Words on Wednesday: The Lie

The idiom "to give the lie" means to prove that something is false - to show up the liar.

The Lie

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By Sir Walter Raleigh

Go, soul, the body’s guest, 

Upon a thankless errand; 

Fear not to touch the best; 

The truth shall be thy warrant. 

Go, since I needs must die, 

And give the world the lie. 

Say to the court, it glows 

And shines like rotten wood; 

Say to the church, it shows 

What’s good, and doth no good. 

If church and court reply, 

Then give them both the lie. 

Tell potentates, they live 

Acting by others’ action; 

Not loved unless they give, 

Not strong but by a faction. 

If potentates reply, 

Give potentates the lie. 

Tell men of high condition, 

That manage the estate, 

Their purpose is ambition, 

Their practice only hate. 

And if they once reply, 

Then give them all the lie. 

Tell them that brave it most, 

They beg for more by spending, 

Who, in their greatest cost, 

Seek nothing but commending. 

And if they make reply, 

Then give them all the lie. 

Tell zeal it wants devotion; 

Tell love it is but lust; 

Tell time it is but motion; 

Tell flesh it is but dust. 

And wish them not reply, 

For thou must give the lie. 

Tell age it daily wasteth; 

Tell honor how it alters; 

Tell beauty how she blasteth; 

Tell favor how it falters. 

And as they shall reply, 

Give every one the lie. 

Tell wit how much it wrangles 

In tickle points of niceness; 

Tell wisdom she entangles 

Herself in overwiseness. 

And when they do reply, 

Straight give them both the lie. 

Tell physic of her boldness; 

Tell skill it is pretension; 

Tell charity of coldness; 

Tell law it is contention. 

And as they do reply, 

So give them still the lie. 

Tell fortune of her blindness; 

Tell nature of decay; 

Tell friendship of unkindness; 

Tell justice of delay. 

And if they will reply, 

Then give them all the lie. 

Tell arts they have no soundness, 

But vary by esteeming; 

Tell schools they want profoundness, 

And stand too much on seeming. 

If arts and schools reply, 

Give arts and schools the lie. 

Tell faith it’s fled the city; 

Tell how the country erreth; 

Tell manhood shakes off pity; 

Tell virtue least preferreth. 

And if they do reply, 

Spare not to give the lie. 

So when thou hast, as I 

Commanded thee, done blabbing— 

Although to give the lie 

Deserves no less than stabbing— 

Stab at thee he that will, 

No stab the soul can kill. 

Miscellaneous Thoughts on Thursday

Photo by Mikeal Kristenson

1.  Blessed is the man who walks not in the counsel of the ungodly, nor stands in the path of sinners, nor sits in the seat of the scornful (Ps 1:1) The seat of the scornful is an awfully tempting place to sit, higher than all the other seats and boasting the softest cushions. I seem to prefer it.

2. I wonder if those who work in doctor's offices realize the extent to which their friendliness is a ministry? I am thankful for my doctor's staff.

3. When the student is ready, the right spiritual formation group appears.

4. I often wonder why God chose the first century to send his Son to earth. Why not send him when 24-hour news and social media would have given him a bigger platform? Maybe sound bites and 40-character twitter blasts aren't nearly as nuanced and loving as parables and face-to-face dialogue complete with tone of voice and body language. (So asserts the one writing on the internet...)

5. The blogging world needs more age 50+ female voices that write with a positive slant on maturity. The vast majority of online material specifically for women my age exists to tell me how to exercise or eat so I can look/feel younger or how to dress to look/feel younger. What's wrong with the age I am?

6. The world of the arts needs more writers, musicians, and other artists who are honest about how prohibitive the artistic world is for anyone without a good bit of disposable income. (Here's one.) If we want more genuinely well-crafted music, literature, visual art, etc. in our faith communities, there has to be financial support for it.

Words On Wednesday: What Breathes Us

What Breathes Us
 by Barry Spacks

       

Regards to the day, the great long day
that can't be hoarded, good or ill.

What breathes us likely means us well.

We rise up from an earthly root
to seek the blossom of the heart.

What breathes us likely means us well.

We are a voice impelled to tell
where the joining of sound and silence is.

We are the tides, and their witnesses.

What breathes us likely means us well.


Photo by Andrew Branch

Words on Wednesday: Choose Something Like A Star

Choose Something Like a Star

by Robert Frost

O Star (the fairest one in sight),

We grant your loftiness the right

To some obscurity of cloud—

It will not do to say of night,

Since dark is what brings out your light.

Some mystery becomes the proud.

But to be wholly taciturn

In your reserve is not allowed.

Say something to us we can learn

By heart and when alone repeat.

Say something! And it says, 'I burn.'

But say with what degree of heat.

Talk Fahrenheit, talk Centigrade.

Use language we can comprehend.

Tell us what elements you blend.

It gives us strangely little aid,

But does tell something in the end.

And steadfast as Keats' Eremite,

Not even stooping from its sphere,

It asks a little of us here.

