Black is a young poet. Born in Boston, he now teaches at the University of San Diego, a Catholic university, and themes of faith are woven through a number of his poems.
Saint Patrick’s Cathedral is the Cathedral church of the Archdiocese of New York. Of course, it’s much more than that. In many ways, it’s an icon for the Catholic Church in the United States. It’s welcomed Popes and countless visitors—not only Catholics but people of all faiths. It’s also an icon of the Church in this country in its setting—it’s not set among fields or in the middle of a park. It’s in the heart of midtown Manhattan, surrounded by skyscrapers, cultural landmarks like Rockefeller Center, and Fifth Avenue shops like Louis Vuitton, Sak’s, Cartier, and even Victoria’s Secret. Amid the comings and goings, the buying and selling, of one of New York’s busiest streets, St. Patrick’s is a reminder of the presence and of the beauty and importance of faith amid all the other aspects of life that demand our attention.
In his poem, Malachi Black vividly captures two contrasting worlds: the world outside the Cathedral, and the world inside. He steps out of the rain, and as the door slowly closes, the sounds of the city fade and the quiet of the church takes over. The rapid movement of the city—Black mentions cars, bicycles, trucks, and taxis—gives way to stillness. The difference is stark—the door seals out the world “like a coffin lid.”
We know from the beginning that the speaker isn’t here as a tourist. He comes in respectfully, carrying his coat, dripping from the rain. He stands there and clears his throat, about to speak. But first he takes a moment to get accustomed to the atmosphere, so different from the haste of the exterior world. We get the sense that the Cathedral is filled—not with people, but with something else. The chill he feels is “dense” with “old Hail Marys,” like whispered by the people in the pews. It’s as if every prayer uttered here has left its mark, become part of the place. Above him, the stained glass windows gather “the dead and martyred” in vivid color, and before him is “the golden holy altar” and the pipes of the organ, both of which are silent now, but which are filled with potential. The altar holds “its silence like a bell,” and the organ, too, is “alive with a vibration tolling / out from the incarnate / source of holy sound.” The altar, on this quiet, rainy day, is like a bell, waiting to ring; and the organ—like those “old Hail Marys”—has left its imprint on the place, and is “alive” even when silent.
At the end of the poem, as the ceiling bends above him, “like an ear,” listening, he does not speak. In this place, so filled with presence—of those who have come before, of saints, of God—simply being present to all this is in itself prayer. The poem ends with a simple statement: “My body is my prayer.”
I am reminded of some favorite lines from Emily Dickinson on prayer: “awed beyond my errand — / I worshipped — did not ‘pray’ —“ (F525, 1863).
Although this poem is about Saint Patrick’s Cathedral in New York, I think it says something about all great cathedrals, and of course, I include our own St. James Cathedral among them! A cathedral, by its nature, stands in the heart of the city, immersed in the world, yet it invites us to glimpse the world that is yet to be, the heavenly city. When we pray here, we are never alone: we are surrounded not only by the images of saints, but by the saints themselves, and those who have gone before us—what the letter to the Hebrews calls “a great cloud of witnesses.”


"Mediterranean Blue"
Naomi Shihab Nye
Read this week’s poem here:  https://poets.org/poem/mediterranean-blue
Hello there. Corinna Laughlin here with the Poem of the Week. This week, I’ve chosen a poem by a contemporary poet, Naomi Shihab Nye. Jackie O’Ryan will read the poem, then I’ll be back with some brief commentary.
Naomi Shihab Nye was born in St. Louis, Missouri, the daughter of a Palestinian refugee father and an American mother. Now based in San Antonio, Texas, she is one of America’s best-known poets, the recipient of countless awards and fellowships. Her poetry highlights the experience of women, of Arab-Americans, of her Mexican American neighbors in San Antonio, of Muslims, and of refugees and immigrants. She has written poetry and prose for children and young adults as well. Nye has also devoted considerable energy to sharing the voices of other poets, editing anthologies that bring poets from around the world to an English-speaking audience.
Nye has said: “to counteract negative images conveyed by blazing headlines, writers must steadily transmit simple stories closer to heart and more common to everyday life. Then we will be doing our job.”  This poem, “Mediterranean Blue,” written in 2019, is a perfect example of that approach.
Back in 2013, the Italian island of Lampedusa made headlines when a ship carrying more than 500 asylum seekers, mostly from Eritrea in North Africa, sank just off the coast. 366 people died. The death toll was higher partly because the boat was so overcrowded, partly because those on board did not know how to swim. One survivor said, "I'd never been in a body of water before. I was trying to stay afloat by splashing my hands like a dog."
Many of us may not realize that this influx of migrants is ongoing. On one day, September 20 of this year, 26 migrant boats landed at Lampedusa in 24 hours, bringing 263 asylum seekers to Italy. At the island’s intake center for refugees, over a thousand people are crowded into a facility designed for 192.
This is some of the context for this poem by Naomi Shihab Nye. The words “Mediterranean Blue” evoke a beautiful color—we are used to seeing these words on a paint tube or a crayon, perhaps. But here, our attention is immediately drawn to the sea crossed by refugees like those wrecked off the coast of Lampedusa. The poem is as much about Nye’s own experience as it is about theirs: “If you are a child of a refugee, you do not / sleep easily when they are crossing the sea / on small rafts and you know they can’t swim.” She thinks of her own father, and the deep sorrow that is part of the refugee experience: Though he cast aside everything he knew, “tried to be happy, make a new life,” there was something in him “always paddling home,” clinging to things that reminded him of where he began, as a drowning person holds on to whatever is floating in the water. Leaving home has internal consequences as well as external ones.
Only in the second part of the poem does Nye speak directly to the reader about the experience of modern-day refugees. “They are the bravest people on earth right now,” she says; “don’t dare look down on them.” Nye reminds us who these people are—people like us, “each mind a universe,” filled with detail and with memory, and with “love for a humble place” – love for their home. They have let go of all that to risk the sea in which they can’t swim. How could we not “reach out a hand,” if we can?
I think part of what makes this poem so compelling is that Nye unapologetically involves herself and her own story in a poem about refugees crossing the Mediterranean today. Looking at them, she sees her own father, and she recognizes the humanity of each of these people, the value of their individual experience, their memory. For me, this poem is a reminder that compassion doesn’t come automatically: it’s something we need to work at and to foster in ourselves, by intentionally recognizing ourselves and our own immigrant histories in the headlines around us.
For Nye, this active compassion is an essential part of the poet’s task. I want to let Nye conclude our reflection today – this is part of an interview with the poet from 2015, in which she talks about the poet’s civic responsibility.


Gerard Manley Hopkins, "Binsey Poplars, felled 1879"
My aspens dear, whose airy cages quelled,
  Quelled or quenched in leaves the leaping sun,
  All felled, felled, are all felled;
    Of a fresh and following folded rank
                Not spared, not one
                That dandled a sandalled
         Shadow that swam or sank
On meadow & river & wind-wandering weed-winding bank.
  O if we but knew what we do
         When we delve or hew —
     Hack and rack the growing green!
          Since country is so tender
     To touch, her being só slender,
     That, like this sleek and seeing ball
     But a prick will make no eye at all,
     Where we, even where we mean
                 To mend her we end her,
            When we hew or delve:
After-comers cannot guess the beauty been.
  Ten or twelve, only ten or twelve
     Strokes of havoc unselve
           The sweet especial scene,
     Rural scene, a rural scene,
     Sweet especial rural scene.

We have met Gerard Manley Hopkins—poet and Jesuit priest—a couple of times in this series. In his poem “God’s Grandeur,” which we read back in April, we saw the strong ecological bent of Hopkins’ poetry, which comes through in this poem as well. “Binsey Poplars” is a short lyric, an elegy for a grove of aspen trees.
In the first part of the poem, Hopkins evokes the distinctive beauty of the aspen tree, a type of poplar tree with fluttering leaves (which appear with some frequency in English poetry!). Hopkins describes them as “airy cages” that “quelled” or “quenched” the “leaping sun,” beautifully evoking the way the sun shines through the trees. The Latin name of these trees, populus tremula, arises from the distinctive movement of the aspen’s leaves, and Hopkins evokes that playful movement in the poem, describing how the trees “dandled a sandalled shadow.”
Even as he evokes their beauty, we sense the poet’s shock and sadness. His “aspens dear” are “felled, felled, are all felled”: the repetition of the word suggests the blows of the axe which cut them down. Hopkins laments, “if we but knew what we do / When we delve or hew.” Nature, he says, is “tender,” and her “being” is “slender” – nature has the delicacy of an eye, and is as easily harmed or destroyed.
Why does Hopkins mourn the loss of these trees so much? Aren’t there still plenty of aspens in England? In a journal entry written about six years before “Binsey Poplars,” Hopkins wrote: “The ashtree growing in the corner of the garden was felled. It was lopped first: I heard the sound and looking out and seeing it maimed there came at that moment a great pang and I wished to die and not to see the inscapes of the world destroyed any more.”
That word “inscape” is one of Hopkins’ coinages. It could be defined as the distinctive inner nature or shape of a thing – its uniqueness. That’s why he laments the Binsey poplars—because even though there are many trees left, there’s nothing quite like those particular trees – “after-comers cannot guess the beauty been.” Just ten or twelve strokes of the axe and the trees are gone. Worse than gone, they are “unselved,” another Hopkins coinage which points to the destruction of their distinctive identity.
The poem ends with a series of repetitive phrases—“the sweet especial scene / Rural scene, a rural scene, / Sweet especial rural scene.” That repetition has a musical quality, almost like a song fading away. The words are simple, but they highlight, once again, the reality that something unique, something “especial,” has vanished in the destruction of this row of aspen trees.
I chose this poem at this time because Hopkins so beautifully captures the real sadness we experience when we witness the destruction of the natural world. A few weeks ago, the row of elm trees along Marion Street, planted about the time of the Cathedral’s dedication, was cut down. The trees had to be removed because of Dutch elm disease, but knowing that did not make it much easier to see them taken away. On a much larger scale, we have all experienced a sense of loss at the destruction caused by the wildfires across the west coast—millions of acres destroyed; trees and animals gone; countless “inscapes,” as Hopkins would call them, lost to us.
Hopkins looked at the world with an artist’s keen awareness of the beauty around him. In his encyclical Laudato Si, Pope Francis says that this faculty of seeing the beautiful in nature is not tangential to the ecological movement – it is key to protecting the earth and its creatures. Pope Francis writes: “By learning to see and appreciate beauty, we learn to reject self-interested pragmatism. If someone has not learned to stop and admire something beautiful, we should not be surprised if he or she treats everything as an object to be used and abused without scruple. If we want to bring about deep change,” he says, we all need to learn to see the world with a poet’s eyes.


Emily Dickinson, “These are the days when birds come back” (130) c. 1859
These are the days when Birds come back —
A very few — a Bird or two —
To take a backward look.
These are the days when skies resume
The old — old sophistries of June —
A blue and gold mistake.
Oh fraud that cannot cheat the Bee —
Almost thy plausibility
Induces my belief.
Till ranks of seeds their witness bear —
And softly thro’ the altered air
Hurries a timid leaf.
Oh Sacrament of summer days,
Oh Last Communion in the Haze —
Permit a child to join.
Thy sacred emblems to partake —
Thy consecrated bread to take
And thine immortal wine!
For these days of late summer and early fall, I’ve chosen a favorite poem by Emily Dickinson, “These are the days the when birds come back.” Jackie O’Ryan will read the poem, then I’ll be back with some brief commentary.
Thank you, Jackie.
Emily Dickinson never went far from home. Indeed, for most of her life, she never left her house and garden. That being said, it wasn’t just any garden. From a very young age, Dickinson learned to love gardening. As an adult, she maintained an extensive garden, and even had a conservatory for rarer plants indoors. She also kept an herbarium, a common hobby at the time—an album in which she collected pressings of more than 400 different plants, each labeled with its Latin name. When she was a student at Mount Holyoke Female Seminary, Dickinson was pretty miserable—except when she was studying botany!
Dickinson’s niece, Martha Bianchi, left a description of Dickinson’s garden. “There were long beds filling the main garden, where one walked between a succession of daffodils, crocuses and hyacinths in spring—through the mid-summer richness—up to the hardy chrysanthemums that smelled of Thanksgiving, savory and chill, when only the marigolds... were left to rival them in pungency.”
All of this found its way into Dickinson’s poetry, which is full of close observation of the natural world. She saw more in her small corner of New England than most of us see in a lifetime!  She describes a hummingbird as “a resonance of emerald.” Bees are “black, with Gilt Surcingles – Buccaneers of Buzz.” A snake is “a narrow fellow.” A frog is the hoarse “Orator of April.” Dickinson’s descriptions of nature are as accurate and carefully observed as they are idiosyncratic.
In this early poem, written when she was about 29, Dickinson captures the feeling of the transition between the seasons, when fall has arrived but summer is not quite gone. The birds are there—but just “a Bird or two.” The skies are still “blue and gold,” but this is not really summer—this is “sophistry,” a “mistake,” a “cheat.” The bees are not fooled by this “fraud.” And yet, the poet is willing to be deceived and to believe it is still summer, until the falling of the leaves, and the flying of seeds through the air, and the change in the atmosphere put the question beyond any doubt--summer is over.
In the last two stanzas, the diction changes. Instead of language of deception and fraud, Dickinson describes this in-between time in much more elevated terms: “Sacrament,” “sacred,” “consecrated,” “immortal.” She begs to join in this “communion,” to be herself a partaker of the “bread” and “wine” of these last of the summer days.
This poem shows us Dickinson’s careful attention to the natural world. She speaks of nature in a way that is both playful and reverent. Nature is like a sacrament—a means by which God’s grace comes to us.
Dickinson was a contemporary of the Transcendentalists—people like Emerson, Thoreau, the Alcotts, and others. But Dickinson was never really a Transcendentalist—for her, nature was never interchangeable with God; nature was rather a gift of God, a sign of God’s reality and presence. And in that belief, Dickinson, always a non-conformist, is actually quite Catholic! In his encyclical Laudato Si: On Care for Our Common Home, Pope Francis has written: “The universe unfolds in God, who fills it completely. Hence, there is a mystical meaning to be found in a leaf, in a mountain trail, in a dewdrop, in a poor person’s face. The ideal is not only to pass from the exterior to the interior to discover the action of God in the soul, but also to discover God in all things” (233).

