Being a sailor, I appreciate what it means to reckon with the variability of wind and water, key factors that make successfully navigating a sailboat so much more challenging than contending with the same weather on the shore. As Captain Ron is often-quoted as saying in a humorous film, “If it’s going to happen, it’s going to happen out there.”
An old adage reminds us that there are old sailors, and risk-taking sailors, but no old risk-taking sailors. So, we learn to observe and attend to the present state of the wind and the water. Wise sailors don’t sail according to a calendar, but according to the conditions. Such a responsive approach to what we behold in the world around us is strangely antithetical to our modern often unexamined belief that we can gain control of almost everything.
I think that one thing I learned from growing up in Japan was the quality of the calming effect of water. Like people all over the world, but especially those who live on island nations, the Japanese have a vivid and dynamic history of encounter with the power of water that can also be adverse to settled life on land. Over the centuries, they have cultivated a keen sense of the healing power of water in what strike many as spiritually-designed contexts. Yet, Japanese fishermen have for centuries fought and endured stressful circumstances in the seas, most especially off their eastern shore, with the deep blue Pacific beckoning beyond. Yet, that was the direction from which maritime trade with the West became most available, not neglecting their historic links with the southeast Asian peoples with whom they had historically traded and warred.
A visitor contemplates the serenity of Ryoanji Temple stone garden in Kyoto
Think of what we often consider to be examples of Zen gardens like Ryoanji Temple in Kyoto, with its raked spread of dry pebbles mimicking the rippled surface of calm seas around stone islands, paralleled elsewhere by garden ponds for Koi and ornamental goldfish. Or the beautiful motes surrounding ancient castles, which provided safety from hostile neighbors as well as tranquility when circumstances were free from war-making.
The tranquil mote surrounding Matsumoto Castle in Japan
My next brother in age order and I like to remember our first sailing experiences, bobbing in dinghy’s among large floats designed for securing ships in Yokohama Harbor, a principal historic seaport in which oceangoing ships often arrived. We did not really know what we were doing except responding to immediate circumstances, which is a lot of what sailing is about, especially when the sailors are at least minimally informed.
Water has latent power that is often not apparent to us. A quiet brook near our present boat slip still channels through the remains of an old mill, which harnessed the energy to be found in a stream only a few feet wide. And 19th and 20th century engineers, following the practices of a millennia of predecessors, saw in the movement of rivers running through peaceful valleys the latent energy to light up cities. Water seeks every opportunity to go where it is not, provided the least occasion to fill a void or find a lower elevation. Water can be one of the strongest abrasives, wearing down even the hardest rocks, especially when in frozen form as glaciers.
In view of all this, it is fitting that Jesus – as quoted by John – found in wind and water metaphors for life in the Spirit of God. For “the wind blows where it will” while we seek to be lead “beside still waters.”
A magazine cartoon from The New Yorker showing a debt to Hokusai
‘Mysticism’ sounds like an exotic topic to most of us, even though mystical experience has been a mainstay in our spiritual tradition. I find that most people, in this hurried era in the West, speak frequently about a desire for tranquility and an escape from the pressures of tasks, schedules, and activities, that are of less consequence than we would prefer. In our search for such escape, we do not always pursue the most humanly fulfilling or enduring ways of attaining our goal.
When receiving catechesis during the academic year in which I was baptized, I had the good fortune to be guided by an expert in the field of Christian mysticism, John Feneley of Oxford. During that year, one of the most influential books in my faith formation was one Feneley asked me to read, by R.C. Zaehner, with whom Feneley had studied. The book was Mysticism: Sacred and Profane. Zaehner (1913-1974) was an Oxford specialist in Oriental Languages, who also served as a diplomat. In that time and place, ‘Oriental Languages’ primarily referred to the historic languages of what we now broadly call the Middle East. Zaehner mastered Sanskrit, Persian and a host of associated languages, eventually publishing a translation into English of the Bhagavad Gita. While thoroughly engaged in these intellectual pursuits, he remained a practicing Roman Catholic, and died at the age of 61 while walking to an evening mass in Oxford.
In his principal book on the subject, Zaehner delineated two basic experiential types of what are often considered to be forms of mysticism. Under the heading of the first, ‘profane mysticism,’ he grouped the reported experiences of those who imbibed mescaline and other pharmaceutical substances in order to gain episodic experiences of transcendence away from our usual orientation to time and place. Apparently, Zaehner was motivated in part to respond to Aldous Huxley, whose book, The Doors of Perception, described his mescalin-induced experience as being of sacramental beauty. Zaehner was concerned to distinguish such memorable experiences, however profound for some, from what he considered to be an authentic experience of the divine.
The second basic type of mystical experience articulated by Zaehner he termed, ‘sacred mysticism.’ Here, within sacred mysticism, he distinguished three varieties, which are likely to be of interest to those who wish to learn more about ‘mysticism’ of a religious kind. The three forms of sacred mysticism identified by Zaehner are ‘nature mysticism,’ ‘theistic mysticism,’ and non-theisitc or ‘monist mysticism.’ As a Roman Catholic, Zaehner was particularly concerned to clarify how and why what he termed theistic mysticism differs from other forms of sacred mysticism. His clarification centers on the concept of and quest for encounter with the divine, and more specifically the goal of union with God.
