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Come to me, come to me, O my God;
Come to me everywhere!
Let the trees mean thee, and the grassy sod,
And the water and the air!

For thou art so far that I often doubt,
As on every side I stare,
Searching within, and looking without,
If thou canst be anywhere.

How did men find thee in days of old?
How did they grow so sure?
They fought in thy name, they were glad and bold,
They suffered, and kept themselves pure!

But now they say—neither above the sphere
Nor down in the heart of man,
But solely in fancy, ambition, and fear
The thought of thee began.

If only that perfect tale were true
Which ages have not made old,
Which of endless many makes one anew,
And simplicity manifold!

But he taught that they who did his word
The truth of it sure would know:
I will try to do it: if he be lord
Again the old faith will glow;

Again the old spirit-wind will blow
That he promised to their prayer;
And obeying the Son, I too shall know
His father everywhere!

— From A Threefold Cord: Poems by Three Friends, in Poetical Works, Vol II, George MacDonald
[A Threefold Cord is a collection of poems by George MacDonald, Greville Matheson, and John MacDonald]

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Revenge is of death and deadly. Forgiveness has taken its place, and forgiveness is the giving, and so the receiving, of life.
– George MacDonald

There is troparion (short hymn) in the Orthodox Church for Easter: “Christ is risen from the dead, trampling down death by death, and upon those in the tombs bestowing life!”

The horrible curse that man brought on himself through disobedience was death. From the garden to the present, the consequences of sin is death. What makes death anxiety-laden, fearful, and that which is typically avoided, is that it is not according to our true nature. Our true nature is life, and life abundant. Christ came to the world to save sinners and reconcile the world to himself. But save from what? Sin, which leads to Death. Christ’s death brought him to the grave, or hell (Gr,. hades; Heb., sheol), but it could not hold him, and through his resurrection he defeated death itself.1 Through Christ’s death, and through faithful participation in him through the Holy Spirit, we receive life. Jesus brought us life, so that our spiritual nature is no longer required to participate in death, but because we have inherited from Adam the consequences of the fall, our bodies still die. Yet because of Christ, the sting of death has been conquered, because the hope of the Christian is in the resurrection of the Incarnate Christ.

We are given the opportunity to participate in the things of Christ and of Faith, or to participate in the things of the old nature.

There is an ancient document, likely from the first century AD, called the Didache (“Teaching”), which says:

There are two ways, one of life and one of death; but a great difference between the two ways. The way of life, then, is this: First, you shall love God who made you; second, your neighbour as yourself; and all things whatsoever you would should not occur to you, do not also do to another. And of these sayings the teaching is this: Bless those who curse you, and pray for your enemies, and fast for those who persecute you.

What MacDonald frames above is connected to this patristic philosophy: if you feed revenge, you feed more death, and spread death by so doing. Forgiveness is choosing to release that burden and participate in Christ-likeness, and so too participate in life, and giving life.

What of the innocent being wronged such that revenge—punitive coerced restitution—is even a temptation? Forgiveness is releasing that judgement that we think we are entitled to, and letting processes outside of ourself work that out: in society, that may be legal or civil society, but no matter how it works out, God is final judge of all men. Justice comes to us all. In the light, all things are revealed, and God’s judgement declares the reality of the soul as it is. That soul has become what it is as a result of whether he or she has faithfully cooperated with Grace.

For us who might seek forgiveness rather than revenge, we can pray for our enemies, and fast for those who persecute us.

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O God! we belong to thee utterly ; we dying men are thy children, O living Father. Thou art such a Father that thou takest our sins from us and throwest them behind thy back. Thou cleansest our souls as thy Son did wash our feet. We hold our hearts up to thee, make them what they must be, O Love! O Life of men! O heart of hearts!
– George MacDonald

Liturgical Connection:

As I think W.H. Auden said, the climax, or pinnacle, of the Prayer Book Liturgy, as the 1662 and 1928 have it, is the Gloria. In these books, unlike both modern and medieval liturgies, it is at the end of the service. In such a framing the high point of the Sacrifice of Mass is not just Communion itself but what comes after communion: we have received and participated in Christ: him in us and we in him, and we are charged that the elements “preserve our body and soul unto everlasting life” and in taking them to “be thankful.”

It is fitting then that, after we thank god, “we most humbly beseech thee, O heavenly Father, so to assist us with thy grace, that we may continue in that holy fellowship, and do all such good works as thou hast prepared for us to walk in”1

Continuing in that Holy Fellowship is the life that is participating in the ramifications of not just the crucifixion, but also the resurrection. The liturgy follows quickly with a hymn of praise:

O Lord, the only-begotten Son, Jesu Christ; O Lord God, Lamb of God, Son of the Father, that takest away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us. Thou that takest away the sins of the world, have mercy upon us. Thou that takest away the sins of the world, receive our prayer. (emphasis added)2

Comments on MacDonald:

1. “We belong to Thee utterly” Jesus is the new Adam. The First Adam abdicated his custody of this world to Satan at the Fall, Christ, in overcoming the consequences of Original Sin, has also overcome death, and taken custody of this world. The world is Christ’s, not Man’s, not Satan’s, and we are either cooperating with Christ or resisting him. To cooperate is to recognize that we do belong to Christ. To do so formally is to be baptised, and to continue to live according to one’s baptism.

2. “we dying men are thy children, O living Father.” There are many points of interest in this phrase: both death and adulthood against our child-status to the living father. Recall Jesus’ parable of the vinedresser: it is only through him that we the branches are sustained by the source of life, the vine. Without our Father, we grow old. Without our Father we participate in death. But with our Father, that is, recognizing that we are his, we grow young, and participate in life.

3. “Thou art such a Father that thou takest our sins from us and throwest them behind thy back.” As in the Gloria, the unified one Lord, which is the Father, Christ, and the Holy Ghost, is pleased to take away the sins of the world, and have mercy on us. What I find interesting here is the potential application of “having mercy on us” and “receiving our prayer” (which is “to assist us with thy grace”) is found in the picture of the Father throwing sins—be it debts, broken toys, and so on—behind his child’s back. This too implies first a face to face connection: the Father is facing us when our sins are taken away, and discarded with such energy. MacDonald renders the Good Fatherhood of God so well!

4. “Thou cleansest our souls as thy Son did wash our feet.” Recall the episode just before the last supper:

   Jesus answered him, “You do not know what I am doing now, but you will understand later.” Peter said to him, “You will never wash my feet!” Jesus replied, “If I do not wash you, you have no part with me.” Simon Peter said to him, “Lord, not only my feet, but also my hands and my head!” (John 13:7-9 EOB)

   The operation of Grace in our lives, as experienced through the Sacrament of Confession as well as the General Confession, is that we recognize our sins, sit face-to-face, repent, and let God work in us. This does not mean it is easy, but it does mean it will be thorough: not just our feet only, but hands and head.

