The Particularity of Love

    The gentle souled Albert Einstein, possessed of a devout spirit, once said that he believed in God, but God as conceived by the philosopher Spinoza, Deus sive natura -- God, or nature, or the laws of physics.  When Planck set forth his theory of quantum mechanics, Einstein at first rejected it, tartly asserting that "God does not play dice with the universe."  Something about the particularity of Planck's theory offended him, was a mote to trouble the mind's eye.  I wonder if it is the same tiny but scandalous mote that troubles the minds of men who cannot see love at the heart of the universe.  A law is abstract and general; if I step off the limb of a tree, gravity doesn't care who I am or what I desire; I fall.  But love is particular, and the dark history of man is studded with moments of love, when nothing in the world matters but this single being I love, for whom I would give life itself.

     It is the stunning claim of Christianity and Judaism that this world is not a vast machine but a story, with startling turns, moments of truth, and characters unique and unrepeatable.  Such a turn, we are told, occurred in the Temple of Jerusalem, when Mary and Joseph took the child Jesus for his ritual dedication to the Lord at the fortieth day after his birth, and the aged Simeon took the babe in his arms and prophesied.  One of my favorite painters, Andrea Mantegna, understood the drama of the scene, magnificently portraying Mary as a strong young woman, clutching the child, her elbow crooked and extended beyond a painted sill as if to breach the viewer's world, or to bring the viewer into hers.  Her brow is contracted as Simeon touches the child and gestures towards her; it is the moment at which he tells her that a sword shall pierce her heart.  The child himself is crying, and Joseph, in the near background and staring intently in the viewer's direction, hears the prophecy and is brought to the pitch of his determination to protect mother and child as far as he can.

     The fourth sonnet in the series by Father Donaghy captures something of that particular love and particular grief, a love and grief like no other.  For other women Jesus has brought comfort, has wrought miracles, but for this woman -- and in his humanity he cannot have loved any woman more deeply -- he brings union in his suffering.  So it was meant to be, ordained in the providence of the Father; and the particular grace given to Mary will allow her to understand, more than any other, the terrible words her Son uttered from the cross.

IV. He Meets His Mother

This afternoon in loud Jerusalem
They meet and part once more; no touch nor kiss
Can ease their anguish; while the mockers hiss:
“And he’s the fool who thought his streaming hem
Could cure the woman. See the two of them,
The son and wife of Joseph come to this.”
Two hearts cry out—abyss unto abyss,
And Jesse’s flower is cut from Jesse’s stem.

Perhaps she thinks of Nain—of all the land
Where wonders blossomed as He walked three years;
Of Jairus, Lazarus, the withered hand,
Of flowing mercies and of drying tears;
And still she knows her bitter place and part,
He will not heal her withered, widowed heart.

Comments

[Fr.D]

The complete set of Sonnets is available at http://mahwahreview.blogspot.com/

[Janet C]

I love that painting. It's one that I have hung in the classroom for my second grade First Communion class.

AMDG,
Janet

[Beth]

Tony, I hope you continue to give us some meditations on these sonnets!

[Sandra Keeney]

Are these part of the same stations? I am looking forward to your comments.

V. Simon Helps Him

Poor Simon's back was aching, and his legs
Were weary from the kicking of the plough;
And he had many worries-for his sow
Was sick; his prize hen was not laying eggs;
His crops were far behind; and floating dregs
Had spoiled the profit on his vines; and now
As he is hurrying home with heavy brow,
The soldiers seize him, though he brawls and begs.

He burns the Romans with a look of hate,
Then lends his grudging rhews to this doomed Man,
He grasps the rough-hewn beam, but feels no weight,
Though he is straining, taking all he can.
And from the Stranger, down the cross's length
There flow to Simon peace and tranquil strength.

VI. Veronica's Veil

Stout Peter struck one blow with blundering aim,
But now his futile sword abandoned lies;
Tumultuous Thomas shakes his head and sighs,
Beset with doubts and fears, and sick with shame;
The whispering Boanerges mock their name;
But in this shrilling street where valor dies,
Veronica cleans His face and wipes His eyes
And shares forever Magdalen's fragrant fame.

That screaming mob is muted; drowned in blood,
The curse has fallen on those unbent heads;
And Peter's sword has melted into mud,
The Temple veil hangs sundered into shreds;
But still her tiny veil survives, unfurled,
A banner and a bandage for the world.

WILLIAM A. DONAGHY.

[Judy Warner]

I don't usually read poetry; I'm too literal-minded for it. But these sonnets give me the chills.

[Beth]

Ms. Keeney, they are indeed parts of the same sonnet cycle. The first comment, by Fr.D., has a URL where you can find the entire series.

I read several of these in my classes today, as we have Good Friday off, and the students were definitely moved by them. I had to practice a bit to be able to read them without my voice breaking.

Judy, you should try Mary Oliver's poetry; you'd enjoy it, I think. My extremely literal-minded husband loves it. I would recommend starting with _House of Light_ or _Why I Wake Early_. She writes about nature -- and therefore life -- from a Christian perspective, and I find it refreshing, encouraging, convicting . . . and always true.

[Judy Warner]

Thanks, Beth. I will.

[Sandra Keeney]

Thanks, Beth. The poems and comments here are breaking my heart too, especially Antony Esolen introductions.

[Poetry]

4 June 2007

After the storm, my mind cleared.

And a high wind arose and blew the tropics north.

++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++++

running quartz crystals through a blender.

sand through your engines.

bubbles in your bays.

estuaries reaching out toward forbidden seas...

sand through your eyes.

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5 June 2007

Calm as baby's breath

as peaceful as the storm's eye

Clouds spread and drawn with rough strokes of stratospheric winds

a warm and windy tropical day.

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7 June 2007

Black water at dusk.

Lighting on the horizon.

Warm winds coming in across the darkening waters.

A flash of white wings as an egret takes flight.

And Thunder like God clearing his throat.

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8 June 2007

Morning star in the still of the clear, dark waters.

a sky as clear eyed as a young girl.

bruised and tattered storm remnants limp off in the gathering light.