recycled soul

Let man’s soul be a sphere, and then, in this, The intelligence that moves, devotion is; And as the other spheres, by being grown Subject to foreign motion, lose their own, And being by others hurried every day, Scarce in a year their natural form obey; Pleasure or business, so, our souls admit For their first mover, and are whirl’d by it.

Like the speaker of this poem, I think it would be nice if our souls could be seen. We could see what they needed and know when they needed it. We could see the souls of our annoying coworker or nagging neighbor and maybe we could become softer people as a result. But unlike the planets, our souls cannot be seen. They are not set on an orbit. They are not controlled by gravity. Instead, like Donne points out, our devotion is what guides our souls. Our devotion serves as the intelligence that moves them backward and forward.

These lines makes me wonder:  To what am I devoted? What “whirls” my soul? What acts as my spirit’s gravity, holding me to earth where I can know breath and life? I don’t know. The answer would depend on the day, I suppose, but that answer is weak. I do know that much.

Hence is’t, that I am carried towards the west, This day, when my soul’s form bends to the East. There I should see a Sun by rising set, And by that setting endless day beget. But that Christ on His cross did rise and fall, Sin had eternally benighted all. Yet dare I almost be glad, I do not see That spectacle of too much weight for me.

The speaker here is moving both metaphorically and literally. He’s physically heading west, but his soul is “bending” toward the east with thoughts about Good Friday and the images that day inspires. Donne is always smart with his wordplay, so he writes that the speaker is thinking about the sun. Jesus is the Son, of course, and is the light of the world. On Good Friday, Scripture tells us that darkness overtook the land upon Christ’s death. But this darkness was not permanent.

Christ’s life, death, and resurrection bring eternal life and light. Christians call this the “Good News” and it is. But the speaker knows it’s also heavy. Christ is indeed the light, but for a while the world was dark as our sins were upon him. It’s easy to see how such a scene could be “too much weight.” The violence of the moment is bad enough, but to accept the Christian story is to accept humanity’s role in Christ’s death. The Gospels say He died for us and carried our sin. As a Christian, sometimes I feel I owe God something for this. But obligation does not lead to love. Obligation is a contract, not a covenant.

Who sees God’s face, that is self-life, must die; What a death were it then to see God die? It made His own lieutenant, Nature, shrink, It made His footstool crack, and the sun wink. Could I behold those hands, which span the poles And tune all spheres at once, pierced with those holes? Could I behold that endless height, which is Zenith to us and our antipodes, Humbled below us? Or that blood, which is The seat of all our soul’s, if not of His, Made dirt of dust, or that flesh which was worn By God for His apparel, ragg’d and torn?

The speaker continues emphasizing the weight of Christ’s crucifixion. He reminds us that the world shook and that the sun went away. Then the speaker considers the hands of Jesus, spread wide on the cross and nailed in place. He acknowledges those hands as the ones that cover the world, holding all the “spheres” in place and providing order. We get to see the power of Jesus, but are then reminded of his humanity, that Jesus was God but God clothed in flesh soon broken upon on the cross.

I’m reminded of these lines from T. S. Eliot:

“The dripping blood our only drink, The bloody flesh our only food: In spite of which we like to think That we are sound, substantial flesh and blood— Again, in spite of that, we call this Friday good.”

Good Friday is a day full of “in spite of” moments. In spite of Jesus being God in the flesh, he was crucified. In spite of humanity’s sins, Jesus laid down his life as a sacrifice. In spite of the violence of Good Friday, we do indeed call it good. Good Friday is a day full of paradox, but so is the entire Christian story.

The last shall be first. Have the faith of a child. I came for the sick, not the healthy. The rich shall not see heaven. I do not condemn you.

Christianity takes common assumptions and flips them around. In spite of my many doubts, I find this comforting, even though it seems like it would shake my faith even more. I can’t fully explain this, but that’s nothing new. 

If on these things I durst not look, durst I On His distressed Mother cast mine eye, Who was God’s partner here, and furnish’d thus Half of that sacrifice which ransom’d us?

Mary is perhaps one of the greatest examples of faith in the entire Bible. Here she is, a young girl, when an angel tells her she will bear a child though she is a virgin. And Mary says okay. Mary carries the child, gives birth to him, nurses him, and then she has the strength to stand beneath the cross and watch as her son hangs there, dying. She is faithful and strong. Like the speaker points out, Mary “furnished half of that sacrifice” on Good Friday. She is a vital element in our “ransom” and redemption.

