A few various things and a poem from Hopkins

Update: As one commenter pointed out, I neglected to provide a link to Jacobs blog at The New Atlantis, Text Patterns.  Good stuff there too.
Just a few quick things here:
1.  I've been a tiny bit upset by the spectacular fall in quality at The American Scene lately, to the point where I've removed it from the links.  Things started to go downhill for me when Alan Jacobs left (who was the reason I started reading in the first place).  I would say more about this and speculate about why this has happened, but the truth is I very rarely go there and do not care to figure out what has happened.  There still are some good back-logged posts by Jacobs on topics such as Lewis, the meaning of the symbols (and whether or not, for instance, some Southerner's self-determination of the meaning of the Confederate flag as a non-racist symbol really makes it so), or T.S. Eliot's decision not to publish Animal Farm when given an early crack at the manuscript; or you could click on a more recent post, like one from today that claims to link to a "fascinating post on molasses".  It's really your call.

2. A little over a month ago I put up a post about St. Anslem's ontological argument for the existence of God.  A few things have been troubling me about it.  First, I said something about Christ not being able to be thought about in terms of perfection "as touches His manhood" which of course would seem to be in conflict with the Athanasian Creed (not written by Athanasius by the way): "perfect man, perfect God."  The point I was trying to make, though I may not have made it clearly enough, was that because the pre-Resurrection body was subject to death and not aesthetically perfect, as Isaiah summed up "we esteemed Him not", we can't perhaps talk of him as materially perfect.  But this is not to say He was not morally perfect or sinless.  The confusion comes because in trying to speak of Christ in His human nature without regard to His divine nature, we divide what cannot be divided but exists as a hypostasis, to use the fancy theological term.  Secondly I kinda dogged Anselm for putting forward his argument, but I was perhaps wrong to do so.  I have since read that he described his project as "faith seeking understanding", which is to say that he did not hope to convince people that God became man in Christ, but as a Christian sought to understand and support his faith.  This is, I think, the real use for such apologetic work and in fact, it seems this is where it gets its most use; many more Christians have bought The Case for Christ than so-called "seekers".  I'm very sceptical of this kind of work to bring people to faith, which I think is of a different kind than what one may be argued into through an apologetic, but I do think it has its place for encouragement of the Christian and allowing them to see how firm the foundation is that they have built upon.  So my apologies to St. Anselm and any of his descendants who may have been offended.

3.  The main thing I wanted  to though was point you to this poem by Hopkins.  Besides having the awesome middle name "Manley", he is a good poet, and at times a very profound religious thinker.  He gets carried away sometimes in his poetry and uses so many musical devices at the expense of coherence that I wonder if he even knew what he was talking about sometimes.  This is not one of those however, and seems a good thing to read and think about during Advent.

 Nondum

Verily Thou art a God that hidest Thyself.’ -Isaiah xlv. 15

 

God, though to Thee our psalm we raise
No answering voice comes from the skies;
To Thee the trembling sinner prays
But no forgiving voice replies;
Our prayer seems lost in desert ways,
Our hymn in the vast silence dies.

We see the glories of the earth
But not the hand that wrought them all:
Night to a myriad worlds gives birth,
Yet like a lighted empty hall
Where stands no host at door or hearth
Vacant creation’s lamps appall.

We guess; we clothe Thee, unseen King,
With attributes we deem are meet;
Each in in his own imagining
Sets up a shadow in Thy seat;
Yet know not how our gifts to bring,
Where seek Thee with unsandalled feet.

And still th’unbroken silence broods
While ages and while aeons run,
As erst upon chaotic floods
The Spirit hovered ere the sun
Had called the seasons’ changeful moods
And life’s first germs from death had won.

And still th’abysses infinite
Surround the peak from which we gaze.
Deep calls to deep, and blackest night
Giddies the soul with blinding daze
That dares to cast its searching sight
On being’s dread and vacant maze.

And Thou art silent, whilst Thy world
Contends about its many creeds
And hosts confront with flags unfurled
And zeal is flushed and pity bleeds
And truth is heard, with tears impearled,
A moaning voice among the reeds.

My hand upon my lips I lay;
The breast’s desponding sob I quell;
I move along life’s tomb-decked way
And listen to the passing bell
Summoning men from speechless day
To death’s more silent, darker spell.

Oh! till Thou givest that sense beyond,
To shew Thee that Thou art, and near,
Let patience with her chastening wand
And lead me child-like by the hand
If still in darkness not in fear.

Speak! whisper to my watching heart
One word-as when a mother speaks
Soft, when she sees her infant start,
Till dimpled joy steals o’er its cheeks.
Then, to behold Thee as Thou art,
I’ll wait till morn eternal breaks.

—Gerard Manley Hopkins