   Jesus replies to Peter:

   “One who has bathed only needs to have his feet washed. Apart from that he is completely clean.” (John 13:10)

   The reality is that, because of our baptism, our hands and head are already clean. To live according to our baptism is to hear the words of Christ that we only need our feet washed. These are the things that do not say who we are, but the things that we pick up along the way: the sins we pick up along the way. And Jesus washes them from us if we submit to his working in our lives.

5. “We hold our hearts up to thee, make them what they must be” If we surrender to God, because we are his child, because he is life, because he makes clean the dirt of our souls (or feet), and offer what is most precious to us to him, he is faithful—through our faith and through the sacraments—to work in us towards what will make us best for this life and the life that comes after: childlike, full of life, secure, and without shame.

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To know one's self safe amid storms and darkness and fire and water, amid disease and pain, even during the felt approach of death, is to be a Christian.
– George MacDonald

The default state of a Christian is Joy, and when it is not, the ideal response of a Christian to storms, darkness, trials, dejections, and pain, is to be developing—strengthening—the faculties of Joy:

Consider it as all joy, my brethren, when you fall into various trials, knowing that the testing of your faith produces endurance. Let endurance have its full effect, so that you may be perfect and whole, lacking in nothing. (James 1:2-4 EOB)

MacDonald has an interesting turn here: it isn't just Joy, or developing Joy. It has to do self amidst trials:

“To know one’s self safe”

To be a Christian doesn’t mean one is happy. Sometimes, perhaps often, it doesn’t mean one is particularly holy. To be a Christian is to have a secure identity. No matter what people might say about someone, no matter the setbacks, hardship, even torture, a Christian can rest—be totally secure—in the fact that he or she is in Christ. A Christian can go through life and be objectively assured of being in Christ through 1) the fact of Baptism: this establishes your identity, not according to you, but it is given to you through the work of the Holy Spirit. 2) a life choosing to cooperate with the will God, which is accepting the identity that was assigned to the Christian at Baptism, and living into it. This is sometimes called sanctification. In the East, it is called theosis.

This is the faithful acceptance of the Grace that Christ freely offers us, and in this acceptance we are choosing to repent of those decisions we make holding on to our old identity in the fruits of Adam—our sins—and choose to seek amendment of life. This is the process of cooperating with Christ as he guides us to form our wills to be less like what the world says we are—what we think we say we are—and instead who he knows we are as children of God.

The radical move of the Gospel, shown in Jesus’ teaching and Paul's epistles is that we belong to Christ, and no force on earth (except ourselves) can take that from us. Storms, poverty, betrayal, bad churches, good churches, bereavement, depression, disease—all these things have no bearing on the person that Christ sees in us: the person he is calling us towards. To be a Christian is to put one’s faith in Christ to always know who we are, even when we don't and when the world tries to impose itself on our self:

My sheep hear my voice, and I know them, and they follow me: And I give unto them eternal life; and they shall never perish, neither shall any man pluck them out of my hand. (John 10:27-28 KJV)

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The Girl That Lost Things

There was a girl that lost things—
Nor only from her hand;
She lost, indeed—why, most things,
As if they had been sand!

She said, "But I must use them,
And can't look after all!
Indeed I did not lose them,
I only let them fall!"

That's how she lost her thimble,
It fell upon the floor:
Her eyes were very nimble
But she never saw it more.

And then she lost her dolly,
Her very doll of all!
That loss was far from jolly,
But worse things did befall.

She lost a ring of pearls
With a ruby in them set;
But the dearest girl of girls
Cried only, did not fret.

And then she lost her robin;
Ah, that was sorrow dire!
He hopped along, and—bob in—
Hopped bob into the fire!

And once she lost a kiss
As she came down the stair;
But that she did not miss,
For sure it was somewhere!

Just then she lost her heart too,
But did so well without it
She took that in good part too,
And said—not much about it.

But when she lost her health
She did feel rather poor,
Till in came loads of wealth
By quite another door!

And soon she lost a dimple
That was upon her cheek,
But that was very simple—
She was so thin and weak!

And then she lost her mother,
And thought that she was dead;
Sure there was not another
On whom to lay her head!

And then she lost her self—
But that she threw away;
And God upon his shelf
It carefully did lay.

And then she lost her sight,
And lost all hope to find it;
But a fountain-well of light
Came flashing up behind it.

At last she lost the world:
In a black and stormy wind
Away from her it whirled—
But the loss how could she mind?

For with it she lost her losses,
Her aching and her weeping,
Her pains and griefs and crosses,
And all things not worth keeping;

It left her with the lost things
Her heart had still been craving;
'Mong them she found—why, most things,
And all things worth the saving.

She found her precious mother,
Who not the least had died;
And then she found that other
Whose heart had hers inside.

And next she found the kiss
She lost upon the stair;
'Twas sweeter far, I guess,
For ripening in that air.

She found her self, all mended,
New-drest, and strong, and white;
She found her health, new-blended
With a radiant delight.

She found her little robin:
He made his wings go flap,
Came fluttering, and went bob in,
Went bob into her lap.

So, girls that cannot keep things,
Be patient till to-morrow;
And mind you don't beweep things
That are not worth such sorrow;

For the Father great of fathers,
Of mothers, girls, and boys,
In his arms his children gathers,
And sees to all their toys.

— George MacDonald, Poetical Works, Vol 2, Poems for Children

Traveling this weekend. I read this poem the night before departure.

Themes and ideas to look for in reading this:

• Christian Joy and Hope

• God-with-us (Immanuel) in our suffering.

• Resurrection as a seamless transition from this life

• Resurrection being a return to “Godly Play” and child-likeness.

• and… animals in heaven.

Lots of things in this “Poem for Children.”

See also C. S. Lewis’ Great Divorce, especially the passage about the quiet, long-suffering prayer warrior celebrated in heaven.

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The last act of our Lord in commending his spirit to his Father, at the close of his life, was only a summing up of what he had been doing all his life. . . . Every morning when he went out ere it was day, every evening when he lingered on the night lapt mountain, after his friends were gone, he was offering himself to his Father, in the communion of loving words, of high thoughts, of speechless feelings; and, between, he turned to do the same thing in deed, namely — in loving word, in helping thought, in healing action, towards his fellows; for the way to worship God, while the daylight lasts, is to work; the service of God, the only “divine service,” is the helping of our fellows; I want to show, that this is the simplest, blessedest thing in the human world.

– George MacDonald (emphasis added)

Following the last post: if all we have is God’s, then when we offer ourselves back to God, we also must let go of where God himself would like that offering directed. This is the substance of a Tithe, or offering to a church: it is not investment: non-profits are not investment properties. It is not building of righteousness or merit, as the plain reading of Scripture is against such things. Rather, it is a letting go and giving back to God in thankfulness for what he has given.

Once given, it is not our responsibility, but those to whom it is given. Give money to the church? It is now the church’s responsibility to steward what God, through you, has provided. That may be a sabbatical for an over-worked rector, or rent assistance to a single mother, or printing fees for booklets.