August Prayer
Abbot Jeremy Driscoll, OSB

The monks chant their prayer in the hot church
but their heart is not in it.
Only their vows bring them and keep them
at the hot and useless task.
Gone are the sweet first good days
when prayer and singing came easy
Gone as well many brothers
who used to stand here singing
              the feasts with them.
They know there are ways to beat this heat
and that Americans everywhere are finding them
but they beat instead the tones of psalms
              and, by beating,
              fall through the layers of heat
              and the layers of prayer
              And are standing there now
              only with their sound
              and their sweat
everything taken from them
except the way that this day in August has been.

(1989; first published in The Night of St. John, reprinted in Some Other Morning, Story Line Press, 1992)

Hello there! Corinna Laughlin here with the poem of the week. For this week, I’ve chosen a poem by a living poet – Jeremy Driscoll, who is the Abbot of Mount Angel Abbey in Oregon. Scott Webster will read the poem “August Prayer” and then I’ll be back with some brief commentary.
Thank you, Scott.
Jeremy Driscoll is a monk, priest, theologian, liturgist, scholar, and now Abbot at Mount Angel Seminary in Oregon. He’s also a poet. This poem, “August Prayer,” was published in 1989.
The motto of the Benedictines is “ora et labora,” “prayer and work,” which is reflected in the “horarium” or daily schedule of the monks, which follows a fixed rhythm of just that – times for prayer and times for work.  At Mount Angel, the monks gather for prayer in the church six times each day, in addition to time set aside for quiet reflection and lectio divina at other times during the day. In addition to daily Mass, the monks chant the Liturgy of the Hours.
In his Rule, St. Benedict wrote that “nothing is to be preferred to the Work of God”—his way of referring to the shared worship of the community. Driscoll’s poem captures how difficult this work can be at times—the weariness, the discouragement, the boredom that can set in. The monks are in the church chanting, Driscoll says, “but their heart is not in it. / Only their vows bring them and keep them / at the hot and useless task.” They remember the “sweet first good days” when this way of life felt easy and pleasant; and they remember those who have gone away.
The “heat” in this poem is not that of an August day in Mount Angel—which can get very hot indeed!  The “heat” stands for all the circumstances, internal and external, that make it hard to live the religious life in our times. Our culture extends all kinds of promises for happiness, fulfillment, and satisfaction. Driscoll evokes the language of advertising: “there are ways to beat this heat / and… Americans everywhere are finding them.” But the monks, weary though they are, decline these offers. “They beat instead the tones of psalms.” And eventually, persevering in the “Work of God,” they get somewhere. Not to a vision of the heavens, but to a place where “everything [is] taken from them / except the way that this August day has been.” They are left with nothing, nothing but the present moment—and that in itself is transcendent.
I think this is an appropriate poem as our local Church observes a Year of the Eucharist. Participating in the liturgy is not always “sweet” and easy. The rhythms of the Mass are so different from anything else we do during the week; the culture in which we live has many ways of hinting to us that liturgy, and worship itself, is useless or irrelevant. We are surrounded by voices telling us that there are better ways to “beat the heat,” to use Driscoll’s phrase. And there are challenges from within us as well: weariness, impatience, or just busy-ness can make it hard to continue to put in the effort to participate in the liturgy.  In those times, we need to do like Driscoll’s monks: pray anyway, letting our vows—our baptismal promises—“bring” us and “keep” us, not because of what we can get out of it, but because it is who we are.
“August Prayer” was published in a collection called The Night of St. John. St. John of the Cross described the spiritual life as a journey in the dark, an ascent of Mount Carmel. He described this journey in these words: “nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing. And on the mountain, nothing.” “August Prayer” reflects this deep reality of the spiritual life: that even in prayer, we need to let go of our desire for results, for completion, our desire to feel something. There will be moments of exhilaration, moments where we feel close to God, and such moments are gift, but they are not the goal. All we can do is continue at the “hot and useless task,” knowing that it is not our work, but the “Work of God.”


The Servant-Girl at Emmaus
(A Painting by Vélasquez)
Denise Levertov
She listens, listens, holding her breath.
Surely that voice
is his—the one
who had looked at her, once, across the crowd,
as no one ever had looked?
Had seen her? Had spoken as if to her?
Surely those hands were his,
taking the platter of bread from hers just now?
Hands he’d laid on the dying and made them well?
Surely that face—?
The man they’d crucified for sedition and blasphemy.
The man whose body disappeared from its tomb.
The man it was rumored now some women had seen this morning, alive?
Those who had brought this stranger home to their table
don’t recognize yet with whom they sit.
But she in the kitchen, absently touching
the wine jug she’s to take in,
a young Black servant intently listening,
swings round and sees
the light around him
and is sure.

The Emmaus story in the Gospel of Luke is one of the most familiar, and one of the most mysterious, of the Resurrection narratives. Two of Jesus’ disciples—we don’t know their names—are on their way out of Jerusalem, headed for the village of Emmaus. Along the way, they meet a stranger, and fall into conversation. Of course, all the talk is about the news - about Jesus, who has just been crucified. The two disciples talk about the destruction of their hopes that he was the Messiah, but the stranger responds to the news differently. He points them to the Scriptures and explains how all of this was foretold to them—this is the only way the Messiah’s destiny could unfold. Only when the three pause at an inn for the night, and the stranger breaks bread with them, do they recognize Jesus – and he immediately vanishes. And they hurry back to Jerusalem to tell the others what has happened.
It’s a colorful story, and has been a favorite for artists. There’s the journey and the conversation with the stranger… and that moment of recognition, when the stranger breaks bread and gives thanks, and the two disciples realize who he is.
“The Servant-Girl at Emmaus” by 17th century Spanish painter Diego Velazquez, also depicts the moment of recognition—but from quite a different perspective. At first glance, the painting is of a servant girl working in a kitchen, perhaps about to fill that pitcher she is touching. In the foreground we see a wonderful still-life, where the artist showcases his ability to capture many different textures – silver, earthenware, enamel, linen, wood, weaving. We may need to take a second look before we notice the Emmaus story unfolding in the upper left, where Jesus is about to break the bread. Only then do we start to notice other details rich in meaning: a dove that looks like it is about to break free, and a white napkin or rag, suggesting the burial cloth left behind in the empty tomb.
The center of the painting, of course, is the girl. From her attentive expression, we know she is listening to what is happening in the room beyond—and we know that she knows something!
Denise Levertov’s poem imagines the girl’s thoughts during this moment of suspense. In her telling of the story, Jesus is no stranger to this young woman. She has encountered him before. “Surely that voice is his—the one who had looked at her, once, across the crowd, as no one ever had looked? Had seen her? Had spoken as if to her?” She recognizes his voice because she has spent time listening to his teaching. She recognizes his hands—“hands he’d laid on the dying and made them well”—because she has witnessed Jesus at work. The disciples will come to recognize Jesus when he breaks the bread, but this young woman—who has brought the bread to the table—already knows who he is. Velazquez’s painting beautifully captures a moment of stillness and recognition. Levertov’s poem lets us see what happens next, when the girl “swings round and sees / the light around him / and is sure.”
There is a theme that runs through the Resurrection narratives, and indeed, through the Gospels: Jesus chooses women, often women who are outsiders,
to be his witnesses. They are the first to recognize him as the Risen Lord, the first to tell the apostles the good news. And that sends a clear message to every Christian:  we need to listen to each other, especially the voices of those we might consider to be “outsiders.” Because when we really listen to the witness of others, we aren’t just learning about them; we are glimpsing God in them. Both the painting of Velasquez, and the poem of Levertov, invite us to recognition: to see Christ in the breaking of the bread, and in each other.


Denise Levertov
All others talked as if
talk were a dance.
Clodhopper I, with clumsy feet
would break the gliding ring.
Early I learned to
hunch myself
close by the door:
then when the talk began
I'd wipe my
mouth and wend
unnoticed back to the barn
to be with the warm beasts,
dumb among body sounds
of the simple ones.
I'd see by a twist
of lit rush the motes
of gold moving
from shadow to shadow
slow in the wake
of deep untroubled sighs.
The cows
munched or stirred or were still. I
was at home and lonely,
both in good measure. Until
the sudden angel affrighted me––light effacing
my feeble beam,
a forest of torches, feathers of flame, sparks upflying:
but the cows as before
were calm, and nothing was burning,
nothing but I, as that hand of fire
touched my lips and scorched my tongue
and pulled my voice
into the ring of the dance.
Hello there. Corinna Laughlin here with the poem of the week.
This week, we’re reading Denise Levertov’s “Caedmon,” in which she takes on the voice of Caedmon, who is honored as the first known poet to write in the English language.  Scott Webster will read the poem, then I’ll be back with some brief commentary.
Thank you, Scott.
It is thanks to St. Bede the Venerable, the 7th and 8th-century English monk and historian, that we know Caedmon’s story. Caedmon was a herdsman, entrusted with the care of animals at the abbey presided over by St Hilda in Whitby. Under her leadership, the arts flourished, and Bede describes evenings when the harp would go round the room, with each person singing and playing to the best of their ability.
I think many of us can identify with Caedmon, who, when he saw his turn coming, would slip quietly away and go back to his place among the animals. But one night, he had a dream in which an angel appeared to him and asked him to sing about God’s creation. And Caedmon did. When he woke from this dream, he remembered what he had sung. Not only that, he found the gift persisted, and he was able to compose verse on all kinds of sacred subjects. At Hilda’s invitation, he became a monk of the abbey, and the author of many poems.
Levertov tells Caedmon’s story in the first person. Talk, he says, is a dance, something the others do gracefully, but he is just a clodhopper, getting in the way. He seems to be more at home among the animals—“dumb,” that is, silent, “among body sounds,” not voices. But he is not quite comfortable there, either. He is “at home and lonely,” “both in good measure.” He is drawn both to the lighted hall and to the dark stable. Caedmon sleeps among the animals, but I think we can sense that Caedmon is already a poet - he can see by the light of a rush bits of chaff from the hay, floating in the breath of the animals like motes of gold.
Into this peaceful scene comes an angel—a fiery vision, with feathers of flame, a forest of torches and sparks. But nothing is on fire—except Caedmon himself. The fire touches his mouth, scorches his tongue, and Caedmon joins the dance.
Levertov uses here an image right out of scripture. In the sixth chapter of Isaiah, we hear of the prophet’s call. In a vision, an angel takes a burning coal from the altar of God, and touches the prophet’s mouth with it. It is a purifying fire, but also suggests the urgency of his mission. He will speak God’s words, in his own voice. The poet’s call is like the prophet’s call, a collaboration between God and the individual. And like other prophets—Jonah, for example—Caedmon runs from his call, a reluctant prophet, until at last, with some prompting from God!, he lets himself be “pulled… into the ring of the dance.” Caedmon’s story is a story of vocation—where our gifts and abilities meet God’s mission.
To conclude our reflection, let us listen to the poem traditionally called “Caedmon’s hymn”—considered the oldest poetry in the English language, and the only poetry of Caedmon that survives. This translation from Old English is the work of Elaine Treharne of Stanford University.
Now we ought to praise the Guardian of the heavenly kingdom,
The might of the Creator and his conception,
The work of the glorious Father, as he of each of the wonders,
Eternal Lord, established the beginning.
He first created for the sons of men
Heaven as a roof, holy Creator;
Then the middle-earth, the Guardian of mankind,
The eternal Lord, afterwards made
The earth for men, the Lord almighty.




