To Mr. Lawrence

 – John Milton, To Mr. Lawrence

I’m no poet, I know. But the other day I was thinking about why we send flowers, and what we mean to express by them, and where the flowers really do come from and what they really are meant to express. A man picks a bouquet and hands them to his favorite one: “Look, my Dear! Look at this gift I’ve given you!” “Oh, how lovely they are! Thank you!” The man stands up-chested and proud that he’s joyed his beloved with such beauty–borrowed though it may be. I’m not so obtuse or so immature to think sending flowers is “wrong” or something — please don’t misunderstand. It’s good to send flowers — especially to one’s “favorite.” God’s gifts to us are meant to be appreciated and shared with one another. It’s as the poem says, “I could not love you if I did not love Him, and I could not love Him if I did not love you.” Godly man-woman love is pleasing to the Lord — it’s His design. That’s not my point.

I just wonder how often we hear the twofold love-song those flowers sing, when we do send (or receive) them? After all, don’t we read that, in effect, all the passions and jealousies and joys and forgivings and repentings and desperation and restorations and comforts and longings inherent in man-woman relationships are meant to be an object lesson for our relationship with “our husband, our Maker”? There are other reasons for God to have made man “male and female” instead of mere asexual self-replicating “humans”, I’m sure (as the angels are, and as we shall one day become) — but surely the romantic aspects we experience with one another, all the good and bad, are to point us to him? (Eph. 5:22-33) Few things in this earthly life are so powerful, I would dare say, as love for our beloved. And few things are more powerful in (or, toward) all creation, I would again dare say, than God’s love for us — “For he did not spare his one and only Son…”

So, next time you send or receive flowers, listen for the two-fold song of adoration…

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Full disclosure: Yes, it’s true. I’ve been seeing Megan for a few months now. (Even asked for her dad’s permission first.) Unexpected, joyous, frustrating, hopeful, confusing…all the things human relationships are.

Or, one could say: “Man, I’m having a rough go of it; can’t wait to see you.” Shakespeare’s Sonnet above communicates essentially the same truth, but somehow much, much deeper. Dr. T. David Gordon, in a wonderful introductory lecture to a 2003 Conference on the Psalms (mp3), maintains that this is one of the ways to understand some of the psalms. He also shares some profound ideas about the nature of the Hebrew (and later, Christian) religion concerning the theology and practice of the (personal and corporate) lament, how it practically provides true comfort for the suffering, and how all pagan religions fail in this respect.

I’m heading downstate tomorrow, then flying out Friday morning from Boston to NYC for the weekend on business, and to meet my newborn niece, Elasia Hope. The rest of the audio from Gordon’s conference will accompany me during drive-time. For non-drive-time, David Koyzis’ book, Political Visions and Illusions: A Survey & Christian Critique of Contemporary Ideologies will hold my attention. (I’m on a bit of Political Philosophy kick lately, if you haven’t noticed.) It’ll be nice to get away for a few days…

Hast Thou no wound?
Yet I was wounded by the archers, spent,
Leaned Me against a tree to die; and rent
By ravening beasts that compassed me, I swooned:
Hast thou no wound?

No wound? No scar?
Yet, as the Master shall the servant be,
And pierced are the feet that follow Me;
But thine are whole: can he have followed far
Who has no wound nor scar?

–Amy Carmichael

Schaeffer’s essay ought to be required reading for every Christian, I think. We’ve been given two mandates that seemingly work against one another: “Guard the gospel,” and “love one another.” Schaeffer’s insight on the ‘final apologetic’ of Christian discipleship is critical. For our Master has spoken, and he said “love one another, as I have loved you.”

I hope you’ll give it a read…

BATTER my heart, three person’d God; for, you
As yet but knocke, breathe, shine, and seeke to mend;
That I may rise, and stand, o’erthrow mee, ‘and bend
Your force, to breake, blowe, burn and make me new.
I, like an usurpt towne, to’another due,
Labour to’admit you, but Oh, to no end,
Reason your viceroy in mee, mee should defend,
But is captiv’d, and proves weake or untrue.
Yet dearely’I love you,’and would be loved faine,
But am betroth’d unto your enemie:
Divorce mee,’untie, or breake that knot againe;
Take mee to you, imprison mee, for I
Except you’enthrall mee, never shall be free,
Nor ever chast, except you ravish mee.

John Donne: Holy Sonnet XIV

(Thanks, Holly!)

I stood a mendicant of God before His royal throne
And begged him for one priceless gift, which I could call my own.
I took the gift from out His hand, but as I would depart
I cried, “But Lord this is a thorn and it has pierced my heart.
This is a strange, a hurtful gift, which Thou hast given me.”
He said, “My child, I give good gifts and gave My best to thee.”
I took it home and though at first the cruel thorn hurt sore,
As long years passed I learned at last to love it more and more.
I learned He never gives a thorn without this added grace,
He takes the thorn to pin aside the veil which hides His face.

- Martha Snell Nicholson

This poem was quoted by Elisabeth Elliot at the funeral service of Roni and Charity Bowers. For a brief account of their story, check out John Piper’s sermon, To Be A Mother is a Call to Suffer – the source of this quote.

When I consider how my light is spent,
E’re half my days, in this dark world and wide,
And that one Talent which is death to hide,
Lodg’d with me useless, though my Soul more bent

To serve therewith my Maker, and present [ 5 ]
My true account, least he returning chide,
Doth God exact day labour, light deny’d,
I fondly ask; But patience to prevent

That murmur, soon replies, God doth not need
Either man’s work or his own gifts, who best [ 10 ]
Bear his milde yoak, they serve him best, his State

Is Kingly. Thousands at his bidding speed
And post o’re Land and Ocean without rest:
They also serve who only stand and waite

- John Milton, Sonnet 19

(Milton was going blind, and still had his magnum opus, Paradise Lost (and Regain’d) ahead of him. He would memorize the next passage of his poem, then a close relative would visit every few days and set it to paper. Amazing!)

NOT, I’ll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;
Not untwist—slack they may be—these last strands of man
In me ór, most weary, cry I can no more. I can;
Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be.
(5) But ah, but O thou terrible, why wouldst thou rude on me
Thy wring-world right foot rock? lay a lionlimb against me? scan
With darksome devouring eyes my bruisèd bones? and fan,
O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avoid thee and flee?

Why? That my chaff might fly; my grain lie, sheer and clear.
(10) Nay in all that toil, that coil, since (seems) I kissed the rod,
Hand rather, my heart lo! lapped strength, stole joy, would laugh, chéer.
Cheer whom though? the hero whose heaven-handling flung me, fóot tród
Me? or me that fought him? O which one? is it each one? That night, that year
Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.

Gerard Manley Hopkins, Carrion Comfort, 1918.