And so with that we turn to the example of Christ. As MacDonald says, every day he worked in a constant offering—submission to the Father—for the needs of the world. Christ’s offering was himself, for us. We have been given a great gift of life, the forgiveness of sins, and the victory over the sting of death, partakers in the Resurrection itself. With this great gift what are we to do? For the sake of our souls, it is our responsibility to steward—to share—the life we have been given. This is the Great Commission:

All authority has been given to me in heaven and on earth. Go therefore and make disciples of all nations, baptizing them in the Name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit, teaching them to observe all the things that I have commanded you. Behold, I am with you always, even to the end of the age.” Amen! (Matthew 28:18-20, EOB)

It is also the substance of the teaching of Christ (emphasis added, above):

Then they will answer him: ‘Lord, when did we see you hungry, or thirsty, or a stranger, or naked, or sick, or in prison, and did not help you?’ Then he will answer them, saying: ‘Amen, I tell you: as much as you did not do it to one of the least of these, you did not do it to me.’ (Matthew 25:44-45, EOB)

Christ’s last act: surrendering himself to the cross, and giving up his spirit (it is finished), is for the least of these, which is us. Christ instructing us to serve for the “helping of our fellows” is not just a command, but us giving back as we have been given.

What is more interesting in MacDonald’s framing is the eschatological nature of the rhythm of Christ’s life:

[Christ] turned to do the same thing in deed, namely — in loving word, in helping thought, in healing action, towards his fellows; for the way to worship God, while the daylight lasts, is to work

Christ’s rhythm of outward focus and retreat to the mountains for restorative communion with God, as MacDonald frames it here, is what we have to look forward to. We are following in the example, while the day is at hand, to help others—in prayerful intention, thinking charitably of others, and tangibly helping others—as our way of worshipping God. But there will be a time when the work of the day has ended, and the night is at hand. We may not live in the 11th hour, but it is well for us to work as though we are. When the night comes (which anticipates the New Heaven and New Earth) it is for us who have given as we have received to retreat to the mountain, rest, and enjoy the feast of communing with Glory of God:

I saw the holy city, New Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared like a bride adorned for her husband. I heard a loud voice from heaven saying, “Behold, God’s dwelling is with people! He will dwell with them, and they will be his people, and God himself will be with them! He will wipe away every tear from their eyes! Death will be no more; neither will there be mourning, crying, or pain any more. For the first things have passed away.” (Revelation 21:2-4 EOB)

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A Prayer for the Past

Every highest human act is just a giving back to God of that which he first gave to us.— “Thou, God, hast given me; here again is thy gift ; I send my spirit home.” Every act of worship is a holding up to God of what God hath made us. “Here, Lord, look what I have got : feel with me in what thou hast made me, in this thy own bounty, my being. I am thy child, and know not how to thank thee save by uplifting the heaven-offering of the overflowing of thy life and calling aloud ' It is thine : it is mine, I am thine, and therefore I am mine.'” The vast operations of the spiritual as of the physical world are simply a turning again to the source.

—George MacDonald

---

“I [Paul] planted, Apollos watered, but it is God who made it grow! And so, neither the one planting nor the one watering is anything: only God makes it grow. Now the one planting and the one watering are the same, but each will receive a personal reward according to his own labor. Indeed, we are God’s co-workers! You are God’s field, God’s building.” 1 Corinthians 3:5–9 (EOB)

In all historic liturgies, the Offertory, that is, the bringing of the people's offerings to God, precedes the Holy Communion. In the Offertory is celebrated variously throughout the world. In some it is simply a passing of a plate or bag down a line of pews, in others, especially in Africa, it is a grand celebration of bringing of gifts for the use of the church, which is to say the community, to the Altar of God. If you look on YouTube you will see grand processions of the whole church in a song-filled queue singing praises as the people bring tithes, bread, wine, etc. This is very much how the offertory worked in the early church. The people would bring the fruits of their labor to God. Often it was in the offertory that not just tithes and alms were brought but the bread and wine to be consecrated itself. An adaptation of this was brought back into popularity in the Liturgical Movement of the late 20th century, where the ushers, or other lay people, would bring the hosts and cruets to be consecrated up with the tithes at the Offertory.

The importance of this is:

1. All that is brought to the altar was God’s to begin with. The first principle of all Reformation theology is that God is Gracious: we receive what we did not earn, because God is gracious. This includes the fruits of our labor, the fact that we were born, that we grow, that even the plants that we eat grow: all we receive is a Gift.

2. In order to show that we love and honor God, in our thankfulness we bring that which we have received and present it to him. It was not ours to begin with, and he can have it all, not just a tithe, but a tithe will do in most cases as Scripture has modelled. Additionally, to not recognize that what he have has come from above1, we risk the peril of thinking that we made things happen: we watered, therefore we made it grow. This is idolatrous self-sufficiency. Alternatively, we might think that we own what we made: that it belongs to us. It belongs to the one who produced, it, and the one who produced you, your parents, the whole universe, is God.

3. In the liturgy, after the Offertory, there is the Sursum Corda, or the portion of the liturgy that begins with “Lift up your hearts.” As we have placed our offerings down, we have let them go, we are brought up soon after. Through the operation of the priest, symbolically acting in persona Christi, that which is offered, the Bread and Wine, is through the invocation of the Holy Spirit now called Body and Blood.

We receive life from God, we eat the food that he makes grow, as we cooperate with that effort in our vocation as caretakers—gardeners, and we offer it back to him, because, like our very lives, and our parent’s lives, all came from God first. And when we let go, and offer it back to him, he, in giving us his Son, returns our efforts with life itself: the things which are best for us given our present state and condition. He made us in his image, and when we stop trying to be God by holding on to what is not ours (the only things we really own are our sins), we receive much, much more. We are lifted up to participate the source itself, not just the fruits.

"The vast operations of the spiritual as of the physical world are simply a turning again to the source."

Further Reading: For the Life of the World, Alexander Schmemann

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(Italics below are from the Chatto and Windus edition of Poetical Works. This long poem seldom appears complete online, and often without matching the italics/regular of the original.)

A Prayer for the Past

George MacDonald, Poetical Works, Vol 1, “Organ Songs”

ALL sights and sounds of day and year,
All groups and forms, each leaf and gem,
Are thine, O God, nor will I fear
To talk to thee of them.

Too great thy heart is to despise,
Whose day girds centuries about
From things which we name small, thine eyes
See great things looking out.

Therefore the prayerful song I sing
May come to thee in ordered words;
Though Lowly born, it needs not cling
In terror to its chords.

I think that nothing made is lost;
That not a moon has ever shone,
That not a cloud my eyes hath crossed lull
But to my soul is gone.

That all the lost years garnered lie
In this thy casket, my dim soul;
And thou will, once, the key apply,
And show the shining whole.

But were they dead in me, they live
In thee, whose Parable is — Time,
And Worlds, and Forms — all things that give
Me thoughts, and this my rime.

And after what men call my death,
When I have crossed the unknown sea,
Some heavenly morn, on hopeful breath,
Shall rise this prayer to thee.