Variation on a Theme by Rilke
(The Book of Hours, Book I, Poem 4)
Denise Levertov
All these images (said the old monk,
closing the book) these inspired depictions,
are true. Yes—not one—Giotto’s,
Van Eyck’s, Rembrandt’s, Rouault’s,
how many others’—
not one is a fancy, a willed fiction,
each of them shows us exactly
the manifold countenance
of the Holy One, Blessed be He.
The seraph buttress flying
to support a cathedral’s external walls,
the shadowy ribs of the vaulted sanctuary:
aren’t both—and equally—
the form of a holy place?—whose windows’ ruby
and celestial sapphire can be seen
only from inside, but then
only when light enters from without?
From the divine twilight, neither dark nor day,
blossoms the morning. Each, at work in his art,
perceived his neighbor. Thus the Infinite
plays, and in grace
gives us clues to His mystery.
Corinna Laughlin's commentary
We met Denise Levertov earlier in this series, when we read her wonderful poem “Annunciation.” Levertov was a 20th-century master, born in England in 1923, who died in Seattle in 1997. Over the next couple of weeks, we’re going to read three poems by Levertov for this series. These are all poems in which she responds to other works of art—both poems and the visual arts—in interesting ways.
In this poem, Levertov reacts to a poem by Rainer Maria Rilke—in fact, she is responding to Rilke’s poem “You, Neighbor God” we read last week.  As you’ll recall, Rilke’s poem, spoken in the voice of an old monk, questioned the images we make of the divine, which can stand like a wall between us and God—getting in our way when we try to connect with God. In this poem, Levertov responds to that concept.
As Levertov’s poem begins, the “old monk” closes a book, perhaps a book of images of Christ, and roundly declares—contradicting Rilke’s old monk!—that “all these images… these inspired depictions, are true.” Even more, “each of them shows us exactly / the manifold countenance / of the Holy One.” Far from distracting us or deflecting our attention from God, Levertov’s speaker says, these “true” images reveal to us “the manifold countenance” of God. God has one face, but it is “manifold”—so these contrasting images can all be said to be true. Giotto – Van Eyck – Rembrandt – Rouault – artists with such different visions, such different ways of seeing the world – all had something in common: they all depicted the true, though “manifold” image of God.
In the second part of the poem, Levertov distances herself still further from Rilke. She uses an extended metaphor here—the image of a cathedral. She speaks of the flying buttresses, the exterior supports which are such a prominent feature in some of the great Gothic cathedrals, and the ribs of the sanctuary—in other words, the exterior and the interior of the building—and she asks, aren’t both of these, equally, intrinsic to “the form of a holy place”? Without one or the other, the building cannot stand.
Where Rilke described a wall of framed images, Levertov describes stained glass windows. The flying buttresses of a Gothic cathedral developed to allow for ever-larger stained glass windows. You could even say they are at the service of the windows! Stained glass doesn’t look like much from the outside—it has to be viewed from within. And yet, the windows require light from the outside, in order to be seen. The light does not “glance off the frames like glare,” as Rilke described. Instead, it shines through, and brings the windows to life.
The stained glass windows of a great cathedral demand an interchange between outside and inside which, for Levertov, suggests the interchange between earth and heaven, human and God. Art is a way to glimpse God, and in fact a way to play a holy game with God: “Thus the Infinite plays, and in grace gives us clues to his Mystery.”
In 1999, Pope St. John Paul II wrote a letter to artists which resonates with Levertov’s response to Rilke and her faith in the power of art.
“Every genuine art form in its own way is a path to the inmost reality of humanity and of the world. It is therefore a wholly valid approach to the realm of faith, which gives human experience its ultimate meaning…. In order to communicate the message entrusted to her by Christ, the Church needs art. Art must make perceptible, and as far as possible attractive, the world of the spirit, of the invisible, of God…. Art has a unique capacity to take one or other facet of the message and translate it into colours, shapes and sounds which nourish the intuition of those who look or listen. It does so without emptying the message itself of its transcendent value and its aura of mystery.”





You, neighbor God
Rainer Maria Rilke (1875-1926)
From The Book of Hours, written 1899-1903, published 1905
Translated by Babette Deutsch (1941)
You, neighbor God, if sometimes in the night
I rouse you with loud knocking, I do so
only because I seldom hear you breathe;
and I know: you are alone.
And should you need a drink, no one is there
to reach it to you, groping in the dark.
Always I hearken. Give but a small sign.
I am quite near.
Between us there is but a narrow wall,
and by sheer chance; for it would take
merely a call from your lips or from mine
to break it down,
and that without a sound.
The wall is builded of your images.
They stand before you hiding you like names.
And when the light within me blazes high
that in my inmost soul I know you by,
the radiance is squandered on their frames.
And then my senses, which too soon grow lame,
exiled from you, must go their homeless ways.
Corinna Laughlin commentary

Rainer Maria Rilke was born René Karl Wilhelm Johann Josef Maria Rilke in 1875 in Prague, in what was then known as Bohemia. He was a citizen of Europe, who traveled widely and lived in Germany, France, and Switzerland, and who wrote in both German and French. A significant figure in European literature of the 20th century, Rilke associated with some of the major artists of his time, including Rodin—as a young man Rilke served as a secretary to the great sculptor. Rilke was drafted into service in World War I, a traumatic experience for him. He died of leukemia at the young age of 51.
Rilke was raised by a devoutly Catholic mother, and though he did not practice his faith as an adult, faith in God was at the heart of his life and art. “You, neighbor God” is an early poem from Rilke’s first book, called The Book of Hours. These poems were inspired by Rilke’s extensive travels in Russia, and the poet takes on the persona of an old monk in several of the poems, including the one we just heard.
The first part of the poem is quite playful. It’s easy to picture the scene – as he knocks on the wall to check if an elderly neighbor needs anything—" I know: you are alone. And should you need a drink, no one is there to reach it to you.” Notice how the roles are reversed: here is the speaker offering to help God if God should need help in the night! But the tone shifts, as the speaker pleads for some indication of God’s presence. “Always I hearken. Give but a small sign. I am quite near.” God and the speaker are so close together, but there is a separation – one which, surprisingly, either of them could break through. “it would take merely a call from your lips or mine to break it down.”
The turning point of the poem is the line: “The wall is builded of your images.” The thin separation between the speaker and God is made of his images of God. Rilke is perhaps thinking here of the iconostasis which is often the most prominent feature in Orthodox churches. The images get in the way, Rilke says, hiding God – and when the internal light by which he knows God shines within him, that light is “squandered on the frames” of these images instead of illuminating God himself. The human senses are “exiled” from God, “homeless.”
As Catholics, we are firm believers in images. We surround ourselves with statues and images of saints, and even of God. Our use of images is firmly grounded in the theology of the Incarnation – as St. Paul said, Jesus “is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation.”
But the images we make can be limiting, and, yes, get in the way, like Rilke’s wall. I think of recent debates about images of Jesus, who, though he was, obviously, a person of color, is most often depicted with European features and skin color. If these are the only images of Christ we can imagine, they can distort our understanding of who Jesus is.
Images of the divine are an essential part of how we pray and worship as Catholics. But perhaps Rilke’s poem can invite us to think about the images of God we depend on. Are they helping us pray—or do they sometimes get in the way? The Bible invites us to think of God not in one way, but in many ways. Creator, Light, Rock, Stronghold, Husband, Mother, Rescuer, Father.  All these images reveal something of God to us—but of course, none of them says it all.



“My own heart let me more have pity on”
Gerard Manley Hopkins, SJ (1844-1889)
My own heart let me more have pity on; let
Me live to my sad self hereafter kind,
Charitable; not live this tormented mind
With this tormented mind tormenting yet.
I cast for comfort I can no more get
By groping round my comfortless, than blind
Eyes in their dark can day or thirst can find
Thirst's all-in-all in all a world of wet.
Soul, self; come, poor Jackself, I do advise
You, jaded, let be; call off thoughts awhile
Elsewhere; leave comfort root-room; let joy size
At God knows when to God knows what; whose smile
's not wrung, see you; unforeseen times rather — as skies
Betweenpie mountains — lights a lovely mile.
We met Gerard Manley Hopkins earlier in this series, when we read his wonderful poem “God’s Grandeur.” Today we read another Hopkins sonnet. Scott Webster will read the poem, and then I’ll be back with some brief commentary.
Gerard Manley Hopkins was a tremendously gifted man. An extraordinary and innovative poet, a brilliant classical scholar, a gifted musician, a talented artist, a faithful and conscientious priest—Hopkins was all of these things. And yet, through much of his life, he was tormented by a sense of failure and inadequacy. His poems were seldom understood, much less published; several of his assignments as a Jesuit were in inner-city parishes where he felt exiled from the natural world he so loved, or in schools where his humbling inadequacies as a teacher were always on display.
“If I could but get on, if I could but produce work, I should not mind its being buried, silenced, and going no further,” he wrote to his friend, the poet Robert Bridges, “but it kills me to be time’s eunuch and never to beget. After all, I do not despair, things might change, anything may be; only there is no great appearance of it…”
In 1884, Hopkins was assigned as professor at University College, Dublin, which was not the great academic institution it is now. It was a poor, struggling college, and Hopkins was overwhelmed with a sense of isolation and failure and entered what we would recognize now as a deep depression. “My spirits were so crushed,” he wrote, “that madness seemed to be making approaches—and nobody was to blame, except myself partly for not managing myself better and contriving a change” (to Robert Bridges, 1 September 1885).
Out of this experience of darkness came a series of remarkable poems, which Robert Bridges called “the terrible sonnets” because of their content. Of these poems, Hopkins himself wrote that they came after long silence “like inspirations unbidden and against my will.” In these sonnets, Hopkins addresses himself directly to God with great honesty, with language that resembles some of the psalms and the prophets. He writes of his sense of uselessness, of impotence, and of difficulty in praying—in one poem, he describes prayer as being like undelivered letters to a loved one far away.
We don’t know the exact order of the terrible sonnets, or sonnets of desolation, as they are sometimes called, but the poem we just heard is usually placed towards the end of the sequence, because it expresses a glimmer of hope.
In this poem, Hopkins addresses himself, entreating himself to be kinder to himself. The first lines give a vivid picture of his helplessness and mental anguish. He begs that he might “not live this tormented mind / With this tormented mind tormenting yet.” The repetition in those lines—“tormented mind, tormented mind, tormenting yet”—vividly suggests the endless cycle of negative thoughts. This state of mind is like a prison – Hopkins gives an unforgettable image of “groping round my comfortless.”
In the second part of the sonnet, Hopkins addresses himself as “Soul, self,” and then shifts the tone—“poor Jackself.” “Soul, self,” are grand, impersonal terms; “poor Jackself” is humbler, more human, more conscious of weakness. Hopkins is doing here just what he begged for at the beginning of the poem: having pity on himself in his humanity. “Call off thoughts awhile,” he says, and leave room for comfort, for joy, and for whatever God has in mind: “God knows when to God knows what.” The poem ends with a remarkable image of God smiling. God’s smile is “not wrung”—we can’t force it. It comes unexpectedly, like sky appearing “betweenpie” mountains, shedding light on “a lovely mile.” At the end of the poem, nothing has changed—but hope has entered in.
In this poem, and in the other terrible sonnets, Hopkins acknowledges the darkness he is experiencing, but he does so with the tools and the language that his faith gives him. He never stops wrestling with God. As one commentator has said, “Like Jesus’ cry on the cross, Hopkins’s sonnets of desolation are addressed to God and are themselves consolations.”




George Herbert, “Love (III)” from St. James Cathedral, Seattle on Vimeo.


