The Art of Believing

I have listened to John Rutter’s “Requiem” at least a hundred times, but always in my auto, where the glorious tones of his music and the words of the Psalms and of the “Book of Common Prayer” have to compete with highway noise. I have this habit of latching onto something—often music—and not being able to let go of it. Perhaps it’s the other way around. The music won’t let go of me.

It is Advent, the season that celebrates the birth of Christ, and at this advanced stage in the journey of a Christian, I just learned that Advent is really concerned with the end of times and preparing us for death. That realized, I have played the Rutter “Requiem” over and over in the course of the last few days, on the trip up that I just made to Tulsa to visit old friends, and today on the return. I tried to listen to other CDs as I made the 450 mile drive home, with only modest results. I found myself inserting and ejecting and finally returned to the Requiem.

Lately I have been reading a book titled “Emily Dickinson and the Art of Belief.” And just this morning, as I sat in the neighborhood Panera having coffee and a bagel, I was reminded of ED’s struggle with her religious upbringing—a struggle that she did not resolve completely before her death. Much of her poetry reflects her concern with God, mortality, salvation, eternity.

Last night I watched the movie “Shadowlands” with my Tulsa friends. The movie, which examines the relationship between C. S. Lewis and the American woman who captured his heart late in Lewis’s life, portrays the struggle that Lewis and Joy Davidman Gresham faced only shortly after they married. Truth in this instance is clearly better than fiction. Lewis, known among other things for his writings on Christianity, pain, grief, loss, the struggles of human kind, had his own faith tested to the limits. Because of Joy Gresham’s courage, he was able to endure the loss of her and become a father to her young sons after Gresham’s death. Her own journey had taken her from Judaism through Communism and ultimately to Christianity.

As I listened to the “Requiem” tonight for the umpteenth time, I followed the text that I had printed off the internet earlier this evening. Piece after piece, the words and the music tugged at my heart, reminding me of the strength that can be found through faith. The Psalms and the Prayer Book text around which the Requiem is built truly and deeply point the way of our faith journey. “Be strong, and He shall comfort thy heart, and put thou thy trust in the Lord.” (Psalm 27) “Trust in the Lord, for with the Lord there is mercy…” (Psalm 130) “Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death, I will fear no evil: for Thou art with me.” (Psalm 23) “In the midst of life we are in death: of whom may we seek for succour? I am the resurrection and the life, saith the Lord: he that believeth in Me, though he were dead, yet shall he live; and whosoever liveth and believeth in Me shall never die.” (from the burial service of the 1662 Book of Common Prayer). To know God’s love, all we really have to do is turn to Him “and He shall comfort thine heart.” How easy and yet how difficult.

I do believe that life is a gift, and that the blessings we receive are gifts as well. Music and words are gifts and blessings. It brings me such joy to listen to John Rutter’s gift. Of all the times that I’ve heard the “Requiem,” the lush sounds of music and voice that usually move me to tears become more complete by reading the text on which the Requiem is based. When I’m angry over the politics of the church—after all, we all are just human beings trying to work together—I want to remember the beauty of the Book of Common Prayer, inspired by Gods’s word, written by man to glorify God and Christ. And I want to remember the words at the closing of Holy Eucharist Rite I, “the peace of God, which passeth all understanding, keep your hearts and minds in the knowledge and love of God, and of his Son Jesus Christ our Lord.” I want to remember that life itself is a gift. I want to be reminded when I’m feeling smug about my accomplishments or any of the things for which we so easily take credit, that these are gifts. And I want to be reminded when I see someone in distress that “there but for the grace of God go I” (attributed to 16th century Protestant martyr John Bradford, who was later burned as a heretic). When I find myself passing judgment on someone else I want to remember the prayer attributed to St. Francis, “Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace.” I want to feel responsible in some way for the other beings with whom I share this planet.


Harold Hollis (December 23, 2005 - Normangee, Texas)

Simply Peace

For a long time now, sleeping through the night has been a memory. I guess these perpetually disrupted nights began some time in my 50s. Falling asleep is effortless for me. Usually a half hour of reading under the bedside lamp calms my restless mind. Sometimes I just nestle under the covers, and before I can even think about falling asleep, I am asleep. Oh, but those middle of the night disturbances. Once answered, I can almost guarantee that this restless mind will go into action, gnawing on an array of troubles—an unfortunate exchange with another human being (go back as far as you can imagine and pick your category), unfulfilled expectations (falling short in a relationship, falling short in a business deal), concern for a family member, things I need to do but keep putting off.