Oh let me be a child once more,
And dream fine glories in the gloom,
Of sun and moon and stars in store
To ceil my humble room.

Oh call again the moons that crossed
Blue gulfs, behind gray vapours crept;
Show me the solemn skies I lost
Because in thee I slept.

Once more let gathering glory swell,
And lift the world's dim eastern eye;
Once more let lengthening shadows tell
Its time is come to die.

But show me first — oh, blessed sight!
The lowly house where I was young;
There winter sent wild winds at night,
And up the snow-heaps flung;

Or soundless brought a chaos fair,
Full, formless, of fantastic forms,
White ghostly trees in sparkling air —
Chamber for slumbering storms.

There sudden dawned à dewy morn;
A man was turning up the mould;
And in our hearts the spring was born,
Crept thither through the cold.

And Spring; in after years of youth,
Became the for of every form
For hearts now bursting into truth,
Now sighing in the storm.

On with the glad year let me go,
With troops of daisies round my feet;
Flying my kite, or, in the glow
Of arching summer heat,

Outstretched in fear upon a bank,
Lest, gazing up on awful space,
I should fall down into the blank,
From off the round world's face.

And let my brothers come with me
To play our old games yet again,
Children on earth, more full of glee
That we in heaven are men.

If then should come the shadowy death,
Take one of us and go,
We left would say, under our breath,
"It is a dream, you know!

"And in the dream our brother's gone
Upstairs: he heard our father call;
For one by one we go alone,
Till he has gathered all."

Father, in joy our knees we bow:
This earth is not a place of tombs:
We are but in the nursery now;
They in the upper rooms.

For are we not at home in thee,
And all this world a visioned show;
That, knowing what Abroad is, we
What Home is too may know?

And at thy feet I sit, O Lord,
As once of old, in moonlight pale,
I at my father's sat, and heard
Him read a lofty tale.

On with my history let me go,
And reap again the gliding years,
Gather great noontide's joyous glow,
Eve's love-contented tears;

One afternoon sit pondering
In that old chair, in that old room,
Where passing pigeon's sudden wing
Flashed lightning through the gloom;

There try once more, with effort vain,
To mould in one perplexed things;
There find the solace yet again
Hope in the Father brings;

Or mount and ride in sun and wind,
Through desert moors, hills bleak and high,
Where wandering vapours fall, and find
In me another sky.

For so thy Visible grew mine,
Though half its power I could not know;
And in me wrought a work divine,
Which thou hadst ordered so;

Giving me cups that would not spill,
But water carry and yield again;
New bottles with new wine to fill
For comfort of thy men.

But if thou thus restore the past
One hour, for me to wander in,
I now bethink me at the last—
O Lord, leave out the sin.

And with the thought comes doubt, my God;
Shall I the whole desire to see,
And walk once more, of that hill-road
By which I went to thee?

Now far from my old northern land,
I live where gentle winters pass;
Where green seas lave a wealthy strand,
And unsown is the grass;

Where gorgeous sunsets claim the scope
Of gazing heaven to spread their show.
Hang scarlet clouds in the topmost cope, got
With fringes flaming low;

With one beside me in whose eves
Once more old Nature finds a home;
There treasures up her changeful skies,
Her phosphorescent foam.

O'er a new joy this day we bend,
Soft power from heaven our souls to lift;
A wondering wonder thou dost lend
With loan outpassing gift—

A little child. She sees the sun—
Once more incarnates thy old law:
One born of two, two born in one,
Shall into one three draw.

But is there no day creeping on
Which I should tremble to renew?
I thank thee, Lord, for what is gone—
Thine is the future too!

And are we not at home in thee,
And all this world a visioned show,
That, knowing what Abroad is, we
What Home is too may know?

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²⁵ At that time Jesus declared, “I thank thee, Father, Lord of heaven and earth, that thou hast hidden these things from the wise and understanding and revealed them to babes; ²⁶ yea, Father, for such was thy gracious will.^{* 27} All things have been delivered to me by my Father; and no one knows the Son except the Father, and no one knows the Father except the Son and any one to whom the Son chooses to reveal him. ²⁸ Come to me, all who labor and are heavy laden, and I will give you rest. ²⁹ Take my yoke upon you, and learn from me; for I am gentle and lowly in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. ³⁰ For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.”

St Augustine: 

Any other burden oppresses and crushes you, but Christ’s actually takes weight off you. Any other burden weighs down, but Christ’s gives you wings. If you take a bird’s wings away, you might seem to be taking weight off it, but the more weight you take off, the more you tie it down to the earth. There it is on the ground, and you wanted to relieve it of a weight; give it back the weight of its wings and you will see how it flies (Sermones, 126, 12).

J. C. Ryle:

And now comes the solemn inquiry, Have we accepted this invitation for ourselves? Have we no sins to be forgiven, no griefs to be removed, no wounds of conscience to be healed? If we have, let us hear Christ’s voice. He speaks to us as well as to the Jews. He says, “Come unto me.”—Here is the key to true happiness. Here is the secret of having a light heart. All turns and hinges on an acceptance of this offer of Christ.

May we never be satisfied till we know and feel that we have come to Christ by faith for rest, and do still come to Him for fresh supplies of grace every day! If we have come to Him already, let us learn to cleave to Him more closely. If we have never come to Him yet, let us begin to come to-day. His word shall never be broken: “Him that cometh unto me, I will in nowise cast out.”

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Whatever it be that keeps the finer faculties of the mind awake, wonder alive, and the interest above mere eating and drinking, money-making and money-saving ; whatever it be that gives gladness or sorrow, or hope, — is simply a divine gift of holy influence for the salvation of that being to whom it comes, for the lifting of him out of the mire and up on the rock.

– George MacDonald

“I know your works, that you are neither cold nor hot. I could wish you were cold or hot. So then, because you are lukewarm, and neither cold nor hot, I will vomit you out of My mouth.” (Rev 3:15-16)

If you have great desire: ambition for success, yearning for beauty, the adrenaline rush of adventure, delight in competition, pleasure in eating and drinking, all of these things, while they can be vices (avarice, lust, wrath, envy, gluttony, and so on), are part of who we are as creatures made by God. The key to spiritual therapy is not killing of the desire, for most desires, being a connection to our wills, are gifts from God. In the case of sinful desire we are to redirect those desires towards Godly things. Those desires which have taken on evil ends, can be countered, redeemed, through active exercise of charity, chastity, patience, gratitude, temperance.

But what of the inverse of what MacDonald speaks of? Those who have lost all wonder, have sleeping minds, and have lost interest in, well, most things.

That is Sloth.

One of the major ideas in Desert Patristics, and most spiritual formation, is understanding that:

1. You are not your thoughts.

2. You, created in the image of God, are the Will that acts.

3. Your Will chooses what to do with your thoughts and behaviours.

4. Ascetical Theology is based upon training and strengthening the Will.

5. Sanctification is the Will that is increasingly turning its focus towards God.

It can be argued, then, that one of the most dangerous vices that prevents the salvation of a soul—inhibits sanctification—is not active (or outward) vice, but passive (or inward) vice. Paul himself, zealous in all things, redirected such an active will from persecuting Christians to risking his own life for the sake of Christians. His will was redirected in his conversion and life of repentance.