A striking photo of R.C. Zaehner, likely from his time as a diplomat
I am presently reading two biographies of John Muir (1838-1914), the pivotal American figure who may be credited with the origin of our National Parks and an inspiration for what we broadly refer to as the environmental movement. In Muir, I recognize a wilderness lover enthralled with the natural world, and a writer who remains an abiding representative example of Zaehner’s nature mysticism typology.
Monistic mysticism, in which we can include even the poly-theism of Hinduism, as well as forms of pantheism, perceives an ultimate unity between and among all things, both material and spiritual. It has some overlap with the nature mysticism of someone like Muir. Characteristic of monistic mysticism would be this kind of statement: “The universe and I are one, and any perception otherwise is a temporary illusion.”
John Muir, in a setting where he was most often found
In contrast to these two categories, Zahner’s theistic mysticism category focuses upon the fundamental difference made by a believer’s desire to find and experience union with the divine in a spiritual context. In mystical experiences related to this quest, there is always an indissoluble “I” and “Thou” relationship between the person and God, who despite the union always remains an ‘other.’
This latter distinction has had a lasting value in my own thinking, especially in this era in which a quest for transcendence from ‘the material,’ and from the experience of being bound by time and place, is so common. The legalization of marijuana, as well as the ubiquitous availability of alcohol, may be examples of circumstances that lend themselves to such a quest, but the extraordinary levels at which many pursue athletics such as triathlons and other ‘extreme’ sports for the resulting exhilaration, may provide another.
Assuming I have characterized fairly Zaehner’s concepts in Mysticism: Sacred and Profane, I would add one other distinguishing characteristic among those the author associates with theistic mysticism. In addition to the theme of the active pursuit of the divine (what we usually mean when we speak of ‘finding God’), a distinctive feature of Christian apologetics involves an emphasis upon God finding us. Here we discern the dimension of Grace, and a theme that runs throughout the Hebrew as well as Christian Scriptures, of God’s finding and calling individuals and then communities to be a part of God’s ongoing mission of Redemption. The Old Testament prophets, as well as the New Testament disciples who were found and called by Jesus, provide inspiration and hope for those who through misfortune and other undesirable circumstances may feel lost, overlooked, even abandoned by God. However exotic it may sound, mysticism is a desirable aspect of every human life.
Note: One other facet of R.C. Zaehner’s life and work must be mentioned, to supplement our understanding of a man who was a rather complex figure. In addition to his personal faith, and academic career of research, he served in the British intelligence services. Because of his areas of expertise, he was recruited to serve in the British Embassy in Tehran, and was a prominent figure who was active in setting up the groundwork for the subsequent overthrow of Mohammad Mosaddegh (16 June 1882 – 5 March 1967), the Prime Minister of Iran, whose downfall led to the authoritarian monarchy of the Shah. The history of politics like those of sporting events usually benefits from hindsight, and we do a greater justice to history to be as perceptive as we can about the persons who were participants in the events in which we are interested, and the circumstances that led to their involvements and activities.
Danah Zohar, showing her delight in all that we can learn about the world and ourselves
Living across the narrow street from St Barnabas Church in Jericho, formerly a working class neighborhood in central Oxford built for employees of the University Press, on Sundays we met some rather interesting people from the academic community and city. Among them was Danah Zohar, a theoretical physicist and philosopher, and her husband, Ian Marshall, who was a perceptive analytical psychiatrist and co-author in her early work. She was educated at MIT, being among one of their first women graduates, and did her postgraduate research at Harvard.
Danah was fascinated by what seemed to her to be the largely unexplored significance of Quantum Physics for understanding human consciousness and its relation to the world around us. Her work in this area has yielded a series of books, beginning with The Quantum Self, and has led her to work as a consultant for how her complex ideas can be implemented within business and in corporate management. Building on her personal interest in spiritual intelligence among the aspects of human consciousness, she was fascinated by the intersection between what lies at the core of the human religious impulse and its functioning, and a modern understanding of how twentieth century physics explains aspects of the world with which we interact.
As has recently been observed, her “interdisciplinary work blends subatomic physics, nonlinear complex systems, philosophy, and psychology to replace rigid, “machine-like” corporate models with fluid, human-centric systems.” I am not surprised by how she has since been recognized for her abilities and accomplishments, with a major British newspaper describing her as being among “the world’s fifty greatest management thinkers.” This latter characterization of her work should not be viewed in reductionistic terms.
Danah in her study
What I most enjoyed about getting to know Danah was her synthetic approach to thinking about what it means to be fully human, and to live in a way that reflects a desire for, and commitment towards, flourishing through the fulfillment of our human potential. Born into a Protestant family in northern Ohio, her subsequent choice of her name by which she has become known, and with which she publishes, is significant: it derives from medieval Jewish mysticism. We worshipped together regularly with our families at our Anglo-Catholic (or ritualistic) parish, and celebrated holidays together. With her expansively spiritual worldview, anchored in a deeply rooted and intuitive faith, she always gently prodded me to enlarge the parameters of my thinking, especially with regard to my doctoral work at Oxford in contemporary Christian sexual ethics, while she was working on her first book.
In particular, I would credit Danah’s influence upon my thinking about our given inter-relatedness with one another, and how a more fluid and dynamic understanding of the inner connection between spirit and matter, mind and body, can and should shape our understanding of our human embodiment and, hence, our approach to our sexuality.
