Batter my heart

Holy Sonnets XIV

John Donne

Batter my heart, three-person'd God; for you
As yet but knock; breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise, and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend
Your force, to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurp'd town, to another due,
Labour to admit you, but O, to no end.
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captived, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be loved fain,
But am betroth'd unto your enemy;
Divorce me, untie, or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.

Abba Joseph came to Abba Lot and said to him: "Father, according to my strength I keep a moderate rule of prayer and fasting, quiet and meditation, and as far as I can control my imagination; what more must I do?" And the old man rose and held his hands toward the sky so that his fingers became like flames of fire and he said, "If you will, you shall become all flame." - The Sayings of the Desert Fathers

If the Mississippi River had not been so engorged, her currents straying from their regular confinement into the streets of downtown Davenport, I never would have seen the crowd of people on that Pascha day. We were hung over from the lack of sleep but still intoxicated by the triumphant singing of "Christ is Risen!" dancing children, and clanging bells; we were heading to another celebration which would be abundant with meats, cheeses, eggs, and rich sweets.

The parking lot outside the mission was jammed full of men, women, and children sitting and eating and drinking and laughing around stark metal tables. I caught a glimpse of several individuals, rabbit ears precariously plopped on their heads, serving the guests before them. Perhaps if we were better people with bigger hearts, we would have stopped and accepted the invitation to the banquet before our eyes; we would have chosen to delay our scheduled feast for a few minutes more and broken bread with these strangers confident that the resurrected Christ who we were celebrating on this day was most assuredly in our midst. "How do we get the poor into the Church?" I queried out loud. Without pause my husband answered my question: "We become poor."

"Blessed are the poor in spirit," my young son recites each day for school. I have become so familiar with the words that I don't even blink an eye, but I should. Every time. Poverty: Material, physical, spiritual, intellectual. "If you want to save your life, you must lose it." It is foolish to truly follow the path which Christ taught, isn't it? To willingly pick up your cross and deny your self. And who really wants to look silly and be judged ridiculous, or worse inconsequential, by friends, neighbors, co-workers, or even by the unknown man or woman walking down the street? Who wants to be poor? But Jesus takes everything we assume to be good and true and right and turns it upside down and then dares us to follow His way, the way of the cross, the way of humiliation and suffering. In His kingdom it is not the comfortable, the healthy, the smiling, happy people with their homes, cars, and not just their daily bread but luxuries and vacations who are blessed, who inherit the kingdom, who are called the children of God. (In other words, it is not me.) Rather it is the poor, the meek, the persecuted, the grief-stricken, the broken, the weak, the ill, the ones with dirty fingernails, crazy stories, alcohol breath, and body odor; it is the ones we would rather cast aside to be dealt with by the professionals with degrees; it is the least of us that Christ says are blessed.

"Christ is risen from the dead, trampling down death by death," my family will sing before every meal and at every time of prayer throughout this Paschal season. And more than anything, I desire to live the resurrected life; I want the elements of heaven and life to triumph over the forces of hell and death; I want to be all flame. I saw His face in those nameless individuals huddled around a free meal on that Pascha Day; I heard Him whisper "Blessed are the poor" through the voice of my husband. A wise priest once advised me, "Don't think too highly of yourself." While I have a guess where the next decades may lead me and my family, only through God's grace am I able to recognize the muck in my own heart that needs to be purified. How can I even consider conveying love to others when daily I do not reflect Christ's love to my current guests, my husband and children, instead wounding them with the harsh words of a tongue unrestrained? How can I attempt to be a peacemaker when there is so much anger, so much lack of self control entrenched in and rotting out my own heart? How can I become poor when there are so many shoes and coats and shirts and pants and possessions cluttering up my closets and my home?  But thanks be to God who "batters my heart" and "seeks to mend...to break, blow, burn, and make me new." Christ is Risen!

Poetry Wednesday