Love (III)
George Herbert
Love bade me welcome. Yet my soul drew back
                              Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack
                             From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,
                             If I lacked any thing.
A guest, I answered, worthy to be here:
                             Love said, You shall be he.
I the unkind, ungrateful? Ah my dear,
                             I cannot look on thee.
Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,
                             Who made the eyes but I?
Truth Lord, but I have marred them: let my shame
                             Go where it doth deserve.
And know you not, says Love, who bore the blame?
                             My dear, then I will serve.
You must sit down, says Love, and taste my meat:
                             So I did sit and eat.
Last week, we read Herbert’s poem on the Holy Scriptures, which prompted reflection on the Liturgy of the Word at Mass. With today’s poem by Herbert, “Love,” we’ll reflect on the Liturgy of the Eucharist. Scott Webster will read the poem, and then I’ll be back with some brief commentary.
This poem, like all of Herbert’s work, is rich in Scriptural allusion and full of evocative imagery. Herbert sets up an almost romantic scene, as the speaker is invited in for a meal by Love, but draws back, before being urged to come in and eat. Think of the Song of Songs, the great love poem of the Bible, which describes a similar encounter between love and the lover at the gate, coming close and then moving away. Of course, meals have great resonance in the New Testament. Think of the miraculous feedings and the Last Supper accounts. Think of some of the parables of the Second Coming: “Blessed are those servants whom the master finds vigilant on his arrival. Amen, I say to you, he will gird himself, have them recline at table, and proceed to wait on them” (Luke 12:37).
Herbert imagines what that moment would be like, when Love—which is, of course, another name for God—becomes the servant, waiting at table. And he finds it very uncomfortable. The speaker of the poem hangs back in the doorway, “guilty of dust and sin.” It’s an odd phrase, “guilty of dust.” Herbert is alluding to original sin—the propensity to sin that is part of our human condition. This awareness of sin pulls him back as soon as he is invited into the divine presence. It’s a pattern in the Scriptures, whenever someone encounters God. Think of the prophet Isaiah, or St. Peter after the miraculous catch—“depart from me, Lord, for I am a sinful man.”
The speaker inches forward, then draws back. At the same time, there is a wonderful intimacy in the language used – “ah, my dear,” he says to Love, “I cannot look on thee.” This is not the meeting of strangers, but of intimate friends. Love does not brush away the speaker’s concerns, or say that there has been no sin or wrongdoing; instead, Love reminds the speaker simply that God is God: “who made the eyes but I?” Sinful though we are, we were made for this – our eyes were made to look at God.
In the last stanza, the speaker continues to hang back. “Let my shame / Go where it doth deserve.” Even that is no argument, Love says, because Love has already borne “the blame.” The cross has taken away everything that would prevent us from approaching God. The speaker is running out of excuses! “My dear, then I will serve,” he says: you sit down—let me serve you. It’s Peter’s response to Jesus’ washing of the feet. But that is not what Love has in mind. “You must sit down and taste my meat.” Love is going to do the serving here. It is for love to give, for us to receive. At last, in the final, and shortest line of the poem, the speaker gives in: “so I did sit and eat.” The sinner lets go and Love prevails.  I am reminded of the words of the great 13th century mystic St. Catherine of Siena: “By this light I shall come to know that you, eternal Trinity, are table and food and waiter for us.”
As I mentioned last week, we have begun a Year of the Eucharist in this local Church, the Archdiocese of Seattle. For me, Herbert’s “Love” is the perfect meditation on this central mystery of our faith. If you think of the pattern of the Mass, it is not unlike this poem. We have come to the table at God’s invitation, but again and again we pause and acknowledge our sinfulness. “Lord, have mercy.” “Forgive us our trespasses.” “Lord, I am not worthy that you should enter under my roof.” We do not do this to beat ourselves up or prove anything. We do this because this awareness of our own sinfulness is the natural human response to being in the presence of God!  Throughout the Mass, Love is leading us to the table, where all we can do is receive the free gift of the God of love. There is no earning this gift. As Archbishop Etienne said in his homily at the beginning of this special year of the Eucharist, “we can be deceived in thinking that the Eucharist is what we do. It’s what God does. It’s the work of God upon us. It’s the work of God for our redemption.” (Read or listen to that homily here: http://www.nwcatholic.org/news/local/year-of-the-eucharist-begins-in-archdiocese-of-seattle.html) All we need to do—all we really can do—is what the speaker of Herbert’s poem does: respond to the invitation, and let God work in us.


George Herbert
The Holy Scriptures II
OH that I knew how all thy lights combine,
             And the configurations of their glorie!
             Seeing not onely how each verse doth shine,
But all the constellations of the storie.
This verse marks that, and both do make a motion
             Unto a third, that ten leaves off doth lie:
             Then as dispersed herbs do watch a potion,
These three make up some Christians destinie:
Such are thy secrets, which my life makes good,
             And comments on thee: for in ev’ry thing
             Thy words do finde me out, & parallels bring,
And in another make me understood.
             Starres are poore books, & oftentimes do misse:
             This book of starres lights to eternall blisse.
We met George Herbert earlier in this series, when we read his poem “Easter Wings.” Herbert was many things—a well-born and well-connected man of the world, and a country parson. His contemporaries marveled at his faith. One biographer wrote that Herbert “never mentioned the name of Jesus Christ, but with this addition, ‘My Master,’” and that when it came to the Bible, he would say “That he would not part with one leaf thereof for the whole world.” He called the Bible “the book of books,” “the storehouse and magazine of life and comfort.”
In this sonnet about the Holy Scriptures, Herbert gives us an insight into how he himself read the Bible. Anyone who has been scanning the skies looking for Comet Neowise will appreciate Herbert’s metaphor at the beginning of the poem. “Oh, that I knew how all thy lights combine, / And the configurations of their glory!” The verses of the Scriptures are likened to stars, which are beautiful in themselves, but which also relate to each other in wonderful ways—forming “constellations.” The Scriptures mean more in relation to each other: just as different herbs, mixed together, become a healing medicine, a powerful “potion,” so different verses, combined, “make up some Christian’s destiny”—in other words, reading the Scriptures makes sense of our lives. And our lives make sense of the Scriptures: “such are thy secrets, which my life makes good, / And comments on thee…. Thy words do find me out, and parallels bring.”
The right way to read the Scriptures, Herbert suggests, is with open eyes and imagination, letting the Scriptures speak to one another—since one passage can shed light on another. But we also need to let the Scriptures read us, since we can only understand our own lives, our “destiny,” in light of the Scriptures. “Stars are poor books,” Herbert concludes, but the Bible, “this book of stars,” shows the way to “eternal bliss.”
I thought this poem was especially appropriate as we have begun a Year of the Eucharist in this local Church, the Archdiocese of Seattle. Every time we gather around the altar to celebrate the Eucharist, we first gather around the ambo—the table of the word of God.  And when the Scriptures are proclaimed, something happens. As it says in the introduction to the Roman Missal, “God speaks to his people, opening up to them the mystery of redemption and salvation, and offering spiritual nourishment; and Christ himself is present through his word in the midst of the faithful.”
The Liturgy of the Word at Mass is not a review of salvation history. It is a conversation. We are invited to a way of reading, praying, and reflecting on Scripture that is not unlike what Herbert describes in his poem. The readings from the Old and New Testaments speak to each other and shed light on each other—and they speak to us and shed light on our lives, too. As Archbishop Etienne wrote in “The Work of Redemption,” his Pastoral Letter for this Year of the Eucharist, “When we allow ourselves to listen, really listen, to what the Scriptures are saying to us in our own lives and to the reality we are living in, extraordinary things can happen. When we honestly reflect on our lives and the challenges we face as a society in light of the Scriptures, we open ourselves up to God’s transforming power.”
One of Herbert’s first biographers wrote, “Next God the Word, he loved the Word of God.” May the same be said of each of us!

St. John Henry Newman (1801-1890)
The Pillar of Cloud (“Lead, Kindly Light”)
Lead, Kindly Light, amid th'encircling gloom,
Lead Thou me on!
The night is dark, and I am far from home,
Lead Thou me on!
Keep Thou my feet; I do not ask to see
The distant scene; one step enough for me.
I was not ever thus, nor prayed that Thou
Shouldst lead me on;
I loved to choose and see my path; but now
Lead Thou me on!
I loved the garish day, and, spite of fears,
Pride ruled my will. Remember not past years!
So long Thy power hath blest me, sure it still
Will lead me on.
O'er moor and fen, o'er crag and torrent, till
The night is gone,
And with the morn those angel faces smile,
Which I have loved long since, and lost awhile!
(Written at sea, 1833)
John Henry Newman was born in London in 1801 into an upper middle class family with strong Protestant roots: his mother was from a family of French Huguenot refugees. He dated his spiritual awakening to the age of fifteen, when he felt an “inward conversion of which I was conscious (and of which I still am more certain than that I have hands and feet).”
For Newman, the way to God was always through books. His autobiography, Apologia Pro Vita Sua – the “apology for his life”—is as much about what Newman read as what he did. He writes in intricate detail of the thinkers and ideas that fascinated and shaped him.
Newman was ordained an Anglican priest in 1825 and became a curate in Oxford, where he was also a fellow at Oriel College. His specialty was Patristics—the study of the Fathers of the early Church—and what he read slowly led him towards the Roman Catholic Church.
For Newman, becoming Catholic was not a quick or easy decision. He knew that if he became a Catholic it would cost him friends as well as his livelihood, since he would not be able to function as a member of the Anglican clergy nor retain his Oxford fellowship. But for Newman, simply setting aside difficult questions was never an option. Newman wrote, “The one question was, what was I to do? I had to make up my mind for myself, and others could not help me. I determined to be guided, not by my imagination, but by my reason.” Newman wrote in a diary in 1829, “I am now in my rooms in Oriel College, slowly advancing and led on by God's hand blindly, not knowing whither He is taking me.”
It was during this time of uncertainty and exploration—two steps forward, one step back—which lasted more than ten years—that Newman wrote the poem we just heard, which he entitled “The Pillar of Cloud,” but which is known more familiarly as “Lead, Kindly Light.”
In the book of Exodus, the pillar of cloud leads the Israelite people in their wanderings through the desert. It is the very presence of God in their midst, both showing the way and protecting them in their wanderings. In this poem, Newman invokes God as the “kindly light,” the one thing shining in the midst of the darkness. There is no view of the “distant scene,” nor is the path clear—there is just enough light to take one step at a time.
Newman acknowledges how difficult this is, this taking one step at a time. “I loved to choose and see my path,” he says. But that sense that he could direct his own course was an illusion, rooted in “pride.” Now, he says, “Lead thou me on.”  He has to yield his own will and trust in God’s guidance, trust that the God who has blessed him in the past will be with him in the future. The poem ends with a glimpse of the end of this journey – “with the morn, those angel faces smile, / Which I have loved long since and lost awhile.” The sense of loneliness, darkness, and uncertainty we feel in the first two stanzas ends with a wonderful sense of recognition and light.
In 1845, Newman entered the Catholic Church. He became an Oratorian priest, and was named a Cardinal by Pope Leo XIII in 1879. He made many contributions to theology, which have had an enormous impact, especially at the time of the Second Vatican Council—hence Newman is sometimes called “the absent Council Father.” Newman’s concept of the “development of doctrine” is one of those contributions—he argued that Church doctrine, while unchanging, does get developed and refined through the ages as human reason engages with divine revelation.
It’s no surprise that the same man who wrote “Lead, kindly Light” would argue that the Church’s understanding, too, can advance step by step, in pursuit of the “Kindly Light” that is the living presence of God in our midst. As Newman said in a homily, “Let us beg and pray Him day by day to reveal Himself to our souls more fully, to quicken our senses, to give us sight and hearing, taste and touch of the world to come; so to work within us, that we may sincerely say, 'Thou shalt guide me with Thy counsel, and after that receive me with glory."





The Kingdom of God
By Francis Thompson (1859-1907)
“In no strange land”
O WORLD invisible, we view thee,
O world intangible, we touch thee,
O world unknowable, we know thee,
Inapprehensible, we clutch thee!
Does the fish soar to find the ocean,
The eagle plunge to find the air—
That we ask of the stars in motion
If they have rumour of thee there?
Not where the wheeling systems darken,
And our benumbed conceiving soars!—
The drift of pinions, would we hearken,
Beats at our own clay-shuttered doors.
The angels keep their ancient places;—
Turn but a stone, and start a wing!
‘Tis ye, ‘tis your estrangèd faces,
That miss the many-splendoured thing.
But (when so sad thou canst not sadder)
Cry;—and upon thy so sore loss
Shall shine the traffic of Jacob’s ladder
Pitched betwixt Heaven and Charing Cross.
Yea, in the night, my Soul, my daughter,
Cry,—clinging Heaven by the hems;
And lo, Christ walking on the water
Not of Gennesareth, but Thames!