I found that her thinking stimulated my study of Paul Ramsey’s exploration of what Christian ethics might learn from the philosophy of Jean Paul Sartre. Ramsey’s work on Sartre along with early Christian sources, helps us to transcend the influence of will-based Kantian ethics as well as the analytical or deterministic thinking of some contemporary philosophers and biologists. And though Danah would not typically have thought in biblical terms, I came to see how these ideas can illuminate our appreciation for Paul’s concerns expressed in 1 Corinthians 6, regarding the conduct of Christian’s who thought they could engage in uncomplicated and spiritually irrelevant sexual relations with the women attendants at the Greek temple in Corinth.
Danah as I remember her in many conversations
Though our academic training and focus in our writing has occurred in different contexts, and with different foci, I continue to be inspired by Danah’s ever-creative and wholistic worldview. I find a complementarity between her thinking and a maxim offered to me when I was invited to write my book on ethics: ‘Morality should be based on reality.’ As Oliver O’Donovan once said to me, “Our principal modern challenge in ethics is description.” Danah remains an exemplar of a commitment to making our description of the world and our lives within it as perceptively accurate as we can. For her, as well as for me, such a commitment to ‘description’ must always take into account our spiritual lives and the persistent gift of radiant beauty around us, and to be found within our consciousness of the world.
A Kingfisher, a brightly colored fish-eating bird with a large head, a dagger-like bill, which dives to catch prey
One of my favorite poems was written by the English poet and Jesuit priest, Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1889), from whom I have received inspiration in my continuing desire to glorify God by helping others perceive and give thanks for beauty. The poem from which I have borrowed my title for this post, provides a wondrous example of his gifts at work. I quote his poem here in full:
Hopkins’ Kingfisher poem, which is known by its first line
Reading poetry with insight does not come naturally to me, though I much appreciate the art form. As many others do, when approaching a poem like Hopkins’ “As Kingfishers catch fire,” I rely upon essays written by interpreters trained in literature. Since poems involve verbal communication, it may be that sharing insight about a poem with words is a more fruitful endeavor as compared with attempting the same regarding a painting. Yet, I believe that – as with most art forms – we can best express the things that have caught our attention and stirred our spirit in the paintings and poems that have stayed with us. Here are some aspects of Hopkins’ Kingfisher poem that continue to draw me in when I read its lines and speak its words aloud.
In this poem, Gerard Manley Hopkins displays what I consider to be an essentially “Catholic” sensibility when reflecting upon the world and our place within it. Here, his suggestion of the inner relationship and yet the difference between God’s mission in Creation and in Redemption, stands out to me, as does the continuity that may be perceived between the two. Order, purpose, meaning, and – yes – beauty, are to be found in God’s handiwork. The patterns we discern in nature attest to God’s intentions for us and for all other things touched by God’s ‘hands’ and by ours, and so we are reminded to look within ourselves for the same kind of purpose.
In discerning something of God’s purposes for us, we act in accord with what we observe and come to know. We are created to be just and so we choose to act justly. And we are created and then blessed further with God’s grace to be instruments of the same beautiful love. Risen Jesus, who comes to be with us, and then in us, manifests his divine role, inhabits our being, and brings new life to where it was not. In us, among the myriads upon myriads of those who see his beauty, who say, “Yes.”
Gerard Manly Hopkins as a JesuitA kingfisher – metaphorically – ‘catching fire’Diving for a catch
Anglican artists, writers, and musicians, have found deep spiritual significance in our encouter with beauty in the natural world, and they have left us with abundant examples of beauty in the places and things of worship. Our liturgies have been shaped by faithful people who, echoing the Psalmist, have sought to glorify “the fair beauty of the Lord.” It is therefore somewhat surprising to notice the relative paucity of references to beauty in The Book of Common Prayer, though the concept is interwoven in its many texts. In subtle and in sometimes hidden ways, beauty nevertheless functions as a significant concept in our prayers.
For Anglicans, The Book of Common Prayer [hereafter as BCP] functions as a resourcefor our prayers. And, in time and through practice, it becomes the sourceof our prayers, especially in the way that it is founded upon, and leads back into the Holy Scriptures. We are open to individually-crafted voluntary prayers offered for specific occasions. Yet, in our experience, these ‘unscripted’ prayers characteristically also become formulaic and repetitive in content as well as in phrasing, just our BCP prayers are sometimes said to be. As Anglicans, we find that – like practices handed down over generations – prayers shaped by communities also become ‘hallowed by time.’
Further, we hold in common a premise upon which Anglican Christians have typically relied. We often find our basic doctrine expressedin our prayers, though we do not usually look to our prayers to find nor to establish our doctrine. For it would be contrary to the spirit of this approach if we were to conclude that, by simply changing our prayers, we would then change our doctrine. Therefore, in the same spirit, the phrases that I cite here from the BCP are authoritative because they are true, rather than true as a result of coming from what we consider to be an authoritative source.