The insidiousness of the present age is the prevalence of depression and apathy. These are dangerous voids which are somewhat obscure in how they are redirected, especially in the process of conversion.

Fr Stephen Freeman:1

If you search patristic material you may wonder where the references to depression and anxiety are. They are hidden in a word that is quite common: acedia (sometimes spelled “accidie”). It is described as the most difficult of all the passions and garnered the nickname “the noonday devil.” Here is a brief description from St. John Cassian:

He looks about anxiously this way and that, and sighs that none of the brethren come to see him, and often goes in and out of his cell, and frequently gazes up at the sun, as if it was too slow in setting, and so a kind of unreasonable confusion of mind takes possession of him like some foul darkness.

Gabriel Bunge, the Orthodox hermit and scholar on the works of Evagrius, offers this understanding of what he terms “despondency:”

Acedia manifests itself, then, as a type of slackening of the natural powers of the soul. Evagrius defines it in exactly the same way: Spiritual despondency is a slackness (atonia) of the soul, namely a limpness of the soul, which does not possess what is appropriate to its nature.

The way through Acedia is activity: continuing through one’s apathy, which often seeks after pain—despondency—as stimulus for want of pleasure. For a monk who has lost all will to do his prayers, and attend the Offices, or do his chores, the way through it is hard, and it takes more willpower than it does for others doing the exact same thing. But the reward is the training of the will towards desire. The will exercised, begins, step by step, to have desires. Out of these desires, the Divine influence can be better cooperated with, as these desires, when directed towards righteousness, are “for the lifting of him out of the mire and up on the rock.”

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The spirit of God lies all about the spirit of men, like a mighty sea, ready to rush in at the smallest chink in the walls that shut him from his own.

—George MacDonald

Anything I could say (but I will say something) is better said in Psalm 139:7-12

7  Whither shall I go from thy spirit?
or whither shall I flee from thy presence?
8  If I ascend up into heaven, thou art there:
if I make my bed in hell, behold, thou art there.
9  If I take the wings of the morning,
and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea;
10 even there shall thy hand lead me,
and thy right hand shall hold me.
11 If I say, Surely the darkness shall cover me;
even the night shall be light about me.
12 Yea, the darkness hideth not from thee; but the night shineth as the day:
the darkness and the light are both alike to thee.

Much like the poet in the Two Rondels, "Thy heart and mine beat one accord", there is no place to go from the Spirit of God: one can cooperate with him or resist him, but he is always there, always working. Whatever unhealthy barriers we place to have relationship with God, he is persistent in bringing them down.

Think on the “mighty sea”: the persistency of crashing waves never stops; it may wax and wane, but it is ceaseless. Put up a wall—be it levee, dike, jetty—to keep this persistence and wear away whatever is built over time. While often in prayer, we invite God in to do sometime for us, it is what we don’t pray about that indicates where we may try to keep God out. Part of this, like keeping the storms out, is for stability on our terms, and building things as we see fit, rather than in cooperation with the elements.1

But there is always a leak; if we think we have shut God out, he will find a way. The stability of God is not static and independent: it is rhythmic and cooperative. It has a pulse

the walls that shut him from his own.

What are we keeping out when we construct these barriers? Building a barrier moderates: it cuts you off from noticing the low tide, the receding wave, and it attenuates the impact of the stormy wave. Keeping God out of certain parts of “Us”, in order to avoid the danger of stormy waters of the Holy Spirit, is what sounds a lot like Spiritual Depression: it keeps out the highs, and you don’t notice the lows.

The first thing to understand is you are God’s; the difference between a Christian and a non-Christian is primarily one who recognises and accepts that he is God’s. This is conversion. Blocking the forces of the spirit because it might upset your life cuts you off from beauty, from the pulse of the universe, and from your neighbour, for building a wall to keep out is hardly ever just with God.

The construction of barriers reminds me of the words of Christ in a vision given to St John: “For you say, I am rich, I have prospered, and I need nothing; not knowing that you are wretched, pitiable, poor, blind, and naked.”2 We build protection from many aspects of the Spirit of God, because he cannot be controlled by us: it may be lack of belief (I cannot bear to experience the low tide), it may be fear of what he might ask (I don’t want to be called to …), it may be areas of our lives that we want to keep from God (I really don’t want to give up this sin). These boundaries strike me as negative: these walls are for avoiding—for keeping out—for negating.

If we let these walls come down–for they eventually come down; if we accept the invitation, it is far less the raging sea: for “even there shall thy hand lead me, and thy right hand shall hold me.”

To put it another way (I do love mixing metaphors): things rush in because of pressure differences: it is because we have tried to Keep God Out of our spiritual house—our beachside dwelling. But if we tear down these barriers, we are not the part being raged against: we are merely in the water (“If I take the wings of the morning, and dwell in the uttermost parts of the sea;”), because we are cooperating with the rhythm of the waters.3 With God, in God, to what we think are storms because of our attachments (“Let only darkness cover me, and the light about me be night,”), we can know that “even the darkness is not dark to thee, the night is bright as the day; for darkness is as light with thee.”

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There is no better discipline than an occasional descent from what we count wellbeing to a former despised or less happy condition.

—George MacDonald

Internal growth is hard to see. We can look at the past, but it is the present ‘us’ that is looking back. It is not just the benefit—or self-chastisement—of hindsight (e.g., What I wish I could tell myself back then! I worried about things that turned out to be so unimportant—or were unavoidable). But looking back often is disassociated from the “us” of then.

Someone who is single laments being single, looks for a partner, someone without community yearns for connection and support from someone, somewhere. Someone is poor, and just wants to be able to live a little above their current subsistence. But as these situations resolve—often by the fervent prayer under such stresses!—gradually one can become again grumpy. The now-attached person gets annoyed at their partner when it changes me/my plans for vacation into to we/us plans. The lonely community-seeker can’t handle this sort of people that are always making demands on him. The no-longer-poor middle-class person laments not having a nicer car, or being able to go out to nicer places.

It is in our nature—that is, our sin nature, called the flesh—to grumble. The whole history of Israel is one of a “stiff-necked people” grumbling as God provides (we miss Egypt!), again and again. As the people of God grow complacent, God sends prophets to jolt them. When the prophets don’t work, he sends discipline.

From discipline, often suddenly, the malaise that often accompanies extended comfort, the grumbling for more, one comes alive with attention to the one who has brought every good and perfect gift.

There are rhythms to this, there is Lament, earnest yearning for what good one had, as Israel was taken captive in discipline:

By the waters of Babylon we sat down and wept,
when we remembered thee, O Sion.
As for our harps, we hanged them up
upon the trees that are therein.
For they that led us away captive required of us then a song, and melody in our heaviness:
‘Sing us one of the songs of Sion.’1

Discipline is not punishment, but something to realign one’s attentions to the right point. It is training. To be a disciple is to be trained, and to be trained is to be brought to the best you.