I’ve often wondered what would have happened if Mary had said no, but I suppose she was chosen because God knew she would only say yes. I envy her faith because I say “no” far more often than I say “yes.” I suppose I love this poem so much because I identify with this speaker, this one who is torn between conflicting desires and images

Though these things as I ride be from mine eye, They’re present yet unto my memory, For that looks towards them ; and Thou look’st towards me, O Saviour, as Thou hang’st upon the tree. I turn my back to thee but to receive Corrections till Thy mercies bid Thee leave. O think me worth Thine anger, punish me, Burn off my rust, and my deformity; Restore Thine image, so much, by Thy grace, That Thou mayst know me, and I’ll turn my face.

Here the speaker gets extremely personal by saying that Jesus could see him from the cross. But the speaker knows if that had actually happened, it would have been too much. He would have had to turn away, knowing he was not enough for even God’s anger to touch him. He sees the erosion and deformity of his life, yet there is hope. The speaker wants Jesus to know him. He wants the image of God inside of him to be restored.

There is hope, isn’t there? I am a Christian, but I often lose sight of hope because I get too entangled in my doubt, sin, and self-absorption. I hear about horrific things some Christians do in the name of God and I shudder. I see Christians protest and hear them slander and I want to distance myself. I feel pain inflicted upon me by the Church and I want to flee its walls and its people.

Yet no matter where I’m headed, I too can picture the scene on Good Friday. I don’t want to see the blood, nails, and splinters, but I can see them. I don’t want to hear Mary’s sobs, but I can hear them. I don’t want to witness it as all the hope drains out of Jesus’s followers, but I know that feeling too well not to recognize it in their eyes and sagging shoulders.

And I can see Jesus there, pinned to that cross. I can see this man who changed all of human history and there’s something in his words that makes me want to follow him still. In spite of all the anger and brokenness and sin and raging doubts that keep me awake, I can see Jesus as he changes the world by subverting everything we know to be true about it.

The time will come when, with elation, you will greet yourself arriving at your own door, in your own mirror, and each will smile at the other’s welcome,

and say, sit here. Eat. You will love again the stranger who was your self. Give wine. Give bread. Give back your heart to itself, to the stranger who has loved you

all your life, whom you ignored for another, who knows you by heart. Take down the love letters from the bookshelf,

The windows are dressed in feathers where the birds have flown against them, then fallen below into the flowers where their bodies lie grounded, still, slowly disappearing each day until all that is left are their narrow, prehensile bones. I have sat at my window now for years and watched a hundred birds mistake the glass for air and break their necks, wondering what to do, how else to live among them and keep my view. Not to mention the sight of them at the feeder in the morning, especially the cardinal in snow. What sign to post on the sill that says, “Warning, large glass window. Fatal if struck. Fly around or above but not away. There are seeds in the feeder and water in the bath. I need you, which is to say, I’m sorry for my genius as the creature inside who attracts you with seeds and watches you die against the window I’ve built with the knowledge of its danger to you. With a heart that rejects its reasons in favor of keeping what it wants: the sight of you, the sight of you.”

I’ve always wanted to begin a poem with the line, “I’ve always wanted to begin.” Now I have. Best to end here,

but then the universe is expanding back into its black beginnings, and space, aware of its own looming demise,

is singing of possibilities. I’m almost over, it sings, it’s almost over and sooner or later we’d be left with nothing but time. If we live that long.

Sometime before then all our dialects will have moored on the gray sands of forgetting, all our sad words will have started

to repeat themselves, as if sound didn’t dissipate into stillness, as if not everything has been said before. Here, let me tell you a joke: I am a man of faith.

Or a child, a tree, some living thing that will someday be a dead thing. What does faith have to do with it? I know;

it isn’t funny. Nothing funny about mortality, how movement bleeds into clockwork, how clockwork succumbs to its own igneous finitude.

How we aid entropy by being born. See? I only wanted to begin, now I’m humming the ghost-heavy refrain of imminent endings.

In that song about possibilities, someone is hurling an empty bottle skyward. I see you: You’re imagining it slowing towards its peak,

anticipating gravity, its ruthless duty. Stop. Don’t. Let’s go. Let’s not be around when it shatters. Let’s not wait for an ending.