From the BCP, we are reminded about many things concerning Beauty, among them that:
⁃ Beauty is an attribute of God ⁃ God’s beauty is manifest in God’s handiwork in Creation, and therefore {by implication} manifest also in us, and between us ⁃ Creation is permeated with God’s beauty and grace, which is a reflection of God’s goodness as well as of divine truth, God’s own nature and a characteristic attribute of God’s creative activity ⁃ When we behold the beauty with which God has imbued Creation, we rejoice and experience joy as we encounter the presence of God’s love for the world and for us ⁃ Having this encounter, we perceive how God has given us work to do in truth and beauty and for the common good
Goodness, Beauty, and Truth, are attributes of God’s being and nature. How do we know this? We see the reflection, even the manifestation, of these transcendentals in the things that are created and here for us to behold and encounter. When we encounter these transcendentals in the things that are made, we encounter these attributes of God, not merely the residue of God’s action. And in so doing, we experience peaceful joy. This joy in us is our experience of God’s love for God’s work, the fruit of God’s creativity.
We often experience a disconnect between ourselves and our work, between who we are and how we act. With God, there is no such disconnect. God’s being and activity are indivisible, even if we distinguish them in our reflection. For at least in traditional Christian doctrine, God is all good, all knowing, and all powerful, dwelling outside of time, but acts and is fully present within it.
In our reflection therefore, God’s work of Creation and God’s work of Redemption may and should be distinguished but not confused nor separated. The principal reason for this is our recognition of the fallen state of Creation and of our human nature within it, to which God’s loving work of Redemption has been addressed.
As I previously reflected, in both Creation and in Redemption, God has formed and shaped the world and its inhabitants so that the world through God’s Creation is good and beautiful, and also a repository for what is true. Through Redemption, God embraces and transforms fallen Creation in such a way so that all that is amenable to fulfillment and completion in Christ may come to be so, and those things that are not amenable to the same have no future in Christ. Along with Truth and Goodness, Beauty plays a principal role in this ongoing process.
A Collect from The Book of Common Prayer
As a portion of Psalm 90 can be translated, “Let the beauty of the Lord our God be upon us, and prosper us for the work of our hands!” And in Psalm 96, we find: “Sing to the Lord a new song; sing to the Lord, all the earth… Honor and majesty are before him; strength and beauty are in his sanctuary.” And so, by divine grace, may these attributes of God and of the Risen Lord be present in our midst, and within us.
For reference, and as background material for the above, I include here some specific sources in the BCP for what I have shared:
In the BCP section, Prayers and Thanksgivings [BCP:814], Prayers for the World, from the Collect, For Joy in God’s Creation [BCP:814], we are reminded that: ⁃ Our Heavenly Father has filled the world with beauty ⁃ We ask God to open our eyes so that we can then behold God’s gracious in all of God’s works ⁃ So that, by rejoicing in God’s whole creation, we may learn to serve God with gladness, for Jesus’ sake, through whom all things were made ⁃ In other words, we find this implied sequence of ideas: —> God has filled the world with beauty -> God opens our eyes -> we behold God’s gracious hand in God’s works -> thereby we rejoice in God’s whole creation -> in the process, we learn to serve God with gladness
From the Collect for “The Transfiguration” [BCP:243], we are reminded that ⁃ We ask God to grant that we might be delivered from the disquietude of this world, so that we may by faith hold the King in his beauty, who with the Father and the Holy Spirit lives and reigns, one God, world without end
From the Collects for “Various Occasions,” the Collect for Vocation in Daily Work” [BCP:251], we are reminded that ⁃ Almighty God, our Heavenly Father, declares his glory and shows forth his handiwork in the heavens and in earth ⁃ We ask God to deliver us in our various occupations from serving ourselves alone, so that we may do the work God has given us to do in truth and beauty and for the common good
From the liturgy for “The Dedication and Consecration of a Church” [BCP:567ff], we are reminded that ⁃ We give God thanks for the gifts of God’s people, and for the work of many hands, which have beautified places and furnished them for the celebration of God’s holy mysteries ⁃ We ask God to accept and bless all that we have done, and to grant that in these earthly things we may behold the order and beauty of things heavenly ⁃ Through Jesus Christ our Lord
From the “A Litany of Thanksgiving for a Church” [BCP:578, from within the above liturgy], we are reminded that ⁃ we thank God whom we worship [here] in the beauty of holiness
In the BCP section, Prayers and Thanksgivings [BCP:814], Prayers for the Church, from the Collect, “ForChurch Musicians and Artists,” we are reminded that ⁃ Saints and angels delight to worship God in heaven ⁃ We ask God to be ever present with his servants who seek through art and music to perfect the praises offered by God’s people on earth ⁃ And, to grant to them even now glimpses of God’s beauty and make them worthy at length to behold it unveiled for evermore ⁃ Through Jesus Christ our Lord ⁃ {and thus that God’s beauty is unveiled to those faithful who have gone before us to the other side}
In the BCP section, Thanksgivings [BCP:836ff], by “A General Thanksgiving” [BCP:836], we are reminded that ⁃ we thank God for the splendor of the whole creation, and for the beauty of this world ⁃ {and} for the wonder of life, and ⁃ for the mystery of love
In the same section, by “A Litany of Thanksgiving,” we are reminded that ⁃ we “give thanks to God our Father for all his gifts so freely bestowed upon us” ⁃ {and} for the beauty and wonder of God’s creation, in earth and sky and sea
Among the “Thanksgivings for National Life” [BCP:838ff, by the Thanksgiving “For the Nation,” we are reminded that ⁃ we thank almighty God for the natural majesty and beauty of this land, which restore us though we often destroy them
From among the “Thanksgivings for the Natural Order” [BCP:840ff], by the Thanksgiving “For the Beauty of the Earth,” we are reminded that ⁃ We give our most gracious God thanks for the beauty of earth and sky and sea; for the richness of mountains, plains, and rivers; for the songs of birds and the loveliness of flowers ⁃ That we praise God for these good gifts, and pray that we may safeguard them for our posterity ⁃ we ask God to grate that we may continue to grow in our grateful enjoyment of God’s abundant creation, to the honor and glory of God’s name
Note: I have retained and employed the pronouns and grammatical style employed by the 1979 Book of Common Prayer, which continues to be our primary and most widely shared reference point for theological expression and beliefs. Our beliefs are founded upon Scripture, which always provides the standard for a community that believes that prayer both reflects and shapes belief. And the Scripture that we “read, mark, learn, and inwardly digest” is the Scripture that has been received and confirmed by the believing community of the wider Church through the centuries. Different Christian communities of course prefer differing translations of the Bible. Here, for Anglicans, Scripture is authoritative as we are guided by an ancient maxim attributed to St. Vincent of Lérin: What has always been believed by everyone, everywhere. Very little, it may seem, wholly fulfills the requirements of this maxim. Yet, what comes closest to fulfilling it is therefore most authoritative for us.