As I said in a previous meditation:

There is no limbo between: we are growing in one way or we are devolving the other. Our health—muscles, nutrition, sleep—does not exist in stasis: we are either working to maintain health, or letting it decrease, whether by neglect or deliberate action. A good coach doesn’t let someone just coast: there is movement, and rest (sabbath), which is part of the cycle of growth.2

If we are comfortable, that is, not noticing the gifts we have, it may be good discipline— that is, training—to be challenged to have gratitude.

I think the thought-behind-the-thought, the training at work in bringing a soul to a less happy former state is not to make one miserable, but to call, to invite the person into gratitude through working through the grief. Sometimes the only way to encounter the grief is through the sorrow of encountering one’s past self, or self-state. Gratitude (as my wife has ably reminded me when I am grumbling) changes the brain, and forms pathways that make it easier to be grateful. The way around this discipline, of course, is sustained gratitude. “Rejoice always, pray constantly, give thanks in all circumstances; for this is the will of God in Christ Jesus for you.”3

In the words of St Paul:

Now I rejoice, not because you were grieved, but because your grief led to repentance; for you felt a godly grief, so that you were not harmed in any way by us. For godly grief produces a repentance that leads to salvation and brings no regret, but worldly grief produces death. For see what earnestness this godly grief has produced in you, what eagerness to clear yourselves, what indignation, what alarm, what longing, what zeal, what punishment! At every point you have proved yourselves guiltless in the matter. So although I wrote to you, it was not on account of the one who did the wrong, nor on account of the one who was wronged, but in order that your zeal for us might be made known to you before God. In this we find comfort. —(2 Cor 7:9-13 RSVCE, emphasis added)

It is in an occasional descent,4 encountering former selves, that we are invited to be more grateful for what we have when reconciliation is brought about, and it is in Godly lament that our priorities are known: In order that their zeal be made known to them before God.

If you turn to God when things break down, take heart, this shows that you desire God.

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Two Rondels
I.

1  When, in the mid-sea of the night,
     I waken at thy call, O Lord,
     The first that troop my bark aboard
   Are darksome imps that hate the light,
5  Whose tongues are arrows, eyes a blight–
     Of wraths and cares a pirate horde–
   Though on the mid-sea of the night
     It was thy call that waked me, Lord.

   Then I must to my arms and fight–
10   Catch up my shield and two-edged sword,
     The words of him who is thy word–
   Nor cease till they are put to flight;
   Then in the mid-sea of the night
     I turn and listen for thee, Lord.

II.

1  There comes no voice from thee, O Lord,
     Across the mid-sea of the night!
     I lift my voice and cry with might:
   If thou keep silent, soon a horde
5    Of imps again will swarm aboard,
     And I shall be in sorry plight
   If no voice come from thee, my Lord,
     Across the mid-sea of the night.

   There comes no voice; I hear no word!
10   But in my soul dawns something bright:–
     There is no sea, no foe to fight!
   Thy heart and mine beat one accord:
   I need no voice from thee, O Lord,
     Across the mid-sea of the night.

— George MacDonald, Poetical Works, Vol II.

As mentioned last Sunday, Robert Lous Stevenson praised MacDonald’s “Two Rondels.” Last week was the first half of the set, and this week completes it. They were published as a set, and the second continues the thought begun in the first.

If you’re familiar with MacDonald’s biographies and some of the critical work, you know that MacDonald had fun with naming things, puns, dual meanings, and so on. That he titled this set of poems as “Two Rondels” is possibly a pun on what a rondel is:

These are two 13-14 line poems with two rhymes. But a rondel, when paired sounds like it is also referencing armour. A rondel is the round shoulder guard of armour, which protects a narrow window of vulnerability—the armpit.

Given the first rondel, lines 9-11, “Then I must to my arms and fight–Catch up my shield and two-edged sword, The words of him who is thy word” This is a set of poems about spiritual warfare: “sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God.” (Eph 6:17)

So—to take some interpretive liberty— if we have the Breastplate of Righteousness, Helmet of Salvation, Shield of Faith, these are the rondels which defend the soul from the midnight pirate attacks of the mind — the imps of the logismoi — and swing with the Word as one might, it leaves one exhausted in the “mid-sea of the night.”

The logismoi is a category of thought—intrusive thoughts:

When the Fathers speak of `thoughts' (logismoi), they do not mean simple thoughts, but the images and representations behind which there are always appropriate thoughts. The images with the thoughts are called logismoi. "Images in some cases appear to take on visible form, while others are mostly products of the mind, but more often it is a combination of the two. As visible images also generate some thought or other, ascetics label all images `intrusive thoughts'" (388). The various satanic thoughts sometimes use as their vehicle what the senses bring to the nous, sometimes they mobilise fantasy and disjointed memory, and they attack the person with the ulterior aim of effecting his capture.1

So in this context, “darksome imps that hate the light, Whose tongues are arrows, eyes a blight—Of wraths and cares a pirate horde” are the “flaming darts of the evil one” in Eph 6:16. The poet, having defended against the darts, presumably with the shield of faith (the poet is awoken by the call of the Lord, and addressing throughout), and driven the wraths and cares out with the sword of the spirit—the Word. What then, after the attack of the mind? what is there? The opposite of the logismoi is the nous.

Fr Romanides:

The Fathers took the traditional term nous, which means both intellect (dianoia) and speech or reason (logos), and gave it a different meaning. They used nous to refer to this noetic energy that functions in the heart of every spiritually healthy person.2

The nous as the Fathers use it, “functions in the brain as the reason; it simultaneously functions in the heart as the nous. In other words, the same organ, the nous, prays ceaselessly in the heart and simultaneously thinks about mathematical problems, for example, or anything else in the brain.”3

The nous, is the prayer of the heart—separate from the intellect, but is the pure-will-

The nous itself, which is not simply the thoughts, but the subtler attention, should return to the heart, to the essence of the soul, which is located, as in an organ, within the bodily organ of the heart, since this bodily organ is the seat of intelligence and "the first intelligent organ of the body". Thus we should concentrate our nous, which is scattered abroad by the senses, and bring it back again "to the selfsame heart, the seat of thoughts"4

“in church I would rather speak five words with my mind, in order to instruct others, than ten thousand words in a tongue.” (1 Cor 14:19). “Mind” as used here is roughly equivalent to nous: not exclusively the reasoned intellect of but the heartbeat of our will that is made in the image of God, and in opposition to the logismoi.

There is a prayer in the Eastern tradition for this called The Jesus Prayer, which is used as a way of “praying without ceasing.” Through full-bodied prayer—usually breathing exercises— this prayer directs one’s mind towards the nous and away from the logismoi. Romanides notes “in Greek, the Prayer of Jesus consists of exactly five words in its simplest form, which in English is translated as Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me.”5 To pray this is one application of St Paul: repeating five words in order to better enable a prayer of the heart, rather than ten thousand words extemporaneously.

