Why Keach is better than Milton

[Enjoying how scandalized I am by my own title]

I've had a roller-coaster relationship with Paradise Lost, going from intimidation to love to uneasiness (if you want to talk about the "living" quality of the Great Books, there you go). With Spenser done, my Renaissance class is going through Milton, and this fourth encounter with the poem has confirmed the wariness of my last experience by highlighting all the theological shenanigans taking place. I have two factors to thank for this: the astute insight of my professor and the inevitable comparisons that arise in my ongoing work with Keach's counterpart, The Glorious Lover.

What has struck me most forcefully in recent days is the parallelism between the two poems' depiction of the Divine Council (PL III and GL I.1) between the Father and the Son concerning the salvation of humanity. Both poets choose to depict the members of the Godhead as actual characters, which I find to be a daring move. This is perhaps less so with Milton, who is known for being...adventurous...in his theology, maintaining several pet heterodoxies (Arianism and Arminianism, to name a few); Keach, however, was a card-carrying Calvinist, and one of the tenets of Reformed theology in the seventeenth century was its rejection of (usually visual) representations of God, on the grounds of the second commandment. For context, when Keach's contemporary, Bunyan, desires a divine presence in his work, he restricts himself to personifying functions of God, i.e. the Interpreter, who represents the illuminating work of the Holy Spirit in the soul of man. So for Keach to follow Milton by including God Himself in the pages of his fictional - albeit allegorically didactic - poem is without any precedent that I am aware of in such theologically-conservative circles.

However, this is where the similarities between the two poems come to an end. I'll admit, the first time I read Paradise Lost, I fell in love with the passage where the Son volunteers to redeem mankind; Milton is clearly showcasing his skill for conjuring pathos from his readers. Despite the moment's artistic heights, a close reading of the scene presents several issues. [This would probably be better if I included the two texts side-by-side, but as I have neither the technical skills nor the space for such a thing, any curious reader will have to find them for him/herself.]

• Pervasive within Milton's text is a rejection of the doctrine of Predestination, which, while it comes as no surprise, raises a great number of questions concerning the logic of Milton's depiction of God (as demonstrated by the general angst of my classmates this morning): How does His simple foreknowledge of the events to come "absolve" Him from claims that He violates the will of mankind or the inevitability of the Fall? Milton falls into the trap of equating untouched human will with legitimate freedom.
• His explanation for God's motive for showing mercy to mankind is bizarre. The fallen angels will remain in their doomed state because they knowingly brought this on themselves. Man, however, because he was deceived by Satan, remains eligible for grace from God. Milton undermines both mankind's responsibility for the Fall and also the orthodox understanding of mercy as something utterly undeserved.
• Perhaps the most glaring departure from the biblical framework, Milton's council includes the entire angelic population of Heaven; they too are given the opportunity to redeem mankind, but none of them are willing to take the challenge (thus the famous "all the heavenly choir stood mute,/And silence was in heaven" ll. 217-218). Angels were never qualified to be mediators between God and man; redemption could only be accomplished by a representative of both parties. Furthermore, this open-ended offer turns the plan of redemption into a reactionary decision on God's part: Satan has caused a problem that God now has to fix.

So much for Milton. This is getting long, and other homework awaits, so Keach will have to wait another day.

Devotion and theology

Iain Murray on Martyn Lloyd-Jones' ministry during the Blitz:

"In these, and other sermons, his call to Christians was to think aright about God. That must come first. Not even prayer is to be put before it: 'We talk far too much about our faith, and about our prayers. If we only concentrated upon the power of God.' His concern was that his hearers should not simply derive comfort from passages of Scripture but that they should think theologically. This point is constantly to the fore. In his sermons on 'Paul's Order of the Day' he demonstrates that Christian resolution is a very different thing from what the world calls 'courage,' it arises rather from knowing 'the faith'. Speaking from the words, 'Watch ye, stand fast in the faith, quit you like men, be strong' (1 Cor. 16:13), he said:

We must stand in this faith by reminding ourselves of it constantly, by reading and bunking about it, by meditating concerning it. This is something for which I would plead at the present time. We must return to a consideration of the terms of the faith. This is specifically necessary, perhaps, for those who are Evangelicals. I plead, in other words, for a revival of the study of theology...It is not enough to cultivate the devotional life.  