James Tissot, Mary Magdalen and the Holy Women at the Tomb
What an indescribable series of moments those were with the discovery of the empty tomb, first by the women, and then by some of the disciples. What made those moments so unexpected was the sense of emptiness that pervaded the scene after Jesus’ death on Golgotha. A few had stayed until the last. Most left, surely overwhelmed by a feeling of loss and of dark absence. He was gone. And then, so were they. Furtively moving off toward a place of hiding.
James Tissot, The Apostles’ Hiding Place
Then… from nothing came something. On the morning after the sabbath, surprised joy broke through fear and sadness as He who seemed no longer to be appeared amidst them. Among many promises, God had once said, “Behold, I make all things new.” This promise was now fulfilled, but not in a way that his people were expectating. Listless because of doubt, immobile due to their fears, their place of retreat strangely mirrored their Lord’s entombment.
Then, amidst the stillness of a death-prompted isolation, the followers of the Holy One experienced startling wonder, unanticipated joy, and a new sense of community. Excitement overcame their troubled conviction that all was lost. How had this come about? By reflecting on this question, we join writers of the New Testament and others by imagining how the Resurrection of Jesus not only happened to him, but how it also then happened to the disciples.
Robert Seymour Bridges was a nineteenth century physician and an esteemed poet, such that later in life he was named Poet Laureate of the United Kingdom. Though not well-known now, he deserves our attention for how he adapted and rendered in lyrical English verse a hymn text by the seventeenth century German theologian and hymn writer, Joachim Neander. Bridges’ version of that text is known by its first line, “All My Hope on God is Founded.”
Robert Seymour Bridges
Bridges’ poetic text is familiar to people in our own day because of the way it has been set to a twentieth century tune, MICHAEL, by Herbert Howells. Many heard this hymn when it was sung as a fitting part of an internationally televised occasion, the Committal Service for Queen Elizabeth II, in September of 2022.
“All My Hope on God is Founded” therefore represents a remarkable synthesis of a seventeenth century devotional text, Victorian poetical sensibility, and expressive twentieth century hymnology. Each of these features can be appealing, and in my perception, how they work together in this example makes for a very moving hymn that enhances contemporary eucharistic worship.
Hope, based on God’s grace and providence, provides the thematic structure for the five verses of the text as it appears in The Hymnal 1982 (of The Episcopal Church). The third verse evokes the blessings that we have received through God’s work in Creation. The text here is nuanced, evoking the role of divine wisdom, while at the same time making allusion to things we have learned through the science of astronomy. Here is verse 3 in full:
“God’s great goodness e’er endureth, deep his wisdom, passing thought: splendor, light, and life attend him, beauty springeth out of nought.”
Clearly, the hymn’s words here speak of what theologians refer to as creation ex nihilo, how God created all that is from nothing rather than from something preexisting. We remember the way that God’s handiwork is portrayed in Genesis 1, especially God’s recognition that what has been created isgood. Andrew Cuneo observes how, in Genesis’s opening chapter, this repeated refrain that it was good, “contains a Hebrew word which may be translated either as good or as beautiful. The feel of the whole chapter changes if one hears God proclaim that the light, the sun, the greenery, the animals are all beautiful, and mankind very beautiful.”
This helps us appreciate how Robert Bridges’ rendering of Neander’s text transposes the object of God’s appreciative regard from the attribute of goodness to that of Beauty. The beautiful splendor, light, and life that attend God then, by implication, become attributes that accrue to humankind, we who are created in God’s image and likeness.
James Tissot, The Resurrection
A significant feature of New Testament theology appears in the theme of “a new creation,” signified by and inaugurated through Jesus’ Resurrection from the dead. As Paul puts it, “if anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come” (2 Corinthians 5:17). Paul is here referring to death and resurrection, and the transformation we undergo through Baptism, when “what is mortal is swallowed up by life.” We can therefore say that the pattern of God’s work of Redemption mirrors that of Creation. For just as God created goodness and beauty out of nothing, God brought beautiful redemption to the world out of the emptiness of Jesus’ tomb. And as we feel joy when encountering beauty in Creation, so we find joy in God’s work of Redemption.