In the catholic contemplative tradition, the closest analogue to this is the Centring Prayer, popularised by Thomas Keating, and written well of by Martin Laird in his trilogy on contemplative prayer: Into the Silent Land, A Sunlit Absence, and An Ocean of Light. In this method, as in mindfulness meditation, one clears one’s thoughts, and focuses on a centring word or concept (“Lord” or “Grace” or, in the case above, the five words of the Jesus Prayer), training the mind to acknowledge the intrusive thoughts, both from the body (my toe hurts; what’s that sound) as well as the logismoi (flashing image-thought of a painful past event, or current ‘need to do that’ thought), and focusing again on the centring thought: Lord Jesus Christ, have mercy on me.

This prayer, when prayed in either Eastern Hesychastic or Western Contemplative tradition, is a prayer of the heart: its product is inner stillness. The heart of God and the heart of man are brought into greater harmony.

“Prayer of the heart” occurs when the Prayer moves from merely mental repetition, forced along by your own effort, to an effortless and spontaneous self-repetition of the Prayer that emanates from the core of your being, your heart. You discover that the Holy Spirit has been there, praying, all along. Then heart and soul, body and mind, memory and will, the very breath of life itself, everything that you have and are unites in gratitude and joy, tuned like a violin string to the name of Jesus.6

Let us return to MacDonald’s second rondel:

   There comes no voice; I hear no word!
10   But in my soul dawns something bright:--
     There is no sea, no foe to fight!
   Thy heart and mine beat one accord:
   I need no voice from thee, O Lord,
     Across the mid-sea of the night.

As the poet has fought the logismoi pirates, his heart, continually tuned to listening for the voice of God, he realises that because of that pursuit a voice is not needed, for his heart has been drawn in to the serene stillness of Joy in the spirit. No voice is needed, as he is communing with the Lord in the very act of pursuit, and the voice of God does not respond in words but in kind with the Poet’s desire for Him: the Lord has been there, is there, and there are no enemies to fight when one is resting in Him.

Given all of this, perhaps these two rondels are the substance which follows 6:17: “Pray at all times in the Spirit, with all prayer and supplication. To that end keep alert with all perseverance, making supplication for all the saints” (Eph 6:18). I would suggest the Rondels of Stillness.

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I.
When, in the mid-sea of the night,
I waken at thy call, O Lord,
The first that troop my bark aboard
Are darksome imps that hate the light,
Whose tongues are arrows, eyes a blight—
Of wraths and cares a pirate horde—
Though on the mid-sea of the night
It was thy call that waked me, Lord.

Then I must to my arms and fight—
Catch up my shield and two-edged sword,
The words of him who is thy word—
Nor cease till they are put to flight;
Then in the mid-sea of the night
I turn and listen for thee, Lord.

—George MacDonald, Poetical Works, Vol II

This is one of two rondels by MacDonald that Robert Lous Stevenson praised.
(out of town this weekend, so comments are limited)

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Of all forces, that of growth is the one irresistible, for it is the creating power of God, the law of life and being.
—George MacDonald

The Didache begins with this “There are two ways, one of life and one of death; but a great difference between the two ways.”

There is no limbo between: we are growing in one way or we are devolving the other. Our health—muscles, nutrition, sleep—does not exist in stasis: we are either working to maintain health, or letting it decrease, whether by neglect or deliberate action. A good coach doesn’t let someone just coast: there is movement, and rest (sabbath), which is part of the cycle of growth.

It is in the nature of God—the force of forces—to draw things to himself; this force is cooperated with or it is resisted. Resistance to the growth that God wants from us appears, from our perspective, as Wrath: he chastens whom he loves, which is to say he expects and imposes opportunities for growth even when we are not seeking him.

All this is from God, who through Christ reconciled us to himself and gave us the ministry of reconciliation; that is, God was in Christ reconciling the world to himself, not counting their trespasses against them, and entrusting to us the message of reconciliation. (2 Cor 5:18-20 RSVCE)

He is always offering a road back, by way of repentance, to cooperate with the right-ing of the universe as he reconciles the world to himself. Cooperating with God is like swimming with the current, after trying swim against the rip current.

“Are you tired? Worn out? Burned out on religion? Come to me. Get away with me and you’ll recover your life. I’ll show you how to take a real rest. Walk with me and work with me—watch how I do it. Learn the unforced rhythms of grace. I won’t lay anything heavy or ill-fitting on you. Keep company with me and you’ll learn to live freely and lightly.” (Matthew 11:28-30 The Message)

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“It is a grand thing to obey without asking questions, so long as there is nothing evil in what is commanded.”

– in Robert Falconer, George MacDonald

---

When one is ordained as clergy in the Anglican tradition, clergy typically sign two documents; the Oath of Conformity and the Oath of Canonical Obedience.1

In the Oath of Canonical Obedience, the clergyman swears something like “I do swear by almighty God that I will pay true and canonical obedience in all things lawful and honest to the Bishop”

I remember talking with a priest about this, who pointed out that most people fixate on—get triggered by—the word obedience when it is very significantly qualified by the phrase in all things lawful and honest. It is noble to obey in things that have no immoral or dishonest aspect.

I have to admit that these words are challenging: I have experienced bad advice, poor outcomes without support, and (in times past) generally unwise or unhealthy spiritual authority. I think honest, above, speaks to the honesty of the person to whom one is submitting, too. Too often there are poor boundaries, ill-health (mental, spiritual, physical) of the one obeyed that must be put in context of an hierarchal obedience.

This is, of course, asking questions: if not directly, then internally, or even a subconscious analysis of the obedience.

• Is it some kind of evil?

• Is it contrary Scripture?

• Is it contrary to your conscience?

In most cases, it is hard to live without a checklist questions of some kind, even before we get to the self-protective responses of “why can’t you do it yourself” or “I will obey if you convince me.”

What could be meant by “not asking questions?”

The sentence quoted follows with this:

Only grannie concealed her reasons without reason; and God makes no secrets. Hence she seemed more stern and less sympathetic than she really was.

The tragedy in this benevolent hard authority, where questions are not allowed, is because reasons are withheld without reason; God does not do this. His ways are mysterious, and hidden, but there are good reasons for this. Grannie’s secrets kept internal consistency with her perception of God himself (“Her way with Robert was shaped after that which she recognized as God's way with her.”).

MacDonald is arguing something a little more, and far less cynical to the modern mind: it is not a necessary thing to obey without asking questions, or a good thing to have a hard—even if benevolent—authority. I do not think MacDonald is advocating exploitative submission to authority. Rather, I read this as a qualitative statement, reminiscent of a line in Phantastes, “What we call evil, is the only and best shape, which, for the person and his condition at the time, could be assumed by the best good.” It is saying less of the obedience involved—the contingencies, risks, consequences—and more of the quality of the relationship one could have where there is the level of trust between both parties, that one could obey one’s authority—whatever that may be—without questioning, and the other could ask knowing that reasons could—and usually should—be given but remain unnecessary to the obedience itself. At its best, this points to one’s faith—trust—in God the father. That is a grand thing.

