Trinity Episcopal Church, Oshkosh, Wisconsin |
` The Anglican poet George Herbert, in his eloquent way, got
it just right. We are together and each of us “once a poor creature” simply
lost and self-destructing, yet also “now a wonder” remembered and revisited by
the Spirit. We are a wonder tortur’d in space/Betwixt this world and that of
grace,” the grace of a new heaven and a new earth, of creation whole in all its
parts. Christian spirituality, then, is spirituality for tortured wonders.
(p. 23)
The incarnation acknowledges that the human being
is a creature of great value that has been seriously wrecked–but insists that
(unlike a wrecked automobile) neither the whole nor any part of it can be
rejected or forgotten. Even damaged, bent, and distorted, the human being
retains inestimable worth: as a whole and in its parts.
(p. 38)
In Christ God assumes or takes humanity into
God’s self. Orthodox Christian spirituality denies that humanity, whatever its
powers and aspirations, can save itself from its own wreckage, its own
self-destruction. Yet it is true humanity, or humanness, that will be saved.
The original creation, though marred in and by sin, will not be tossed away and
forgotten, as a potter might trash inferior clay and move onto a new and
different clay pit. Nor will God forget about the human project altogether. . .
. Humanity will be assumed and resumed, restored to its pristine wholeness and
reset on the path to the maturation and fullness of that wholeness.
(p. 40)
Tortured Wonders is a fine book on
spirituality in light of the Incarnation. That means, among other things, that
it takes seriously the essential fact that we are bodies.
Here
is the whole poem by George Herbert (1593-1633) from which the title of Clapp's
book is taken:
AFFLICTION.
(IV)
BROKEN
in pieces all asunder,
Lord,
hunt me not,
A
thing forgot,
Once
a poor creature, now a wonder,
A
wonder tortured in the space
Betwixt
this world and that of grace.
My
thoughts are all a case of knives,
Wounding
my heart
With
scattered smart ;
As
wat'ring-pots give flowers their lives.
Nothing
their fury can control,
While
they do wound and prick my soul.
All
my attendants are at strife
Quitting
their place
Unto
my face :
Nothing
performs the task of life :
The
elements are let loose to fight,
And
while I live, try out their right.
Oh
help, my God ! let not their plot
Kill
them and me,
And
also Thee,
Who
art my life : dissolve the knot,
As
the sun scatters by his light
All
the rebellions of the night.
Then
shall those powers which work for grief,
Enter
Thy pay,
And
day by day
Labour
Thy praise and my relief :
With
care and courage building me,
Till
I reach heav'n, and much more, Thee.
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