Commentary by Corinna Laughlin
Francis Thompson was a remarkable figure by any measure. Born in 1859, he was compared to Keats and Shakespeare in his lifetime, and although his reputation declined after his death, many of his poems, in particular his masterpiece, “The Hound of Heaven,” have never gone out of print.
Thompson was raised in a devoutly Catholic family. His family hoped he would be a priest, and he was sent to a minor seminary, but he was awkward and shy and was deemed unsuitable. He was sent to study medicine, a subject for which he had no vocation and little interest. He was too timid to tell his family that he wanted to be a writer—all they wanted to talk about was “cricket” and “wars,” he later said—and things began to go downhill for Thompson. After an illness, Thompson became addicted to opium. Things got so bad that Thompson ended up on the streets. He was homeless in London for three years and could only be reached by general delivery to the “Post Office, Charing Cross, London.”
It was poetry that eventually pulled him back from the brink. All this time, Thompson had continued to write. He submitted some poems to a Catholic editor, Wilfrid Meynell, which were published. When Meynell met the author, and realized that he was totally destitute, he and his wife Alice helped Thompson get off the streets and (at least for a time) overcome his addiction.
Thanks to the Meynell’s intervention and support, Thompson became a writer—though never a prolific one. He wrote essays and reviews for various journals, and he continued to write poetry as well, eventually publishing three books.  At the same time, he was never what you might call “normal.” He would suddenly get up from the table and disappear at mealtimes, and a friend wrote that “No money... could keep him in a decent suit of clothes for long. ...He passed at once into a picturesque nondescript garb that was all his own and made him resemble some weird pedlar or packman.”
In spite of all the darkness Thompson had experienced in his life, and his repeated bouts with depression, his faith was ultimately full of hope.  “I do firmly believe that none are lost who have not wilfully closed their eyes to the known light: that such as fall with constant striving, battling with their temperament, or through ill-training circumstance which shuts them from true light, &c.; that all these shall taste of God's justice, which for them is better than man's mercy.”
Thompson died of tuberculosis on November 13, 1907 at the age of 48.
The poem we’re reading today, “The Kingdom of God,” was one of Thompson’s last poems, not published until after his death. The poem begins with a series of paradoxical assertions – we see the invisible, we touch the intangible, we know the unknowable, we take hold of the “inapprehensible.” We have access to the world of the spirit. It is not far away--we do not need to look to the stars to find God. In fact, we need not go elsewhere to seek God any more than the fish needs to search for the water or the eagle the air. In other words, God comes to us in our own element—God is our element. 
The divine is close—if we were listening, we could hear the wings of angels beating at our “clay-shuttered doors.” But with our “estranged faces”—not looking for God—we don’t see “the many-splendored thing.”
Nevertheless, God is everywhere, accessible to all who call upon him. At the end of the poem, Thompson alludes to his own experiences on the streets of London. In the depths of sadness, he says, “cry,” and there will be Jacob’s ladder, linking heaven and Charing Cross. Ask for help, and Christ will walk on the water, not far away on the Sea of Galilee, but nearby: on the Thames.
In this poem, Thompson’s very Catholic imagination is at work. As Catholics, we firmly believe that we can touch the invisible through the tangible—anointed with oil, we are sealed with the Holy Spirit; bread and wine become the Body and Blood of Christ. Thompson reminds us that the divine presence is everywhere. The poem reflects the words of Jesus in Luke’s Gospel: “The coming of the kingdom of God cannot be observed, and no one will announce, ‘Look, here it is,’ or, ‘There it is.’ For behold, the kingdom of God is among you.” The kingdom of God unfolds in our own circumstances, in our own place and time. We just need the eyes to recognize it.

Song Silence
By Madeleva Wolff, CSC
Yes, I shall take this quiet house and keep it
With kindled hearth and candle-lighted board,
In singing silence garnish it and sweep it
                For Christ, my Lord.
My heart is filled with little songs to sing Him—
I dream them into words with careful art—
But this I think a better gift to bring Him,
                Nearer his heart.
The foxes have their holes, the wise, the clever;
The birds have each a safe and secret nest;
But He, my lover, walks the world with never
A place to rest.
I found Him once upon a straw bed lying;
(Once on His mother’s heart He laid His head)
He had a bramble pillow for His dying,
A stone when dead.
I think to leave off singing for this reason,
Taking instead my Lord God’s house to keep,
Where He may find a home in every season
                To wake, to sleep.
Do you not think that in this holy sweetness
Of silence shared with God a whole life long
Both he and I shall find divine completeness
Of perfect song?
Sister Madeleva Wolff was a renowned educator and administrator, a poet, and a scholar who in her lifetime rubbed elbows with Edith Wharton, G. K. Chesterton, Helen Hayes, Thomas Merton, and many other luminaries. She was also a religious, a member of the Congregation of the Holy Cross for more than fifty years. She is a figure who deserves to be better known!
Eva Wolff was born in Cumberland, Wisconsin in 1887. She had a fairly conventional childhood—except for her exceptional intellect. Her gifts were so obvious that her older brother dropped out of college so the family could afford to send Eva to St. Mary’s College in South Bend, Indiana.
Eva had been planning to study mathematics, but she soon switched to medieval literature, and discovered a love for poetry—both studying it and writing it. It took everyone by surprise, including Eva herself, when she decided to join the Sisters of the Holy Cross. She entered the novitiate in 1908, when she was nineteen years old. In religious life, she was given the name Madeleva, and soon embarked on a distinguished career of study and teaching. Sister Madeleva was among the first women religious to receive a Masters degree from Notre Dame; she went on to complete a doctoral degree at Berkeley. Later, she did post-doctoral study at Oxford with the likes of J. R. R. Tolkien and C. S. Lewis. All this time, she was a full-time teacher and administrator, eventually being appointed President of her own alma mater, St. Mary’s College, where her innovative leadership gained the college nationwide acclaim. She developed the first graduate study program in theology for women religious and laypeople in the country, and was instrumental in the Sister Formation movement, which advocated thorough and high-level education for women religious. She was a force to be reckoned with: “Moderation is a colorless, insipid thing,” she wrote. “I know its practice to be well-nigh impossible. To live less would not be living.”
Throughout her busy life, Madeleva wrote poetry, publishing a number of books, some of which were considered controversial for the passionate language she used in writing about God. Given the busy life of a sister, time was hard to come by; Madeleva came to be grateful for her chronic insomnia which gave her time to compose. “I love words because I love the Word,” she would say. “I know of no discipline more merciless, more demanding, than the writing of good verse—even if it doesn’t reach the levels of great poetry.” Madeleva died in 1962 at the age of 77.
Knowing a little of Madeleva’s story, I think we get a better sense of both the sweetness and the underlying tension of this poem, “Song Silence.” It’s a poem about poetry—and about renunciation. “My heart is filled with little songs to Him-- / I dream them into words with careful art,” she says in the second stanza. But, she wonders, would it not be a better gift to prepare “a quiet house” for the one who was laid in a manger as an infant, who had no place to lay his head as an adult. “I think to leave off singing,” she says, and dedicate herself instead to this quiet work of contemplation, which she compares to the traditional domestic (and typically feminine) task of housekeeping. In the last stanza, she asks a question: “Do you not think that in this holy sweetness / Of silence shared with God,” she and God both will find “perfect song”?
There is a sweetness in the poem, and an intimacy with God, whom she calls “my lover.” But there is also a certain tension here, one that many women felt at the time Madeleva was writing, in the 1940s and 1950s. She loves to “sing,” to write poetry, but wouldn’t silence be better, after all? Wouldn’t her life be better spent in contemplation, rather than in words—in keeping house, rather than singing? Madeleva tells herself that she will dedicate herself to this sweet domestic housekeeping for God. And yet, though the poem begins with a decisive “yes” it ends with a question mark. Renouncing poetry is something she is contemplating—but not doing, at least, not yet.
I think this poem illuminates what Madeleva’s biographer Gail Porter Mandell sees as a keynote in Madeleva’s approach to life—what Madeleva herself referred to as the “relaxed grasp.” Madeleva held on to what mattered—but, in keeping with her vow of poverty, she held even precious things like poetry with a certain lightness, a “relaxed grasp,” a “holy indifference,” always preparing herself to let them go if God willed it. For Madeleva, this “relaxed grasp” was true freedom. In speaking of her own vocation, she wrote: “Only when one has given not only all his actual self, but all his potential self, is he free.”

Read more about Madeleva here.



Light Shining out of Darkness
God moves in a mysterious way,
His wonders to perform;
He plants his footsteps in the sea,
And rides upon the storm.
Deep in unfathomable mines
Of never-failing skill,
He treasures up his bright designs,
And works his sov'reign will.
Ye fearful saints, fresh courage take,
The clouds ye so much dread
Are big with mercy, and shall break
In blessings on your head.
Judge not the Lord by feeble sense,
But trust him for his grace;
Behind a frowning providence
He hides a smiling face.
His purposes will ripen fast,
Unfolding ev'ry hour;
The bud may have a bitter taste,
But sweet will be the flow'r.
Blind unbelief is sure to err,
And scan his work in vain;
God is his own interpreter,
And he will make it plain.
Cowper’s poem is so well-known as a hymn text that it can be easy to dismiss. It’s a poem about God’s Providence, which guides everything that happens to us, and about God’s designs, which are far beyond our ability to understand, but always for our good. “Behind a frowning Providence / he hides a smiling face” has entered the language and become a cliché. To be honest, it can all sound a bit pat. But this poem is the fruit of Cowper’s painful experience in a lifetime of intense suffering and religious struggle.
William Cowper was born in 1731 into a quite distinguished family—his mother was a Donne, related to John Donne, and his father was connected to the Earl Cowper, the lord chancellor of England. His life was marked by early tragedy—his mother died when he was just six years old, and he then went to boarding school, where he was systematically bullied. These two experiences are thought to have contributed to Cowper’s many, serious, and extended bouts with mental illness. The first of these came in 1763, when Cowper was 32 years old. He had been nominated for a significant post in the House of Lords, which would require a public examination. The thought of this examination before the entire House of Lords brought on a psychotic episode. Cowper became convinced that he was damned and attempted suicide.
Cowper spent many months in an asylum and during his recovery, he had a profound conversion experience in which he felt in a profound way God’s mercy for him and for all sinners. He was one of the “fearful saints” he talks about in the poem. Cowper became a parishioner of John Newton—the famous slave trader turned minister--who invited him to contribute hymns to a new hymnal he was preparing. Newton wrote “Amazing Grace”; Cowper wrote “O for a closer walk with God” and the poem we just heard, among others.
Cowper continued to struggle with mental illness after his conversion. All his life, he considered himself an outsider, both socially and spiritually: a “stricken deer, that left the herd / Long since,” as he wrote in one of his poems.
Knowing a little of Cowper’s story, “Light Shining Out of Darkness” takes on new meaning. The darkness of which Cowper speaks was something he knew from experience; the fear he mentions, he felt; the hope he expresses, was what he longed for.
The first stanza of the poem draws on Biblical language. “He plants his footsteps in the sea, and rides upon the storm.” The language recalls the psalms, especially Psalm 104: “You make the clouds your chariot, traveling on the wings of the wind.” The imagery also evokes the story of Christ, walking on the water and stilling the storm. This language speaks of the power of God, but also reminds us of the desperation of the Apostles in the boat, crying out for the Lord’s help. 
In the stanzas that follow, Cowper uses a series of images and comparisons to highlight the hidden quality of God’s Providence. It is like treasure hidden in a mine; like storms of rain pent in a dark cloud; like a smile concealed by a frown; like a sweet flower hidden within a bitter bud. God is present, but hidden.
I think the key word of this poem is found in this first stanza: “mysterious.” God’s ways are not clear or even intelligible to us most of the time. Providence—that sense of God’s guiding hand in history and in our own lives—is also mystery.
Cowper offers no key to understanding God’s provident care. Rather, he insists that only God can do that: “God is his own interpreter, and he will make it plain.” Only God can reveal to us how his Providence is governing our lives, and our world. God’s ways are a profound mystery--but our faith tells us there is always mercy and there is always hope.

Christina Rossetti, “Up-Hill”
Does the road wind up-hill all the way?
   Yes, to the very end.
Will the day’s journey take the whole long day?
   From morn to night, my friend.
But is there for the night a resting-place?
   A roof for when the slow dark hours begin.
May not the darkness hide it from my face?
   You cannot miss that inn.
Shall I meet other wayfarers at night?
   Those who have gone before.
Then must I knock, or call when just in sight?
   They will not keep you standing at that door.
Shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak?
   Of labour you shall find the sum.
Will there be beds for me and all who seek?
   Yea, beds for all who come.