The disciples discovered new life within themselves through their encounter with and transformation by the Risen Jesus. This led them to a renewed sense of confidence that the Lord’s mission continued, and would now continue in and through them. They would have found fitting, and would have been able to sing, Robert Bridges’ words from the first verse of his hymn:
“All my hope on God is founded; he doth still my trust renew, me through change and chance he guideth, only good and only true.”
In a prior post I offered a reflection on the Committal Service for Queen Elizabeth II and noted its inclusion of the hymn, All My Hope on God is Founded. That post may be found here.
James Tissot’s painting depicting God’s creative work is likely to strike us as childishly simplistic in its portrayal of divinity. For it quite obviously displays what we consider to be the flaw of anthropomorphism, as if the artist was naive in his approach to faith. But what if our hesitation about anthropomorphism, aside from reflecting a proper theological concern, could also become an obstacle for us? What if the mysterious implausibility of God entering into and sharing the limitations of human being keeps us from appreciating how fallen human beings can – by the same graceful Providence – share in the beautiful fullness of God?
I believe that James Tissot came to realize this: Beauty is a form of divine revelation. And, that our joy when beholding beauty is our experience of God’s love manifest to and within us.
These themes are intrinsic to our participation in Holy Week. As we can learn from observing the traditional pattern for the liturgy on Good Friday, our focus in Holy Week is upon what God has done and is doing for us. The sign of this on Good Friday is our abstention from celebrating the Eucharist, and instead we receive communion from the sacrament reserved following the Maundy Thursday liturgy on the prior evening.
For God creates, God discloses, and God provides. Through all, God reveals self. God’s revelation involves God’s self-disclosing gifts. Within the divine attributes are those of initiative and efficacy, constitutive aspects of creativity. And so, when God creates human beings in God’s own image and likeness, God not only exercises creativity but also self-revelation.
Among the ways that we resemble our Maker is one that paradoxically can become a source of frustration for us. Positively, our Creator has given us intelligence and a God-reflecting capacity for creativity, initiative, and efficacy. In addition, God has given us an inclination toward experiencing freedom and an accompanying desire for its fulfillment. Employing these gifts can lead to an ironic and negative result: They allow us the freedom wrongly to imagine that God is actually a dispensable concept, and a coping mechanism which is just a reflection of our psychological needs and a projection of ourselves.
Reflecting on these things can lead us to recognize the heart of divine humility, that it should please God to create us in God’s own image and likeness. God has given us the capacity to imagine that we are self-made, and then to function in a parody of the divine role in Creation. This happens when we fool ourselves into thinking that we are the center of the universe. Expressions of this parody include our ideas that the universe is infinite, as are our own endless possibilities within it. Yet – and this is critical – only God is infinite, and we – like the universe – are finite beings, endowed not only with divine-reflecting capacities, but also with purpose, meaning, and identities that are not of our own making.
James Tissot, What Our Lord Saw From the Cross, a remarkable inversion of how we so often picture the scene
As we approach Holy Week, we have the opportunity once again to be those who watch, who listen, and reflect. As we do, we remind ourselves that we are bit players in the Divine Drama, whose Author has generously written for us a script that has a curious feature, ample provision for ‘ad-libbing.’ In fact, divine generosity is so abounding that we are allowed to create sub-plots within the overall story. To the point that we forget to reference the overall plot lines shaping the whole, as well as the Author’s purposes in creating them.
One thing that God achieved in the events of the Exodus was to remind both Pharaoh, as well as Moses and the people of Israel, that God was and is sovereign over history as well as over geography, the realms of both time and place. Forgetting this ancient truth, we neglect the comfort we can gain from the doctrine of Providence, that God provides for the needs of the world as well as our own, which God knows more intimately and with greater perception than we do. We should wonder that we are left free to imagine otherwise, a fantasy in which some of us at least occasionally engage.
But the humility we are invited to recover in this latter part of Lent, and most of all in Holy Week, involves opening ourselves to a very real possibility. That God’s way of overcoming our refusal and failure to live into the potential we have been given involves the beauty of a strange and unexpected gift. Christmas reminded us of part of this gift, that God became human so that humans could become God-like, and in the best possible way. Holy Week allows us to rediscover the gift that God chose to identify so much with us that, in the ‘Son of Man,’ the Incarnate divine-human being, God passed through human death into the fullness of human life so that we might be enabled by grace to do the same.
Visitors to this space are familiar with my fondness for the words of St. Richard of Chichester: “Day by day, dear Lord, of thee three things I pray: to see thee more clearly, love thee more dearly, follow thee more nearly, day by day.” The theme can be expressed more compactly: We seek to live more nearly as we pray. These words voice our desire to walk a path of beauty in life, such as we find in ‘Easter Living.’