It asks of us a certain height,

So when at times the mob is swayed

To carry praise or blame too far,

We may choose something like a star

To stay our minds on and be staid.


Here is Randall Thompson's choral setting, performed by the Harvard University Choir.

Music on Monday: The Exile Edition

Photo by Ryan McGuire

Music on Monday is a weekly series featuring music that connects with the current events of my life in some way and that might be interesting to those who would like to learn more about classical music.

My exile ended today. I enjoyed a sort of retreat when my piano students took off for Christmas holidays until my studio reopened today. I didn't have to travel this year, so I did my shopping online, stayed at home and did pretty much what I pleased. That included a lot of reading and more piano playing than I've done in a long time.

I obsessed a little over a piano arrangement of "O Come, O Come Emmanuel." It was tricky enough to keep me working on it over a solid three weeks to have the satisfaction of playing it well. Because the words I know best from memory are those of the first verse and chorus, I ended up meditating through all of that repetitive practicing, lectio divina style, on this:  O come, o come, Emmanuel, and ransom captive Israel that mourns in lonely exile here until the son of God appear. Rejoice, rejoice, Emmanuel will come to thee, O Israel.

"Rejoice" was set to glass-breaking dissonance. Makes sense. How do you rejoice in exile? The piece ended with a build-up to an exquisitely painful 9-8 suspension before closing off, still in the original minor key. No hopeful Picardy third on the end. Since we lost two family members who would not be at our Christmas table this year, a minor key felt more appropriate than fa-la-la-la-la. Advent's themes of waiting for a resolution when all would be made right felt comforting to me this year. As depressing as all of this sounds, there were quite a few moments of spontaneous joy. They'd appear out of nowhere, as though they'd been airdropped in a sort of humanitarian aid program.

So, I grieved and reflected on exile and dissonance, but by the time school resumed, I was ready to rejoin the real world and in much better spirits.

To close my exile/retreat off, I watched an opera last Saturday. The Metropolitan Opera Company broadcasts live transmissions of full-length productions in HD to movie theatres all over the world. I convinced my 14-year-old daughter to go along. She allowed that she didn't hate it. The opera was Nabucco, a love story set amidst the exile of the Hebrews after being overrun by the Babylonian king Nebuchadnezzar (Nabucco). At least, I finally got a Picardy third of sorts at the end. Read on.

Today's Music on Monday selection is the aria sung by Nabucco, "Dio di Guida." Having declared himself not merely king, but God, he has become mentally unstable and a prisoner of his illegitimate daughter who has assumed the throne. She is about to execute all of the Hebrews, including Nabucco's legitimate daughter who has converted to Judaism. From his own exile of sorts, he kneels and pledges his faith and loyalty to the Hebrew God. I chose this video because it has subtitles, but I wish I could post a video of Placido Domingo's performance last Saturday which was one of the more moving operatic performances I've seen. He didn't merely kneel; he sang it prostrate on the floor. His senses return, he reclaims the throne, and frees the Israelites. Exile over.

Words on Wednesday: The Burning Babe

The liturgical season of Christmas continues until Jan. 6, so here's another Christmas-related poem.

English poet Robert Southwell was a Jesuit priest serving as a surreptitious Catholic missionary in England during the reign of Queen Elizabeth I. She had passed an act asserting that any English priest of the Catholic church was not to remain on English soil for more than 40 days. He was arrested in 1592 and spent an month enduring torture by Richard Topcliffe and the privy council before being moved to the Tower of London for another two years. In 1595, he was found guilty of treason and executed by being hanged, drawn, and quartered. Southwell wrote "The Burning Babe" shortly before his death. It was part of a collection of poetry he wrote while in prison, and the volume was dedicated to his cousin, William Shakespeare. Shakespeare uses imagery that reflects the poem in Scene 7, Act 1 of Macbeth when he casts Pity as a naked, newborn babe crying out at the injustice of Macbeth's murder of Duncan.

 

The Burning Babe

     by Robert Southwell

AS I in hoary winter’s night
Stood shivering in the snow,
Surprised I was with sudden heat
Which made my heart to glow;
And lifting up a fearful eye
To view what fire was near,
A pretty babe all burning bright
Did in the air appear;
Who, scorchèd with excessive heat,
Such floods of tears did shed,
As though His floods should quench His flames,
Which with His tears were bred:
‘Alas!’ quoth He, ‘but newly born
In fiery heats I fry,
Yet none approach to warm their hearts
Or feel my fire but I!

‘My faultless breast the furnace is;
The fuel, wounding thorns;
Love is the fire, and sighs the smoke;
The ashes, shames and scorns;
The fuel Justice layeth on,
And Mercy blows the coals,
The metal in this furnace wrought
Are men’s defilèd souls:
For which, as now on fire I am
To work them to their good,
So will I melt into a bath,
To wash them in my blood.’
With this He vanish’d out of sight
And swiftly shrunk away,
And straight I callèd unto mind
That it was Christmas Day.

Photo by Ian Britton