Every Christian lives their faith in their own way. For some, faith is tranquil; for others, stormy. Rossetti was definitely one of the latter. Her faith story brings to mind St. Paul’s words to the Philippians, “work out your salvation with fear and trembling.” (Philippians 2:12)
Faith did not come easy to Rossetti. She was hyper-conscious of her own flaws and exerted a rigid control over herself even with close friends. A biographer has written that her self-control was so extreme that she “retreated behind a mask of excessive and sometimes offensive politeness,” in an effort to offset what she saw as her besetting flaws of pride and anger.
This poem, written in 1858 when Rossetti was 28 years old, takes the form of a dialogue, questions and answers, between two voices. We don’t really know who either the questioner or the respondent is. But we soon recognize that much lies beneath the surface.
The first questions are simple, almost childlike. Is it all uphill? And how long will it take? We are reminded of the proverbial child’s question, “are we there yet?” The answers to these questions are affirmative. Yes – this journey is uphill all the way, and it’s not short: it will last from morning until night – a lifetime.
The questioner goes on to other questions about the end of the journey. How is one to know the place? What if you get lost? And the answers come, reassuringly. There will be a place to stay – “a roof for when the slow dark hours begin.” And there is no getting lost – “you cannot miss that inn.” Others have done this before, and there will be no waiting: there is room for all, “beds for all who come.”
This poem is full of hope. To every question, there is a reassuring “yes.” And yet, I find the poem quite challenging as well. The responses are certainly hopeful, but they are also vague and sometimes even a bit ominous. When the questioner asks, “shall I find comfort, travel-sore and weak,” the response comes: “Of labour you shall find the sum.” Whose labor is being referred to here? It sounds like the “sum” of comfort will depend on the labor of the individual.
In this poem, the uphill journey is, of course, a metaphor for life itself, with all its challenges; and the inn where we rest at the end of the day can be read in a variety of ways. On one level, it speaks of heaven—“in my Father’s house there are many dwelling-places.” The inn can also be read as the grave that awaits us all, the “roof” under which we shelter during the “slow dark hours.”
At another level, we can read “Up Hill” as a poem about anything that is really worth doing. Think of all the uphill journeys in our lives – and in our society. As Rossetti’s poem makes clear, these journeys will take everything we have. The answers to our questions will not come clear and absolute. Little signs of hope are all we are going to get.
In 1865, Rossetti wrote another poem, which is a companion to “Up Hill.” Entitled “Amor Mundi,” or “Love of the World,” it also features two speakers in a dialogue. One invites the other on a journey, this time, a downhill journey: “The downhill path is easy, come with me an it please ye, / We shall escape the uphill by never turning back.” At the end of that poem, we realize where that this downhill path is “hell’s own track.” And the consequences are bleak: “too late for cost-counting: This downhill path is easy, but there’s no turning back.” If it’s easy, Rossetti says, be suspicious of it: everything worth doing is difficult.



Holy Sonnets: Death, be not proud by JOHN DONNE

Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think'st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul's delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell'st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.

John Donne was born in 1572 into a staunchly Catholic family. His uncle was a Jesuit priest, Jasper Heywood, who spent his life in exile. While a student at Cambridge, Donne refused to take the oath of supremacy acknowledging the authority of England’s monarch over matters of religion, and was denied his degree as a result. He studied law, traveled widely, and even joined the fight against the Spanish Armada. He had a chequered life story, and is as well known for his remarkable love poems as he is for his sacred poetry and his sermons! He eventually joined the Church of England, and in 1615 became a priest, serving as the Dean of St. Paul’s Cathedral in London. He was a renowned preacher. He preached his most famous sermon, “Death’s Duel” before the court of King Charles I in February, 1631, just a few weeks before his own death.
Death was a constant in Donne’s life. He and his wife, Anne, had twelve children—two of them were stillborn, and another three died before the age of ten. Anne died just five days after giving birth to their last child. In 1623, Donne had a near-fatal illness about which he wrote in his Devotions upon Emergent Occasions, which include the famous passage, “never send to know for whom the bell tolls; it tolls for thee.” 
All of these experiences shaped Donne’s attitudes, and his later works are deeply religious—and sometimes quite dark. In “Death’s Duel,” his famous “last” sermon, Donne writes that we are doomed from our very birth: “This deliverance, from the death of the womb, is an entrance, a delivering over to another death, the manifold deaths of this world; we have a winding-sheet in our mother’s womb which grows with us from our conception, and we come into the world wound up in that winding sheet, for we come to seek a grave.”
In the Renaissance convention, death is a fearsome opponent, who pursues us and inevitably triumphs. But in this famous sonnet, “Death be not proud,” Donne approaches death in a very different way. Addressing death directly, Donne mocks death’s power. “Death, be not proud,” he says. “Some have called thee mighty and dreadful, but thou art not so.” No, death in this poem is not strong, but weak. Donne builds his case as the sonnet unfolds. Rest and sleep are common images for death and these are pleasant things; then death must be, too. The best among us die young, and what do they find but “rest of their bones, and soules delivery.” Both good things.
In the second half of the sonnet, Donne hammers home his point. Death is a slave to so many powers--fate, chance, kings, and desperate men, poison, war, and sickness, all of which control death’s power.  So what reason does death have to be proud?  Death is not in charge.
Donne’s final stroke is at the end of the poem. The real reason death can’t win—is that we can’t die. After the sleep of death, “we wake eternally.” Donne is evoking St. Paul in I Corinthians, and the fundamental Christian belief in the resurrection of the dead. “If the dead are not raised, neither has Christ been raised… If for this life only we have hoped in Christ, we are the most pitiable people of all. But now Christ has been raised from the dead.” As Christians, the Resurrection isn’t something that happened once to Jesus – the Resurrection is our destiny too. “Just as in Adam all die, so too in Christ shall all be brought to life, but each one in proper order: Christ the firstfruits; then, at his coming, those who belong to Christ… For he must reign until he has put all his enemies under his feet.  The last enemy to be destroyed is death.”
This sonnet wonderfully and dramatically reaffirms this basic Christian belief. Because Christ is risen, death has no dominion over him—or over us. Because Christ is risen, we will rise. The liturgy says this so well in the Easter Sequence: “Death and life have contended in that combat stupendous. The prince of life who died, reigns immortal.”



And did those feet in ancient time
Walk upon Englands mountains green:
And was the holy Lamb of God,
On Englands pleasant pastures seen!
And did the Countenance Divine,
Shine forth upon our clouded hills?
And was Jerusalem builded here,
Among these dark Satanic Mills?
Bring me my Bow of burning gold:
Bring me my arrows of desire:
Bring me my Spear: O clouds unfold!
Bring me my Chariot of fire!
I will not cease from Mental Fight,
Nor shall my sword sleep in my hand:
Till we have built Jerusalem,
In Englands green & pleasant Land.

William Blake

Corinna Laughlin's commentary

William Blake has been called the greatest artist England ever produced. He was an extraordinary figure—a genius in the visual arts as well as one of England’s greatest poets. Born in 1757, he had a vision of God at the age of four, and saw a tree full of angels. These early spiritual experiences shaped him for life. He was profoundly Christian, but also deeply eccentric, to the point that he was considered mad by many of his contemporaries.
Blake was a craftsman, an engraver by trade. At night, he worked on his own projects, in which image and text are married as they never had been before. Blake never achieved much commercial success. His works are not only utterly unconventional; they can also be quite cryptic. And he was extremely opinionated, which probably did not help: “To generalize is to be an idiot,” is one of his famous statements. Only long after his death, well into the twentieth century, did Blake come into his own as one of the great Romantic voices. “And did those feet,” which we just heard, has become an unofficial anthem of England, and was even heard at the royal wedding of Kate and William.
Blake’s poem is at one level very simple. Blake imagines a time when Christ himself, the Lamb of God, walked the “mountains green” and the “clouded hills” of England, now marred by “dark Satanic Mills.” It is a poem of resolve, as the speaker decides to fight with every weapon at his command until England is the new Jerusalem, “green & pleasant” again.
In this poem, as with all things Blake, there is more than meets the eye. Blake’s poem is rich in literary allusions.  Blake is drawing on a Grail legend, the stories of King Arthur. As the story goes, when a young boy, Jesus traveled with his uncle, Joseph of Arimathea (the figure mentioned in the Gospel as giving his new tomb for Christ to be buried). They came all the way to England, to Glastonbury, to be specific.. After the death and Resurrection of Jesus, Joseph of Arimathea is said to have returned to England to become the first to preach the Gospel to the English. Blake is playing on that legend. Notice how it’s all in the form of a question—“did those feet,” “was the Lamb,” “did the Countenance.” He knows it’s legend, but that doesn’t take away the amazement of Christ’s presence right in his own world, in his own surroundings. “Was Jerusalem builded here / Among these dark Satanic Mills” Blake asks.  When Blake wrote this poem (about 1804) the kind of mills we associate with England’s industrial revolution did not yet exist, but they were on their way. For Blake, the mill stands in for any rigid, dehumanizing, and evil influence. In contrast, Christ is associated with the natural world – light and green, and with all that is “pleasant.” The word sounds banal to us, but it is a word that speaks of relationship to humanity.  (Notice the word is used twice in this short poem).
Blake is also deeply versed in the Bible, and that comes through here. The poem recalls the language of the prophets. Blake refers to Christ as “the holy Lamb of God,” a title for Jesus especially associated with St. John the Baptist, who pointed out Jesus as “Lamb of God” and who also ended up dead for speaking truth to power. 
The third and fourth stanzas of the poem recall Old Testament prophets, particularly Elijah. In the second Book of Kings, Elijah asks Elisha what he wants from him. And Elisha answers that he wants “a double portion of your spirit.” In other words, he wants to be twice the prophet Elijah was! And the prayer is granted. Elijah is taken to heaven in “a fiery chariot and fiery horses,” and young Elisha takes up the prophet’s mantle. Here Blake is playing Elisha—taking up the prophetic task. The last stanza recalls the book of the prophet Nehemiah, and the rebuilding of the walls of Jerusalem.
It seems appropriate to read this poem right after Pentecost. At Pentecost, the Holy Spirit came to rest on all the disciples in wind and flame. In our Christian tradition, the Spirit dwells within every member of the baptized. We are all called to be prophets. Where are the prophetic voices of our own time? And what are the “dark Satanic mills” in our day that need to be broken so that our own land can be “green and pleasant” once again, revealed as the very dwelling place of the Lamb of God? 


Some keep the Sabbath going to Church (236)
Emily Dickinson (1830-1886)
Some keep the Sabbath going to Church –
I keep it, staying at Home –
With a Bobolink for a Chorister –
And an Orchard, for a Dome –
Some keep the Sabbath in Surplice –
I, just wear my Wings –
And instead of tolling the Bell, for Church,
Our little Sexton – sings.
God preaches, a noted Clergyman –
And the sermon is never long,
So instead of getting to Heaven, at last –
I’m going, all along.


Hello there! Corinna Laughlin here with the poem of the week.
For this week, I have chosen a classic by American poet Emily Dickinson. Jackie O’Ryan will read the poem, then I will be back to offer a brief commentary.
Thank you, Jackie!
You can see why we need this Emily Dickinson poem right now! Emily Dickinson is one of the greatest American poets; indeed, she is one of the greatest poets in the English language. Born in 1830 in western Massachusetts, her childhood was quite a normal one. Her father was a prominent attorney who even served in the US House of Representatives. He was an imposing figure. Dickinson admitted to a friend that she did not learn to tell time until she was fifteen because she was too intimidated to tell her father she didn’t understand his explanation.
As a young woman, Dickinson went off to school—Mount Holyoke Female Seminary, now Mount Holyoke College, in nearby South Hadley. Established in 1837 by Mary Lyon, an extraordinary figure, it was one of the first and best colleges for women in the United States. It was an intensely religious environment, and the school proudly displayed the names of graduates who had gone on to Christian missionary work around the world.
During Emily Dickinson’s year at Mt Holyoke, the students would be regularly questioned about whether they were “saved” or not, and categorized as “professors,” “hopers,” and “no hopers.” Emily Dickinson landed among the “no hopers.” The preaching and the emphasis on an emotional conversion experience was constant. This is a sample of one of Mary Lyon’s addresses to the students: “Do you not know that you are now exposed to God’s wrath, that a miserable eternity awaits you?” This religious language was not unusual; in fact, it was typical of New England religious experience at the time.
The emphasis on conversion may have been part of the reason she left Mt Holyoke after just one year, still classed among the no-hopers. Back home in Amherst, a religious revival was underway. Over the years, many members of the Dickinson family had conversion experiences and became active members of local congregations, but Dickinson did not. She gradually became a recluse, living in self-imposed isolation from her community and even from much of her family. There were many reasons for this, but her sense of religious isolation surely played its part.
So was Dickinson a “no hoper”? I think her poetry gives us the clear answer to that—no! She was nourished by the Bible, and her writing is profoundly imbued with Christian themes. In one poem, she wrote simply, “I know that he exists.” God is ever-present and a number of her poems are addressed directed to Christ.
But when it came to church, Dickinson remained profoundly skeptical. That is clearly evident in this short, playful poem. While others go to church, Dickinson stays home and keeps the sabbath in her own way. She has everything she needs—a chorister, a dome, and even a noted clergyman - God.
I have always loved this poem, but I have always mentally argued with Dickinson at the same time. What about community? We need each other! We need our shared worship. During this lockdown, however, I have found this poem to take on a whole new meaning. Now, when we cannot gather as community, “keeping the sabbath” in our accustomed way, we can learn from Dickinson other ways to keep the sabbath. In particular, we learn that God speaks to us through the beauty of the natural world, with birds as our choristers, trees for a dome, even a little sexton or sacristan—and of course, God, the most noted clergyman of all, doing the preaching. Most of us hopefully have had a chance to do a little more walking, a little more looking around, and have been able to sense in new ways God’s presence in creation.
In the final lines of the poem, Dickinson says, “instead of getting to heaven at last, I’m going, all along.” This attitude is so different from the theology she heard from the religious leaders of her day. Heaven is not a reward for the few, bestowed by a judging and reluctant God. Heaven is quite simply being in God’s presence.
I am reminded of the words of the French Carmelite mystic, St Elizabeth of the Trinity: “It seems to me that I have found my heaven on earth, because my heaven is you, my God, and you are in my soul.”
I think Elizabeth and Emily might have a lot to say to each other!




