Religion And Poetry

Auckland Star, Volume LXX, Issue 35, 11 February 1939, Page 13 (Supplement)

Religion And Poetry

ByThe Rev. C. W. Chandler

SOME people cannot read poetry —they think that there is something wrong with those who can.

"Take Shelley's "Skylark," " said a matter-of-fact materialist, as he picked his teeth with a quill, "what does it all amount to when its boiled down?"

No one would expect a man like that to read poetry.

Perhaps if we had told him that a volume of Browning's poems, on account of its many, and pleasing, ingredients can be likened to an Irish stew, he might he tempted to taste. Had he done so he would doubtless have left many bones on the plate, and likely as not there would have been a good deal of meat on the bones ho had left. Nothing short of hogging it in dog fashion can yield a 100 per cent result in the way of nourishment from such a meal.

Note how a dog teases a bone. If anybody will tease , a dozen or eo lines of "Paracelsus" or "Sordello" long enough, euch labour is bound to be rewarded. Few, however, would think of starting on Browning, if they wished to cultivate, a taste for poetry, any more than they would dive into gorgonzola if they wanted to cultivate a taste for cheese. It's too strong.

Still, nobody can get the hang of religion without something in the way of a taste for poetry. Poets are creators, and the Book of Job, the Wisdom of Solomon, the Book of Proverbs, and the Psalms of David all belong to the poetry of religion. Think of all the hymns that are sung. Do not let anyone say that it is on account of the tunes and not of the words that we like "Abide With Me," "Sun of My Soul," and all the rest of these imperishables. We know only too well that "Abide With Me" would be murdered if put to the tune of "Lambeth Walk," but, putting aside such fanciful suggestions, it must be acknowledged that religion would be immeasurably poorer without its hymnologjes which, in every instance, are so rich in the poetry of praise and intercession.

A Mixed Menu It is not, however, with hymns that on this occasion we are going to deal. We are just going to make a fricassee, Welsh rarebit, or what you will out of a poem to which reference was made in one of these articles a few weeks ago. Thus fricassied it is to be hoped that it will not upset the weakest digestion. Our metaphors are a trifle mixed, but what matters so long as we keep to the menu? Therefore, contrary to the advice already given, and in scorn of our better judgment, we are going to plunge straight into the gorgonzola—straight into the jugged hare.

Few poems of Browning are as rich in religions and philosophical thought as this one. It is accounted one of the cleverest of his poems. It concerns a bishop talking to his atheist friend, Mr. Gigadibs. Hie Lordship is a clever apologist, and is willing, all along the line, to make very generous concessions to this friend with whom he has agreed, after dinner, when the "body gets its sop and holds its noise and leaves the soul free a little to discuss the pros and cons of religion versus atheism. '

Cardinal Wiseman, who reviewed the poem for "The Rambler," a Roman Catholic review, in the issue of January, 1886, said: "'Bishop Blougram's Apology,' though utterly mistaken in the very groundwork of religion ... is yet in its way triumphant, and though much of the matter is extremely offensive, yet beneath the surface there is an undercurrent of thought that is by no means inconsistent with our religion." So much for the learned c ardinal's opinion of this unusual work, which opinion cannot fail to counterbalance the idea no commonly held, that the poem has a sectarian basis. Browning's main concern is to point out the utter reasonablees of faith, as against the unreasonableness of unbelief.

The bishop uses a very apt simile. "We mortals cross the ocean of this world Each in his average cabin of a life; The best's not big, the worst yields elbow

room. Now for - our six months' voyage—how prepare ?"

He points to the accustomed "sixfeet square" which is allowed for cabin luggage, and by imputation he suggests that it is far better to furnish this "cabin of a life" with that theological furniture, in the way of stated belief, which age-long experience has proven to be convenient rather than with no guidance whatever to lumber the space with too many guesses at the truth. The® the bishop agrees to dump all belief overboard. "Our dogmas then With both of us, though in unlike degree. Missing full credence—overboard with them." Now they are fellow-atheists. They have scrapped all belief. They are divested of all faith. Wbet is the result T Here Browning utters a supreme thought which is worthy to be pondered in the minds of atheists and rationalists generally.

"And now," he says, "we are unbelievers both, calm and complete, determinately' fixed to-day, to-morrow and for ever, pray, You'll guarantee me that? Not so I think! In no wise! All we've gained is, that belief, as unbelief before, shakes us by fits —confounds us like its predecessor. Just •when we feel safest there's a sunset touch, a fancy from a flower bell, someone's death, a chorus ending from Euripides—and that's enough for 50 hopes and fears."

Taken out of blank verse form, and rendered as prose, that is precisely what the bishop says. After expatiating at some length upon this idea he sums up the whole position in three memorable lines:—

"All we have gained then by our unbelief, Is a life of doubt diversified by faith For one of faith diversified by doubt."

This is exactly the position to-day with every unbebever, for they all have their secret icons—their littie bits of God upon the sly. In place of the dominant and dynamic faith of such a one as Paul, who said, "I know Whom I have believed, and am persuaded that He is able to keep that which I have committed unto Him against that day," we have the pitiful and unsatisfying uncertainties of those who would wring from their very hearts that kernel of faith which is inseparable from life.

Now for another morsel of this gorgonzola, which simile is not altogether unseemly, for the longer poems of Browning, as strong as they may be for those who have not cultivated the taste, are yet teeming with life, like that piece of gorgonzola that keeps walking off the plate.

Concerning the eternal struggle which goes on in the lives of us all between good and evil, belief and unbelief, Bishop Blougram says.:—

No, when the fight begins within himself, A man's worth something. God stoops o'er his head, Satan looks up between his feet—both

tug— He's left, himself, i' the middle: the soul

wakes and grows. Prolong that battle through his life! Never leave growing till the life to come!"

"Over his wine so smiled and talked this hour, Sylvester Blougram, Styled in partibus Episcopus, with Gigadobs the literary man. Who played with spoons, explored the plate's design And ranged the olive stones about Its edge. While the great Bishop rolled him ont of mind Long crumbled, till creased consciousness lay smooth."

A vast gap lies between the simplicity of faith expressed in the poetry of most of our well-known hymns, and the not untroublesome obscurity of much that lies between the lines which have been quoted. Nevertheless, we cannot get far with the poetry of religion without taking the trouble to explore the works of Robert Browning.