While serving as an Assistant Professor at one of our seminaries in The Episcopal Church, I was invited by the editor of the New Churches Teaching Series to write the volume on Ethics and Moral Theology. This was the third such series of books going back to the 1950’s that seek to provide learning for persons interested in our tradition. Books in these series have addressed a wide range of areas in faith and community life pertinent to our common desire to become informed members. I wrote my book while teaching its content in the seminary, and in about 10 different parish weekend teaching events in Episcopal churches across the country, ‘field testing’ the material. My book was published in 2000, and is still in print. I wish to note that proceeds from all the books in this series were and are donated to the Anglican Theological Review, an independent journal offering the fruits of scholarship for the benefit and educational formation of those within as well as beyond the academy.
At the time of being granted tenure, a seminary trustee asked me what the title of the book implied about its content. It became evident that her concern was focused on my use of the word “after.” I was able to explain that I used the word to mean “in light of.” The book’s title is an indirect tribute to the theological vision of my doctoral supervisor, Oliver O’Donovan, then Regius Professor of Moral and Pastoral Theology at the University of Oxford, whose book, Resurrection and Moral Order, has had a profound impact upon my thinking.
It may be helpful to clarify that I use the terms “Christian ethics” and “moral theology” interchangeably. However, it is worth observing that many within the wider Protestant tradition tend to prefer the term “Christian ethics,” while those within the wider Catholic tradition tend to use that of “moral theology.” Note that “ethics,” as a named field of inquiry without the religious qualifier, is generally understood as a branch of philosophy, which may or may not observably underpin theological writings relevant to this field.
I would like to highlight a number of themes evident within and or suggested by the structure my book, which I think are particularly relevant to Christians at this point of time:
Foremost, the interdependence between ethics and spirituality, which I refer to as ‘two sides of the same coin’ despite their separate spheres of concern.
The centrality of Baptism in the lives of every Christian believer, and its implications regarding the vital relationship between what we believe and how we live
Our historic Anglican dependence upon the natural world as a source of insight about the Creator’s intentions for us and for our lives. This reflects our traditional emphasis upon the Incarnation of our Lord in human embodiment. We look for the complementarity between – but do not equate nor confuse – what the Medievals called the Book of Nature and the Book of Scripture, ‘written’ by the same Author, while having different even if overlapping purposes.
The distinctions that I offer between what I call “laws,” “manners,” and “moral principles.” Neglecting to distinguish among what these terms represent frequently causes confusion.
The final chapter of the book moves from elaboration of basic principles in Christian ethics/moral theology to an application of these principles by offering a methodological approach to how they might be applied with reference to a particular set of ethical questions, centering on how we approach a broad concern for all of us: “Should a Christian ever been involved in or associated with an act of violence?”
I wish to stress that this is not a book about “issues.” My goal was -and remains – an effort to recover and present the foundations of a solid Christian world view for how we might best approach any issue that may be of concern. So, this is not a book where you can turn to the index and look up such matters as capital punishment or a discussion of what might be a fair interest rate on loans. I try to remain careful about observing the important distinction between moral or ethical principles that we might share, and particular policy implementations that we then undertake to reflect or enact those principles in our common life.
For those who may be interested, I include here a précis of the structure of my book, articulated in the series of Axioms that are appended within it, as well as bullet point chapter summaries:
The Japanese architect, Kengo Kuma, has designed a beautiful contemporary context for a display of traditional Japanese craftsmanship in woodworking. You can find it in a coffee shop at a Starbucks location in Fukuoaka, on Kyushu Island in southern Japan. Specifying the use of the art of Kiguma, the Japanese art of assembling pieces of wood through precise cuts and fittings, but employing no nails or screws, Kuma has created an aesthetically pleasing destination for those who appreciate fine architecture as well as espresso.
Evident in many locations associated with its brand, Starbucks focuses upon providing thoughtfully designed contexts for enjoying their products, whether in self-standing stores or in airport and grocery store kiosks. In this particular case, the choice to engage the services of a design-savvy modern architect, and his willingness to undertake this comparatively small project, speak well to the sensitivities of both Kuma and the corporation.
Kuma’s plan for the interior of this space, complex in appearance, features what looks like a standard series of pieces of cherry wood that measure about six feet in length and of 2″ by 2″ dimensions. Employing these relatively light and small pieces of wood in a way that resembles modern tensile structures, the architect has produced an environment that hovers over and around customers, drawing them in to the interior. The spatial atmosphere he has attained is simultaneously conducive to imaginative reflection and yet also quiet contemplation. Perfect, in my mind, for enjoying a coffee break, while visiting the many historic attractions in this part of Japan.
Interior view
I am intrigued by what I have learned about Kengo Kuma’s design principles, articulated in his book, Anti-Object: The Dissolution and Disintegration of Architecture, positive ideas from his studies that he seeks to be exemplified in his own buildings and their spaces. His primary university eduction in Architecture was at Tokyo University, but he studied for a year at Columbia University, and has taught for short periods at two other American universities. Given his formation and his approach to design, I am inclined to think that he has found a sympathetic parallel to his world view in the lifelong architectural principles of Frank Lloyd Wright, who made seven trips to Japan and who lived there for three years while designing his Imperial Hotel for a location near the Imperial Palace in Tokyo.