The Virgin at Noon | Paul Claudel

It is noon. I see the church, open. I must go in.
Mother of Jesus Christ, I do not come to pray.
I have nothing to offer and nothing to ask.
I come, Mother, only to look at you.
To look at you, to weep for happiness, knowing that
I am your son, and that you are there.
Just one moment while everything stops.
To be with you, Mary, in this place where you are.
Not to say anything, but only to sing
Because the heart is too full;
Like the blackbird that pursues its idea
In impromptu couplets like these.
Because you are beautiful, because you are immaculate,
The woman at last restored in Grace,
The creature in her first dignity
And in her final glory,
Just as she came forth from God in the morning
Of her original splendor.
Ineffably intact because you are
the Mother of Jesus Christ,
Who is the Truth carried in your arms, and the only hope
And the only fruit.
Because you are the woman,
The Eden of the old forgotten tenderness,
Whose glance finds the heart suddenly
And makes the pent-up tears overflow.
Because it is noon,
Because we are in this moment, today,
Because you are there, always,
Simply because you are Mary,
Simply because you exist,
Mother of Jesus Christ, thanks be to you!
Translation by Corinna Laughlin

Corinna Laughlin's reflection:

Paul Claudel was born in 1868 into a typical bourgeois French household. Though baptized a Catholic, religion was not really part of his life and by his teens he was a non-believer. At the age of 18, he went on a whim to Notre Dame in Paris for Mass on Christmas Day.  As he later wrote, he thought the ceremonies might give him some good material for a few decadent poems. Later that afternoon, he returned for Christmas Vespers. And something happened.
“I was towards the front of the crowd, close to the second pillar at the entrance to the choir, to the right on the sacristy side. It was then that the event happened which has dominated my entire life. In an instant, my heart was touched and I believed. I believed, with such strength… that ever since, no books, no reasonings, none of the vicissitudes of a restless life, have been able to shake my faith, nor, truth to tell, even to touch it.” Claudel tried to join the Benedictines, but was turned down. He entered the diplomatic service instead, and served all over the world, including the US, where he made the cover of Time magazine! His prolific writing—poetry, prose, and drama—was deeply imbued with his Catholic faith. He was nominated for the Nobel Prize six times.
For Claudel, that transforming moment of conversion was closely associated with Mary. Though he did not know it at the time, he later realized that his conversion had taken place as the choir began to sing Mary’s song, the Magnificat.
Claudel wrote, tongue in cheek, “After all, woman, it was you who made the first move…. Everything that has happened since, I can’t help it, you are responsible!”
Something of that same loving and playful tone comes through in today’s poem Claudel describes entering a church at Noon, which is of course the hour of the Angelus, a traditional Catholic prayer to Mary. But Claudel says, surprisingly, “I do not come to pray. I have nothing to offer and nothing to ask.” So why is he there? “not to say anything, but only to sing.” He simply wants to be in Mary’s presence, as in the presence of a mother.
In the second half of the poem, Claudel meditates on the uniqueness of Mary. Mary is the New Eve, giving us a glimpse of God’s creation in its “first dignity,” before the fall; and she is also God’s creature “in her final glory,” for in Mary’s Assumption, we glimpse the dignity of each human person, destined to share in the Resurrection of the Body.
At the end of the poem, Claudel steps back from the grandeur of this theologically rich imagery about Mary, and returns to the simplicity with which he began. He gives thanks, simply because Mary is there—simply because Mary is.

Denise Levertov: “Annunciation” from St. James Cathedral, Seattle on Vimeo.

Denise Levertov, “Annuciation”

We know the scene: the room, variously furnished,
almost always a lectern, a book; always
the tall lily.
       Arrived on solemn grandeur of great wings,
the angelic ambassador, standing or hovering,
whom she acknowledges, a guest.
But we are told of meek obedience. No one mentions
       The engendering Spirit
did not enter her without consent.
         God waited.
She was free
to accept or to refuse, choice
integral to humanness.

Aren’t there annunciations
of one sort or another
in most lives?
         Some unwillingly
undertake great destinies,
enact them in sullen pride,
More often
those moments
      when roads of light and storm
      open from darkness in a man or woman,
are turned away from
in dread, in a wave of weakness, in despair
and with relief.
Ordinary lives continue.
                                 God does not smite them.
But the gates close, the pathway vanishes.

She had been a child who played, ate, slept
like any other child–but unlike others,
wept only for pity, laughed
in joy not triumph.
Compassion and intelligence
fused in her, indivisible.
Called to a destiny more momentous
than any in all of Time,
she did not quail,
  only asked
a simple, ‘How can this be?’
and gravely, courteously,
took to heart the angel’s reply,
the astounding ministry she was offered:
to bear in her womb
Infinite weight and lightness; to carry
in hidden, finite inwardness,
nine months of Eternity; to contain
in slender vase of being,
the sum of power–
in narrow flesh,
the sum of light.
                     Then bring to birth,
push out into air, a Man-child
needing, like any other,
milk and love–

but who was God.
This was the moment no one speaks of,
when she could still refuse.
A breath unbreathed,

She did not cry, ‘I cannot. I am not worthy,’
Nor, ‘I have not the strength.’
She did not submit with gritted teeth,
                                                       raging, coerced.
Bravest of all humans,
                                  consent illumined her.
The room filled with its light,
the lily glowed in it,
                               and the iridescent wings.
              courage unparalleled,
opened her utterly.

Corinna Laughlin's reflection
During this month of May, we are exploring poems about Mary. This week, we’ll explore “Annunciation” by 20th century poet Denise Levertov. We have a special guest reader this week, Cathedral parishioner Jackie O’Ryan. Jackie will read the poem, then I’ll be back to offer a brief commentary.

Denise Levertov was born in 1923 in Essex, England, and died in 1997 in Seattle, Washington. Her mother was Welsh and her father was a Russian Jew, who converted to Christianity and became a minister of the Church of England. It was a very artistic household.   [ QUOTE FROM LEVERTOV ]
As a young woman, Levertov moved to the United States and considered herself an American poet. She was always very engaged with justice issues, and served as the poetry editor for the magazine The Nation for a number of years. She wrote about spiritual themes all her life, though it was not until she was teaching at Stanford in the 1980s that she began her own journey from agnostic to Christian. In 1989, she moved to Seattle, where she lived near Seward Park and fell in love with Mount Rainier. The mountain became a symbol of God for her, always present, whether “out” or not.  [QUOTE FROM LEVERTOV]
Levertov entered the Catholic Church at St. Edward’s Parish in Seattle in 1990. She died in 1997 at the age of 74, and is buried in Seattle’s Lakeview Cemetery.
In this poem, Levertov evokes familiar paintings of the Annunciation—“we know the scene,” she says – the room, the book, the lily, the angel. But then she delves into the part of the story we may not focus on. This is not a story about “meek obedience,” she says, but “courage.” God did not require anything of Mary—she was free to accept or to reject. That choice, Levertov says, is “integral to humanness.”
In the central part of the poem, Levertov asks whether there are annunciations in everyone’s life—but not everyone responds as Mary did. “Some unwillingly /undertake great destinies, / enact them in sullen pride, / uncomprehending.” Others simply turn away when a difficult path opens in front of them – “in dread, in a wave of weakness, in despair / and with relief. Ordinary lives continue.” When we refuse, Levertov says in a wonderful insight, “God does not smite” us. But nevertheless, something is lost. “The gates close, the pathway vanishes.”
At the end of the poem, Levertov comes back to that room where the angel is awaiting Mary’s answer. Levertov gives us a unique and very relatable idea of what it meant for Mary to be free from original sin: “she had been a child… like any other child—but unlike others, wept only for pity, laughed in joy, not triumph. Compassion and intelligence fused in her, indivisible.” It was this freedom which allowed Mary to consent to God’s plan, not reluctantly, but with total openness and trust. At the end of the poem, Levertov imagines what happens next, after Mary’s consent, and the light and transformation it brings: “The room filled with its light, / the lily glowed in it, /                                and the iridescent wings. / Consent, /               courage unparalleled, / opened her utterly.”  Mary’s “Yes” to God is not passive: consenting to God’s will is, rather “courage unparalleled.”

William Wordsworth “The Virgin”
Mother! whose virgin bosom was uncrost
With the least shade of thought to sin allied.
Woman! above all women glorified,
Our tainted nature's solitary boast;
Purer than foam on central ocean tost;
Brighter than eastern skies at daybreak strewn
With fancied roses, than the unblemished moon
Before her wane begins on heaven's blue coast;
Thy image falls to earth. Yet some, I ween,
Not unforgiven the suppliant knee might bend,
As to a visible Power, in which did blend
All that was mixed and reconciled in thee
Of mother's love with maiden purity,
Of high with low, celestial with terrene!

Corinna Laughlin's reflection

May is Mary’s Month, so this month we’ll be reading poems about Mary, from classic and contemporary poets. For this first week of May, I’ve chosen William Wordsworth’s sonnet, “The Virgin.”
William Wordsworth was born in 1770 and died in 1850. There was a lot of sadness in Wordsworth’s life, starting with the death of his parents – he was orphaned by the age of 13. Three of his five children predeceased him. He found his joy in the glorious landscape of the Lake District, where he spent most of his life. That landscape filled his poetry. Wordsworth, with his friend Samuel Taylor Coleridge, became one of the great English Romantic poets. They were pioneers of a new approach to poetry, characterized by close observation of the natural world, simpler language, and an emphasis on subjectivity—the interior life of the poet.
“The Virgin” is a later poem, part of a sequence of 47 sonnets written in 1821 and 1822, when Wordsworth was in his early fifties. The sonnets tell the whole story of the Christian faith in England. Wordsworth was a staunch Anglican—who would, he said, shed his blood for the Church of England.
In this sonnet, Wordsworth expresses great sympathy for Catholic devotion to the Blessed Virgin Mary. The poem is addressed directly to Mary. Wordsworth uses ideas and images that recall Catholic beliefs about Mary: she is the Immaculate Conception – in the poem’s most famous line, Wordsworth says she is “our tainted nature’s solitary boast”—the one person free from original sin. The imagery he uses to highlight Mary’s purity—comparisons to the ocean, daybreak, the moon –all resonate with Catholic prayers about Mary, whom we invoke as “Morning Star” and “Star of the Sea.”
All of this makes the turn the poem takes halfway through more shocking:  “Thy Image falls to earth.” Wordsworth is talking here about the English Reformation, what has been called “the stripping of the altars,” when statues of Mary and the saints were destroyed in an effort to purify the faith of English Christianity. While later, images of Mary and the saints, and tabernacles, would return to Anglican worship, at the time Wordsworth is writing, that had not yet become common.
At the end of the poem, Wordsworth expresses his gentle sympathy with those who turn to Mary in prayer. His language is quite tentative—“some… not unforgiven the suppliant knee might bend,” he says—notice the double negative. Wordsworth understands why we Catholics are drawn to Mary, and perhaps wishes that he, too, could turn to her in prayer. For Wordsworth, Mary is the best of both worlds—she combines a “mother’s love” and “maiden’s purity,” high and low, earthly and heavenly—“our tainted nature’s solitary boast.”

Poem of the Week: R. S. Thomas’ “Folk Tale” from St. James Cathedral, Seattle on Vimeo.