I remember a time in the 80s when my prayer at bedtime was simple—grant me peace of mind, dear Lord. I even pronounced this prayer to a friend one evening who was detailing her disastrous relationship with a guy her friends thought she only lived with. It turned out they were married. “P-E-A-C-E, Patty, (hands in the air, punctuating each letter). That’s my last thought before going to sleep.”

Over the years, the prayer that seemed to reassure me at night, almost guaranteeing a decent sleep, became only a memory. Reading in the middle of the night could be a solution, if I was involved in something that held my attention. Sometimes even a book that captivated me last session can’t hold my mind.

Recently I saw a church marquee that read “Peace is not the absence of troubles, it is the presence of God.” Ordinarily I cringe at catchy slogans on church marquees. This one seemed to work that day because I was in fact troubled by an unfortunate exchange with another human being. The only resolution to that particular struggle was to cut myself loose. I’m still massaging the slogan on that church marquee. I shared it today with an old friend who responded, ‘that makes sense, if it’s what you believe.’ Okay, that’s true too. A familiar 1950s song goes “Let there be peace on earth, and let it begin with me.” If you avoid the remainder of the lyrics, you don’t have to deal with the religious implications of the song, although it’s reminder that we are all brothers and sisters sure doesn’t hurt.

Times when we can’t sleep are potentially good times for rediscovering things that have satisfied or reassured us in the past—helping to soothe the savage soul by speaking to some essential need, perhaps spiritual, perhaps intellectual or creative, although I think it’s difficult to separate the three. Such happened to me a couple of weeks ago. Awakened, knowing on this particular night that I was truly awake and struggling with an old demon friend, my mind came to rest on Emily Dickinson, my muse, and for some strange reason, on a book about her that I bought and started reading at least three years ago—“Emily Dickinson and the Art of Belief.” Because I have at least three books in progress at any given time, this one had gotten lost in the shuffle. But on this night, at 2:25 a.m., I knew exactly where to find this study of Emily Dickinson’s struggle with her mortal self, her soul, God and Christ, the church. She in fact wrestled with all of these until her death.

While Emily Dickinson had effectively rejected her Calvinist background, had stopped attending church mid-way through her life, she never stopped asking the questions. And even in rejection of established religious tenets which were intrinsic in her upbringing, she remained concerned with this force, showing concern for the soul and salvation of the friends she lost beginning at an early age. This concern is reflected both in her poems and in her letters. During her life, she didn’t seek to publish her poems, although she did at times offer them for response to certain people she trusted. A few were published without her permission. Apparently she saw her sometimes tormented, sometimes angry, sometimes joyful reflections as something for the time after she had finished her earthly journey.

On this night, and over many days since, Emily Dickinson’s documented struggle has brought me peace of mind by giving voice to my own struggle. Her mid-nineteenth century dilemma, although a journey begun in an America that hadn’t yet entered the war of internal civil strife—an America that was largely still an agrarian world—posed the same questions that for centuries before and well over a century since stare us in the face, grab us by the shoulders and shake us, cause our hearts and minds to ache seemingly without relief, and miraculously lead us to some kind of growth. Life clearly became more complicated with the Industrial Revolution, world wars, the cold war, undeclared wars, conflicts, and now terrorism that has numbed us with disbelief.

Emily Dickinson writes,

Apparently with no surprise
To any happy Flower
The Frost beheads it at its play—
In accidental power—
The blonde Assassin passes on—
The Sun proceeds unmoved
To measure off another Day
For an Approving God.

I could ask, “Who is this God that approves of pain and loss,” although it probably isn’t the right question. The natural world is full of pain and loss, much of it simply part of life and accepted because it is about that which is not burdened with a soul. We humans wrestle day in and day out, and amazingly we grow from loss. Through it all we are forced to take lessons that confuse us, wound us, rob us of our foolish pride, frighten us, take away that which we love and understand because we are human.

On those sleepless nights I can only hope that there will always be for me an Emily Dickinson to remind me that I am not alone. Though I believe there is a God who is with me—even if I often fail to submit to him—there is comfort in the artful and universal reminders reflecting the struggles of other human beings. I can only hope that knowing this at the very core of my being can lead to some kind of peace.

Simply Peace
Harold Hollis (Normangee Texas – December 19, 2005)