It is essential to 'stand fast in the faith' when we are assailed by doubt. And it is essential as against feelings. If we trust to our feelings, and to our moods, the time will come when we shall be feeling miserable. We shall wake up in the morning feeling tired and lethargic, and the question will come to us, Why go on with it? I do not feel like going on with it. There is only one answer when you feel like that. It is the faith, the truth - it is our only means of happiness. It is essential also as against the facts of life. There come 'the slings and arrows of outrageous fortune', illness comes, disappointment comes, difficult circumstances arise, a world war takes place, our profession is lost, our business is gone, sorrow knocks at the door of your home, and someone dearer than life is taken away, death comes, either in battle, or on the sea, or in the air, or quietly in a room. How can I face the facts of life? There is but one way. 'Stand fast in the faith.' It has envisioned all these things. It has provided for them all; it covers them all. It is faith for life. It is faith for death. It is the faith for all eternity. 'Stand fast in the faith'."

 (D.M. Lloyd-Jones: The Fight of Faith, 30)

Interrupting all the early modernism

I don't know if I ever thought I'd get to the place in life where Jane Austen is modern literature to me, but here I am. My JA class is currently reading Mansfield Park, which I have always hated. In fact, I'm pretty sure I've mentioned my impatience for the inane love triangle here at some point in the mists of ancient blog history. Anyway, whilst reading it today, I came across this lovely moment, and I almost liked Fanny and Edmund. There's a double pastoralism undergirding the scene: Edmund and Fanny have just defended the ministerial life to Mary Crawford, and the setting is a starry summer evening in the country. I don't think I'll ever be able to overlook Fanny's high-maintenance (on display yet again here), but the circumstances made me able to simply laugh at it.

Fanny agreed to it, and had the pleasure of seeing him continue at the window with her, in spite of the expected glee; and of having his eyes soon turned, like hers, towards the scene without, where all that was solemn, and soothing, and lovely, appeared in the brilliancy of an unclouded night, and the contrast of the deep shade of the woods. Fanny spoke her feelings. “Here’s harmony!” said she; “here’s repose! Here’s what may leave all painting and all music behind, and what poetry only can attempt to describe! Here’s what may tranquillise every care, and lift the heart to rapture! When I look out on such a night as this, I feel as if there could be neither wickedness nor sorrow in the world; and there certainly would be less of both if the sublimity of Nature were more attended to, and people were carried more out of themselves by contemplating such a scene.”

“I like to hear your enthusiasm, Fanny. It is a lovely night, and they are much to be pitied who have not been taught to feel, in some degree, as you do; who have not, at least, been given a taste for Nature in early life. They lose a great deal.”

“You taught me to think and feel on the subject, cousin.”

“I had a very apt scholar. There’s Arcturus looking very bright.”

“Yes, and the Bear. I wish I could see Cassiopeia.”

“We must go out on the lawn for that. Should you be afraid?”

“Not in the least. It is a great while since we have had any star-gazing.”

 (ch. 11) 

The Great Exchange

From an artistic standpoint, this passage has a tough crowd following all the Spenser quotes I've been leaving here recently. But the sentiment struck me, and it's been a while since Keach had airtime, so there you go. His Glorious Lover is a fascinating poem, and very much a product of his century (romance/epic hybrid allegorizing theological - and occasionally political - concerns). It follows the Reformed tradition of reading the Song of Solomon/Psalm 45 as types of Christ and the Church. So although it's a little clunky, I've enjoyed reading it.

But here, ‘tis like, some may desire to know

The Cause why he abas’d himself so low?

The Answer to which Query’s very plain;

His Errand so requir’d, if he'd obtain

The Soul, for whom his Country he did leave,

He of his Glory must himself bereave.

‘Twas Love that brought him into this disguise,

To come incognito to haughty Eyes,

To lay aside awhile, his Robes of State,

And thus in Pilgrims Weeds upon her wait:

Without this Form assum’d, these Rags put on,

The mighty Work could never have been done.

She grov’ling lay below, unable quite

Once to aspire unto his Glorious Sight.

Therefore must he a Garb suitable take

To raise her up, and his dear Consort make;

He must descend, that she might mount above,

And joyn in a fit Entercourse of Love.

(The Glorious Lover I.ii.136-153)

Sabbath rest

When I bethinke me on that speech whyleare,
Of Mutability, and well it way:
Me seemes, that though she all vnworthy were
Of the Heav'ns Rule ; yet very sooth to say,
In all things else she beares the greatest sway.
Which makes me loath this state of life so tickle,
And loue of things so vaine to cast away;
Whose flowring pride, so fading and so fickle,
Short Time shall soon cut down with his consuming sickle.

Then gin I thinke on that which Nature sayd,
Of that same time when no more Change shall be,
But stedfast rest of all things firmely stayd
Vpon the pillours of Eternity,
That is contrayr to Mutabilitie:
For, all that moueth, doth in Change delight:
But thence-forth all shall rest eternally
With Him that is the God of Sabbaoth hight:
O thou great Sabbaoth God, graunt me that Sabaoths sight.