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Further Reading: The Rule of St Benedict

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All good is of God. ... If a man love his brother, whom he hath seen, the love of God, whom he hath not seen, is not very far off. . . . God be praised by those who know religion to be the truth of humanity, — its own truth that sets it free — not binds and lops and mutilates it !

A few brief comments in thought-order:

• To put another way: Religion—Christianity—does not bind and lop and mutilate the truth—the reality—of humanity. The truth of Christianity—of Scripture—is what sets humanity free from bondage to itself, which it calls sin. Sin is dependence on things other than the God revealed and recorded in Scripture, explicated in the Fathers—in short, Religion—being the truth of humanity.

• The 1662 BCP Collect for this Sunday:

  O Lord, from whom all good things do come: Grant to us thy humble servants, that by thy holy inspiration we may think those things that are good, and by thy merciful guiding may perform the same, through our Lord Jesus Christ. Amen.

  • Good comes from the father so comprehensively, and our possession of self is so comprehensive that we must rely on the inspiration of God to think those things that are good.

  • Thinking good things is not enough: we are guided to do those things that are good too.

• What are the good things? How do we love our brother, and thereby have a glimpse of God’s love for us? The 1662 BCP Epistle Reading for today is James 1:22–27:

  If any man among you seem to be religious, and bridleth not his tongue, but deceiveth his own heart, this man’s religion is vain. Pure religion and undefiled before God and the Father is this, to visit the fatherless and widows in their affliction, and to keep himself unspotted from the world. (James 1:26-27)

• Think the good things of your brother, neighbour, associate, friend. Depend upon the source of good to do good.

• The famous quote by St Irenaeus “The glory of God is a human being fully alive.” if true, what does it mean to be fully alive?

  • “If a man love his brother, whom he hath seen, the love of God, whom he hath not seen, is not very far off”

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From Thou Shalt Love Thy Neighbour:

The whole constitution of human society exists for the express end of teaching the two truths by which man lives : Love to God and love to man. . . . My brother according to the flesh is my first neighbor, that we may be very nigh to each other, whether we will or no, while our hearts are tender and so may learn brotherhoods. For our love to each other is but the throbbing of the heart of the great brotherhood, and could come only from the eternal Father, not from our parents. . . . Then my second neighbor appears, and who is he ? not the man only with whom I dine ; not the friend only with whom I share my thoughts ; not the man only whom my compassion would lift from some slough ; but the man who makes my clothes ; the man who prints my book; the man who drives me in his cab ; the man who begs from me in the street ; yea, even to the man who condescends to me. With all and each, there is a chance of doing the part of a neighbor — by speaking truly, acting justly, and thinking kindly. Even these deeds will help to that love which is born of righteousness.

Continuing the last post with another quote from the same sermon, here is an outline of some thoughts.

1. Neighbour who we count as a brother— Those of affinity: the people we care for because of family, and/or because we like them.

   1. What is kinship? what is family? Jesus challenged “kin”, reconfigured neighbourhood as discipleship.

      1. Matthew 12:46–50 (NCPB): “While [Jesus] yet talked to the people, behold, his mother and his brethren stood without, desiring to speak with him. Then one said unto him, ‘Behold, thy mother and thy brethren stand without, desiring to speak with thee’. But he answered and said unto him that told him, ‘Who is my mother? And who are my brethren?’ And he stretched forth his hand toward his disciples, and said, ‘Behold, my mother and my brethren. For whosoever shall do the will of my Father which is in heaven, the same is my brother, and sister, and mother.’”

2. Neighbour who we do not know: the service worker at the cafe, the factory worker who made your shoes, the farmer who picked your strawberries.

   1. These are the people we do not choose and may not know, and may not even like. But they are our community: throughout the week, you may talk with a barista more than you do with your friends. You may disagree with them on everything. Your neighbour is also the kitchen worker you do not see when you buy food; your neighbour is the customer who is picking up the food you just cooked.

   2. You love those who you do not know, may not even speak to by following the path that God sets out: Micah 6:8: “He hath shown thee, O man, what is good;

      and what doth the Lord require of thee, but to do justly, and to love mercy, and to walk humbly with thy God?”

      1. How do we love these?

         1. speaking truly to your neighbour

         2. acting justly towards your neighbour

         3. and thinking kindly of your neighbour

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From Thou Shalt Love Thy Neighbour

What man can judge his neighbour right save him whose love makes him refuse to judge him ? Therefore are we told to love, not judge. . . . The love that is more than law lives in the endless story, — coming out in active kindness, that is, the recognition of kin, of kind, of nighness, of neighbourhood ; yea, in tenderness and loving kindness.

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“The love that is more than law lives in the endless story”

This theme—in the context of Holy Matrimony—comes up in MacDonald’s Donal Grant.

The love that is within law has an end—implied even in the vows of Sacrament of Matrimony: till death do us part. While the oaths—laws—to which one binds and through which one expresses love are released upon death, the bond of love itself is not. Some choose to operate under the law, and so law becomes the constraint—the master—of love.

Love that transcends law—more than law—is different. While it is consistent with law—scripture does establish clear boundaries for the good of all souls—but its source is different. Transcendent love finds in God the source of all love, and out of that one can act on kindness, not out of obligation to the law, but out of abundance of supply from the Source.

This is a different topography. It is a river that flows—twists and turns; through peak, through valley. The course it runs gradually changes the landscape, sustaining life with its own abundance. It is not a fenced garden where water has to be trucked in to keep things alive. (see also St. Teresa of Ávila’s Garden Analogy in The Interior Castle for a more extended metaphor on gardening and water supply)

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George MacDonald

Christmas-Days are still in store:-
Will they change-steal faded hither?
Or come fresh as heretofore,
Summering all our winter weather?

Surely they will keep their bloom
All the countless pacing ages:
In the country whence they come
Children only are the sages!

Hither, every hour and year,
Children come to cure our oldness-
Oft, alas, to gather sear
Unbelief, and earthy boldness!

Men they grow and women cold,
Selfish, passionate, and plaining!
Ever faster they grow old:-
On the world, ah, eld is gaining!

Child, whose childhood ne'er departs!
Jesus, with the perfect father!
Drive the age from parents' hearts;
To thy heart the children gather.

Send thy birth into our souls,
With its grand and tender story.
Hark! the gracious thunder rolls!-
News to men! to God old glory!

Christmas, 1884

George MacDonald

Though in my heart no Christmas glee,
Though my song-bird be dumb,
Jesus, it is enough for me
That thou art come.

What though the loved be scattered far,
Few at the board appear,
In thee, O Lord, they gathered are,
And thou art here.

And if our hearts be low with lack,
They are not therefore numb;
Not always will thy day come back–
Thyself will come!

Merry Christmas!
- Ἰωνᾶς ☩