R. S. Thomas, “Folktale” (1986)
Prayers like gravel
flung at the sky’s
window, hoping to attract
the loved one’s
attention. But without
visible plaits to let
down for the believer
to climb up,
to what purpose open
that far casement?
I would
have refrained long since
but that peering once
through my locked fingers
I thought that I detected
the movement of a curtain.
Corinna Laughlin's commentary:
Today, we’re going to explore a poem by 20th century Welsh poet R. S. Thomas. Scott will read Thomas’s short poem “Folk Tale” and then I’ll be back to offer a brief commentary.
R. S. Thomas is probably the most renowned 20th century poet no one has ever heard of. He was born in Wales in 1913 and died there in 2000. Ordained a priest of the Anglican Church in Wales in 1936, he spent much of his life as a priest in small parishes in rural Wales.
In 1940, he married Mildred “Elsi” Eldridge, a gifted artist. Her renown as a painter inspired him to “wish to be recognized as a poet.”  His first collection of poems appeared in 1946, and many more followed. In 1996, he was nominated for the Nobel Prize in Literature. Thomas was a bit of a Luddite, and his son Gwydion later recalled sermons in which he railed against refrigerators and other modern appliances. The only modern convenience the family ever owned was a vacuum which they never used because it was too noisy.
The primary themes of Thomas’s poetry are the landscape and seascape of Wales, the country people with whom he ministered, and the elusive nature of faith and prayer.
In “Folk Tale,” Thomas evokes the familiar story of Rapunzel, who lived in a tower, and let down her hair to admit her mother—and, later, her prince. In Thomas’s poem, God is Rapunzel, hidden from view. Unlike Rapunzel, there are no “visible plaits to let down for the believer to climb up”—so why open the window at all?  “I would have refrained long since,” the poet says, “but that peering once through my locked fingers I thought that I detected the movement of a curtain.” Looking through “locked fingers”—through hands folded in prayer—he sensed movement in that far off window, and this glimpse was enough to keep him tossing gravel at the window, to keep him praying.
In this poem, Thomas playfully evokes the hard work that prayer is sometimes, and how elusive God can seem. Only by recalling that “movement of a curtain,” that sense of God’s presence, do we keep going, keep tossing gravel at the window, like Rapunzel’s prince, and longing for union.

God’s Grandeur
Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889)
The world is charged with the grandeur of God.
    It will flame out, like shining from shook foil;
    It gathers to a greatness, like the ooze of oil
Crushed. Why do men then now not reck his rod?
Generations have trod, have trod, have trod;
    And all is seared with trade; bleared, smeared with toil;
    And wears man's smudge and shares man's smell: the soil
Is bare now, nor can foot feel, being shod.
And for all this, nature is never spent;
    There lives the dearest freshness deep down things;
And though the last lights off the black West went
    Oh, morning, at the brown brink eastward, springs —
Because the Holy Ghost over the bent
    World broods with warm breast and with ah! bright wings.

Corinna Laughlin's commentary:

On April 22, we observe the 50th annual Earth Day. So this week, our poem is one with a strong ecological theme:  Gerard Manley Hopkins’ “God’s Grandeur.” Scott Webster will read the poem, then I’ll be back to offer a brief commentary.
Gerard Manley Hopkins was born in 1844. In 1866, as an Oxford undergraduate, he was received into the Catholic Church by now St. John Henry Newman. This was a momentous decision, as Hopkins knew he would face significant opposition from his devoutly Anglican family, and indeed his entry into the Church cost Hopkins friendships and caused estrangements in his family which never fully healed.
Hopkins had always loved poetry, but he gave it up when he resolved to become a Jesuit. "By God's grace,” he wrote, “I resolved to give up all beauty until I had His leave for it." For seven years, he wrote almost nothing, until one of his Jesuit superiors asked him to write a poem. This opened the floodgates of his creativity, and Hopkins developed his unique voice and style in extraordinary poems for the rest of his short life—he died at age 44 in 1889.
In this sonnet, Hopkins describes the world being as being “charged” with the grandeur of God. The word “charged” can mean “full” or “loaded”; it can also suggest an electric “charge”—Hopkins is playing on both meanings here. It’s characteristic of Hopkins to use a wonderful variety of images to capture his meaning. The world is so full of God that divinity flashes out, like light on a shaken piece of foil; it oozes God, as a crushed olive oozes oil.
Why, then, Hopkins asks, do men not “reck his rod”—why do people not recognize God’s power in creation?  Instead, they keep at their destructive work, exploiting creation, making it less divine and more human—the earth has taken on our “smudge,” our smell. At the same time, ironically, we are becoming ever more alienated from nature—we no longer touch it directly, like a foot in a shoe.
In the second part of the sonnet, Hopkins gives a glimpse of hope. “There lives the dearest freshness deep down things.” This idea of the deep, unique life that all living things have, is one of the hallmarks of Hopkins’ thought. No matter how dark things get, there is the hope of dawn, because God has not abandoned the world—the Holy Ghost broods over the earth like a dove on her nest.
Hopkins’ ecological vision resonates with that of another Jesuit—Pope Francis. In “Laudato Si,” his encyclical letter on Care for our common home, Pope Francis writes: “The ultimate destiny of the universe is in the fullness of God…. The ultimate purpose of other creatures is not to be found in us. Rather, all creatures are moving forward with us and through us towards a common point of arrival, which is God, in that transcendent fullness where the risen Christ embraces and illumines all things.”


Easter Wings by George Herbert

Lord, who createdst man in wealth and store,
      Though foolishly he lost the same,
            Decaying more and more,
                  Till he became
                        Most poore:
                        With thee
                  O let me rise
            As larks, harmoniously,
      And sing this day thy victories:
Then shall the fall further the flight in me.

My tender age in sorrow did beginne
      And still with sicknesses and shame.
            Thou didst so punish sinne,
                  That I became
                        Most thinne.
                        With thee
                  Let me combine,
            And feel thy victorie:
         For, if I imp my wing on thine,
Affliction shall advance the flight in me.

Corinna Laughlin's commentary:

For this Easter week, I’ve chosen a classic—“Easter Wings” by the 17th-century poet George Herbert. Parishioner Scott Webster will read the poem, then I’ll be back to offer a brief commentary.
George Herbert was born in Wales in 1593. He was a superb scholar, and poems by him survive not only in English but in Latin and Greek! He had a brilliant academic career at Cambridge, holding significant posts at a very young age, and then went into Parliament. In 1629, at the age of 36, for a variety of reasons, he changed course. He sought ordination in the Anglican Church, and became rector at the tiny country church of Fugglestone St. Peter in Bemerton, England. It was here that Herbert wrote “Easter Wings,” part of a collection of poems called The Temple. His time as a country parson was brief—he died of tuberculosis in 1633, at the age of 39.
Herbert was one of the “metaphysical poets,” along with poets like John Donne and Andrew Marvell. Some of the characteristics of metaphysical poetry are evident in “Easter Wings.” There’s an intricacy to the meter and rhyme, and a strong central image or “conceit”: in this case, wings! Herbert uses images of rising and falling, flying and sinking. When you look at the printed text, you can see that wings isn’t just a dominant image—it’s the shape of the poem itself!
Why wings at Easter? In the first stanza, Herbert talks about the creation story – how God gave Adam (and Eve) everything, “though foolishly he lost the same,” becoming “most poor.” But, Herbert says, if we rise with Christ, that first fall will only “further the flight in me.”
The second stanza echoes that pattern, speaking this time not of Adam’s fall, but of his own. But, he says, addressing Christ, “if I imp my wing on thine, Affliction shall advance the flight in me.” “Imp” is a term from the art of falconry, and refers to repairing a damaged wing with feathers from a healthy one. In other words, sin is like a broken wing, preventing us from soaring--but through our Easter union with Christ, we can fly with his wings—we can rise.
Herbert’s poem is a very clever illustration of the Christian idea of the “felix culpa,” the “happy fault.” This is a phrase from the Easter proclamation, the Exsultet, which Father Ryan sang at the Easter Vigil. “O happy fault, O necessary sin of Adam, which gained for us so great a Redeemer.” Had Adam and Eve not eaten the fruit, there would have been no need for Christ’s redeeming action. God turns the fall into a blessing – giving us wings to rise all the way to him. Happy Easter!



Good Friday by Christina Rossetti (1830-1894)
Am I a stone, and not a sheep,
That I can stand, O Christ, beneath Thy cross,
To number drop by drop Thy blood’s slow loss,
And yet not weep?
Not so those women loved
Who with exceeding grief lamented Thee;
Not so fallen Peter, weeping bitterly;
Not so the thief was moved;
Not so the Sun and Moon
Which hid their faces in a starless sky,
A horror of great darkness at broad noon –
I, only I.
Yet give not o’er,
But seek Thy sheep, true Shepherd of the flock;
Greater than Moses, turn and look once more
And smite a rock.


Corinna Laughlin commentary: 
Christina Rossetti was born in London in 1830 and died in 1894.  She was from a remarkably talented family. Her siblings all did remarkable things – her brother Dante Gabriel was a renowned poet and painter; her sister wrote a book on Dante; her brother William a noted critic and editor. Through her brothers, she was closely linked with the PreRaphaelite movement, and she appears as the Virgin Mary in Dante Rossetti’s famous Annunciation, and as St. Elizabeth of Hungary in a painting by James Collinson, to whom she was briefly engaged.
Rossetti had a happy childhood, but in her teenage years she experienced the first of several serious bouts with depression, something she would struggle with all her life. Her Christian faith was at the center of her life and of her writing.
In her poem “Good Friday,” Rossetti asks herself a question. “Am I a stone,” she asks, that she can stand beneath the cross and yet not weep? She draws on details from the Gospel accounts of Christ’s Passion and notes that everyone reacted to Christ’s suffering—the women wept; Peter wept; the good thief was moved; even the sun and moon “hid their faces in a starless sky” in eclipse. She feels like she’s the only one who can’t seem to feel anything.  Why can’t she feel?
Rossetti isn’t just beating herself up here. She’s giving an accurate description of “acedia,” a spiritual torpor or apathy which we all experience sometimes. Rossetti responds in a healthy way to acedia: she acknowledges it and she prays about it. At the end of the poem, she addresses Christ, saying, “Greater than Moses, turn and look once more / And smite a rock.” Just as Moses, at God’s command, struck the rock so that water flowed out for the Israelites to drink, Rossetti prays that Christ will break her open, so that she can feel with him and for him in his Passion.
This year, as we celebrate Holy Week under unprecedented circumstances, let’s not beat ourselves up if we find it hard to feel through our distraction, busyness, or anxiety. Instead, let’s pray with Rossetti for the grace to be broken open, to see and to feel with Christ during these Holy Days. Have a blessed Holy Week.


Jessica Powers  (1905-1988)
Gypsy by nature, how can I endure it—
This small strict space, this meager patch of sky?
What madness once possessed me to procure it?
And deed it to myself until I die?
What could the wise Teresa have been thinking
to set these bounds on even my little love?
This walling, barring, minimizing, shrinking—
how could her great Castilian heart approve?
And yet I meet the morrow with composure.
Before I made my plaint I found the clue
and learned the secret to outwit enclosure
because of summits and a mountain view.
You question, then, the presence of a mountain?
Yet it is here past earth’s extravagant guess—
Mount Carmel with its famed Elian fountain,
and God encountered in its wilderness.
Its trails outrun the most adept explorer,
outweigh the gypsy’s most inordinate need.
Its heights cry out to mystic and adorer.
Oh, here are space and distances indeed.
Hello there! Corinna Laughlin here. I’m the Pastoral Assistant for Liturgy at St. James. Over the years, parishioner Scott Webster and I have offered many literary evenings at the Cathedral, reading and discussing stories and poetry. Since we can’t do that right now, we’ve decided to offer a poem a week, virtually. Scott will read the poem, and then I’ll offer a short commentary. The first poem I’ve chosen is “Enclosure,” by Jessica Powers, also known as Sister Miriam of the Holy Spirit, a Carmelite nun who lived from 1905 to 1988. I think her experience of “enclosure” will resonate at this time when so many of us are confined to our homes.  Here’s Scott reading Jessica powers’ “Enclosure.”
Thank you, Scott!
The poem begins with a question—“gypsy by nature, how can I endure it?” Jessica Powers was a bit of a gypsy. She grew up in an Irish Catholic household in rural Wisconsin but after studies at Marquette, she moved to Chicago and later to New York City at the age of 32. She spent five years in the New York literary scene – writing for the New York Times and publishing poetry. Then, in 1941, she moved back to Wisconsin and entered the Carmelite Monastery of the Mother of God in Milwaukee. Jessica Powers became Sister Miriam of the Holy Spirit.
Carmelites are cloistered, which means they do not leave the monastery grounds, or “enclosure,” except for essentials, like doctors’ appointments. Visitors are traditionally seen at a distance, through a grille or screen. In these days of sheltering in place and social distancing, we are all getting a taste of Carmelite enclosure! 
Jessica Powers wrote “Enclosure” about seven years after her entrance into the monastery. In the first part of the poem, she humorously expresses the frustration that comes with being enclosed—“walling, barring, minimizing, shrinking.” What, she asks, could she have been thinking? What could St. Teresa have been thinking?
But in the second part of the poem, Powers answers her own question. How can she endure enclosure? Because God is present. She draws on the rich imagery of Carmelite spirituality—mountains, wilderness, flowing water—to point towards the rich interior landscape which is always accessible, even—or perhaps especially—when we are “enclosed.”

Corinna Laughlin



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