A vintage postcard photo of Frank Lloyd Wright’s Tokyo Imperial Hotel, with its Japanese-inspired tile roofs, which survived the great 1923 Kanto earthquake
One observer has summed up Kuma’ approach in Anti-Object in this way: Kuma “critiques the Western architectural tradition of the isolated ‘object’ building, advocating instead for a more integrated, ‘weaker’ architecture that dissolves into its environment. Kuma argues against buildings that stand apart as self-centered monuments, proposing an alternative approach that uses natural light, materials, and context to create immersive, experiential spaces, drawing inspiration from Japanese traditions…”
Our American urban landscapes are filled with ‘object architecture’ of the kind with which Kuma has taken issue. Familiar examples might include the building style featured in the recent film, The Brutalist, and as is arguably represented by the new Presidential Center tower on the south side of downtown Chicago, which given its significant cost could have provided a beautiful addition to the city’s skyline. By contrast, Kuma contends for the goal of harmony with a building’s context, without either slavish imitation of neighboring buildings nor the opposite, a statement-seeking rejection of the style of surrounding structures and their physical environment.
Interior view, with a traditional Japanese structure and tiled roof in the background
A notable element of Kuma’s design for the interior structure of this coffee shop can be seen in the way that the wooden struts extend outward from their crossing points (visible in the photo above). Visitors to Japan might recognize how this feature of Kuma’s project echoes what are called chigi, the crossed roof ends of Shinto shrines, seen all over Japan. Note the affinity between the way that Kuma has employed the cherry wood components of his design, and the chigi as well as the extended wooden rods used in the following example of a traditional Japanese Shinto shrine:
Chigi, or crossed roof ends, as seen at a Shinto shrine in Japan
Having discovered the architectural work and ideas of Kengo Kuma, I look forward to learning more about his other buildings, among them the remarkable Victoria and Albert Museum in Dundee, Scotland, which I hope to feature in a future post.
Perhaps like Henry David Thoreau or John Muir, a gifted painter named Walter Inglis Anderson came to discern some things of great significance within the visible beauty latent in nature. Like his venturesome forbears, he did this by seeking out an area of wilderness. It became his habit to row out the ten or so miles to Horn Island in the Mississippi Sound, where he slept on the sand using his upturned dinghy as his hermitage. Out there amidst the shifting dunes, with only the shell of his boat for cover against storms, Walter Anderson perceived more of who he was as he experienced harmony with what was around him. In time, compelling objects of his attention became for him fellow-subjects apprehending the splendor of Creation.
A shoreline inhabitant whose common name (‘hermit’ crab) was often derisively applied to Walter Anderson
Paradoxically, by his solitary coastal journeys, a man who had suffered bouts of mental illness became aware of an elusive but precious quality that he shared with those from whom he was isolated. His transient island resting places, where he spent weeks at a time over the course of twenty years, provided him with fleeting glimpses of what it might mean to be more fully human. There, away from others, he experienced moments when he felt he had become who he was meant to be.
As one writer has put it, “Anderson’s isolation from humanity convinced him, in the end, of humanity’s beauty… [He] believed that if we re-established our primal relationship with nature, we would regain our beauty.” Walter’s youngest son, John, summed it up succinctly: “Solitude was a tool that helped him to find unity with all people and all creatures.”
Anderson’s portrayal of himself rowing out to the island
Walter Anderson expressed the point compactly in one of his Horn Island logbooks: “In order to realize the beauty of man, we must realize our relation to nature.” His son, John, later explained what his father had meant by this. “I think that in those twenty years that he was living in solitude on the wilderness island, he was attempting to realize his relation to nature so that he could realize the beauty of humanity.”
Underlying these words, and the perception they express, may be a nature-mysticism of the kind often associated with Thoreau and Muir. I also find an affinity here with the spirituality we can discern in traditions as widely different as Zen Buddhism and the writings of Christian monastic solitaries.
Eugene Peterson’s rendering of Jesus’ words in John 12:25 (in context), captures a similar perception: “Listen carefully: Unless a grain of wheat is buried in the ground, dead to the world, it is never any more than a grain of wheat. But if it is buried, it sprouts and reproduces itself many times over. In the same way, anyone who holds on to life just as it is destroys that life. But if you let it go, reckless in your love, you’ll have it forever, real and eternal.”
To this mystical vision of the world I think we can also connect an insight attributable to St. Augustine of Hippo, regarding what we love, and how we love. If we love ourselves and our lives, or the world around us, for our own sake, we belong to the ‘city of the world,’ and we live turned away from God. Yet, if we love these same things for God’s sake, we belong to the City of God, and live in a God-ward way. Here it is important to remember that to love in the latter way that Augustine commended may not necessarily be an activity that we undertake with conscious awareness.
Self-Portrait by Anderson
It is actually possible to love God without ever consciously intending to do so. I believe this was the case in the adult life of Walter Anderson. It happens when we love what God dearly loves. And such true love can be expressed unconsciously, in ways that may be apparent to others while not to ourselves.
This truth connects the experience of the non-religious nature mystic with that of the religious contemplative, as both in various ways are focussed upon the Beauty inherent in Creation and within our human experience of Nature. This brings joy to the Author of Creation, who so loves the world that he has brought us into the new life that – through the Word made flesh – he now shares with us.
Emphasis has been added to the Eugene Peterson quote above. In a later post I will offer further reflection on Walter Anderson’s life and work, including his wondrous artistic creations, among which are paintings and drawings, as well as ceramics, linoleum prints and patterns for fabrics.
Toward Beauty 