(Faerie Queene, Mutability Canto VIII)

"There remains a Sabbath rest for the people of God. For the one who has entered His rest has himself also rested from his works, as God did from His. Therefore let us be diligent to enter that rest, so that no one will fall, through following the same example of disobedience. For the word of God is living and active and sharper than any two-edged sword, and piercing as far as the division of soul and spirit, of both joints and marrow, and able to judge the thoughts and intentions of the heart. And there is no creature hidden from His sight, but all things are open and laid bare to the eyes of Him with whom we have to do.

Therefore, since we have a great high priest who has passed through the heavens, Jesus the Son of God, let us hold fast our confession. For we do not have a high priest who cannot sympathize with our weaknesses, but One who has been tempted in all things as we are, yet without sin. Therefore let us draw near with confidence to the throne of grace, so that we may receive mercy and find grace to help in time of need."

(Hebrews 4.9-16)

God's kindness

             If thy first glance so powerfull be,
A mirth but open’d and seal’d up again;
What wonders shall we feel, when we shall see
                                  Thy full-ey’d love!
             When thou shalt look us out of pain,
And one aspect of thine spend in delight
More then a thousand sunnes dispurse in light,
                                  In heav'n above.

(from "The Glimpse" by George Herbert)

I've long been of the opinion that the most vivid lessons we learn in life are those resulting from hardship. Something about the pain searing the newfound wisdom into your memory. Not going to argue against this position, because the proof of it has happened over and over again in my life.

What has surprised me, though, has been how powerful its counterpart can also be - extraordinary blessing. I created what seems to be a false dichotomy in my head, with trials stimulating growth and comfort breeding complacency. Having grown up in the church and never remembering a single, earth-shattering moment of conversion, I've always wondered what that utterly-new, overwhelming sense of God's grace must feel like. I probably always will. Instead, I have the opportunity to find echoes of it in the various cycles of sin and forgiveness, doubt and grace, in my experience of the Christian life.

Lately, I have been overwhelmed with the kindness of God. I purposefully don't say "goodness," because God is good in and of Himself; He would be so even if He never did a single "nice" thing for me. Kindness, though - this is an attribute connected to relationships. In the very issues for which I have given Him the most crap in my life, the things in which I've doubted His inherent goodness, in which I have sinned against Him greatly, He has blessed me with outcomes that surpass my initial desires. I can't wrap my mind around this: I treat Him horribly for withholding things I want (not need), and He gives me better versions of them. It is lavish mercy. Instead of chastisement, He responds with transcendent blessing. He returns evil with good, sin with grace, unbelief with love. What kind of Being is this?

I hate overly-saccharine writing, but every once in a while, you have to praise God in public. So that's that.

On idolatry

For all afore that seemed fayre and bright,
  Now base and contemptible did appeare,
  Compar'd to her, that shone as Phebes light,
  Amongst the lesser starres in euening cleare.
  All that her saw with wonder rauisht weare,
  And weend no mortall creature she should bee,
  But some celestiall shape, that flesh did beare:
  Yet all were glad there Florimell to see;
Yet thought that Florimell was not so faire as shee.

As guilefull Goldsmith that by secret skill,
  With golden foyle doth finely ouer spred
  Some baser metall, which commend he will
  Vnto the vulgar for good gold insted,
  He much more goodly glosse thereon doth shed,
  To hide his falshood, then if it were trew:
  So hard, this Idole was to be ared,
  That Florimell her selfe in all mens vew
She seem'd to passe: so forged things do fairest shew.

(Faerie Queene, IV.v.14-15)

On the frontier

Cole's Course of an Empire: Desolation

But let that man with better sence aduize,
   That of the world least part to vs is red:
   And dayly how through hardy enterprize,
   Many great Regions are discouered,
   Which to late age were neuer mentioned.
   Who euer heard of th'Indian Peru?
   Or who in venturous vessell measured
   The Amazon huge riuer now found trew?
Or fruitfullest Virginia who did euer vew?

Yet all these were, when no man did them know;
   Yet haue from wisest ages hidden beene:
   And later times things more vnknowne shall show.
   Why then should witlesse man so much misweene
   That nothing is, but that which he hath seene?
   What if within the Moones faire shining spheare?
   What if in euery other starre vnseene
   Of other worldes he happily should heare?
He wo[n]der would much more: yet such to some appeare.

(Edmund Spenser, The Faerie Queene, proem to Book 2)

Up until a few years ago, I never considered myself to be particularly interested in space movies. I think it had something to do with the geekiness associated with Trekkies and the cult surrounding Luke Skywalker. However, things changed when I was in college and went to see Interstellar in the theater (maybe I shouldn't be proud to admit this, but I think I saw it 3 or 4 times...I was obsessed). One of the reasons I enjoyed the film that much was because it shares several themes in common with Renaissance literature (one scene is extremely Dantean, when astronauts surmise that the universe is held together by a cosmic love; think the ending of Paradiso, when Dante discovers in God "the love that moves the sun and other stars").

The most significant shared motif between these two eras/genres is the sense of frontier. It's easy to look back at our ancestors in indulgent condescension, chuckling over their awe of the "New World." Those maps are cute. We today, though, with our satellites and vaccines and computers, have taken control over the earth; we've lost that sense of mystery. However, I don't think this is entirely the case, even in light of all the advances we've made. We've simply shifted our frontier to space; Mars and the Moon have become our New World.

The Utopian literature of the Renaissance often situates these made-up civilizations in the neighborhood of the Americas; modern science fiction loves to toy with the possibility of further-developed societies in different galaxies. The angst felt by the early explorers concerning all the unknowns surrounding the Atlantic Passage, "savage" indigenous peoples, and basic survival in an unknown land is echoed in films like The Martian (although isolation rather than hostile natives is the focus of the plot). The romance, fantasy, and adventure that gave rise to quests for the Fountain of Youth, traces of Atlantis, or the city of Cibola carry through into the sometimes-bizarre worlds featured in Star Wars.

Perhaps the most poignant parallel is the shared sense of loss and sacrifice. Leaving the East for the West, most early-modern migrants never hoped to see their homes and families again. Interstellar, with all the relativity and quantum theory that went completely over my head, brought this home to me. The closest thing to it is death (insert all the cliches about it being the last taboo/frontier/etc here). There is a familiarity with loss and mortality in Renaissance literature that I think can be a little off-putting to modern-day readers, coming across as morbid. I don't mind it, though. Perhaps we need our illusion of invincibility shattered, and the Universe around us is more than able to do the job. It's a reminder of our limits, of our humanity, of our dependence on a higher power than ourselves.

Amoretti LXVIII

Reading Spenser's Faerie Queene this semester, and wanted to branch out a bit on the side. His sonnet cycle, Amoretti, is not considered one of the masterpieces of English love poetry, but I've enjoyed what I've come across thus far. This one especially. I love that he bases their love in the Resurrection of Christ. Reminds me of Dante and Donne.

Most glorious Lord of life, that on this day, 

Didst make thy triumph over death and sin: 

And having harrow'd hell, didst bring away 

Captivity thence captive, us to win: 

This joyous day, dear Lord, with joy begin, 

And grant that we for whom thou diddest die, 

Being with thy dear blood clean wash'd from sin, 

May live for ever in felicity. 

And that thy love we weighing worthily, 

May likewise love thee for the same again: 

And for thy sake, that all like dear didst buy, 

With love may one another entertain. 

So let us love, dear love, like as we ought, 

Love is the lesson which the Lord us taught.

The lovely thing about Spenser's cycle is that, unlike Dante in particular, his love becomes attainable. It's a unique choice in the context of courtly love & Petrarch, in which the object of love was always something that remained at a distance, ending in sadness. But Spenser is writing about his wife. I like to think we have Protestantism to thank for this - the relationship between mankind and God became much more personal in the wake of Lutheran and Reformed theology.

I have no other evidence to back this up

Never occurred to me that Paul might have gotten his inspiration from the Psalms.

Psalm 18.30-36:
As for God, His way is blameless;
The word of the Lord is tried;
He is a shield to all who take refuge in Him.
For who is God, but the Lord?
And who is a rock, except our God,
The God who girds me with strength
And makes my way blameless?
He makes my feet like hinds’ feet,
And sets me upon my high places.
He trains my hands for battle,
So that my arms can bend a bow of bronze.
You have also given me the shield of Your salvation,
And Your right hand upholds me;
And Your gentleness makes me great.
You enlarge my steps under me,
And my feet have not slipped.

Ephesians 6.10-17:
Finally, be strong in the Lord and in the strength of His might. Put on the full armor of God, so that you will be able to stand firm against the schemes of the devil. For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the powers, against the world forces of this darkness, against the spiritual forces of wickedness in the heavenly places. Therefore, take up the full armor of God, so that you will be able to resist in the evil day, and having done everything, to stand firm. Stand firm therefore, having girded your loins with truth, and having put on the breastplate of righteousness, and having shod your feet with the preparation of the gospel of peace; in addition to all, taking up the shield of faith with which you will be able to extinguish all the flaming arrows of the evil one. And take the helmet of salvation, and the sword of the Spirit, which is the word of God.