Archaic Torso of Christ

A torso of Apollo

This morning in worship, probably because George Fox’s experience of Christianity was in the back of my mind, I remembered Rilke‘s poem, “Archaic Torso of Apollo,” and thought to let it speak of Christianity. (No, I don’t imagine that was Rilke’s intent; and yes, I am aware that “during meeting for worship thou shouldst not have been thinking.“)

The poem is widely available on line, mostly as copyright violation, but here is a page on Google Books that offers a literal translation along with the popular translation by Stephen Mitchell (for which you may need to scroll down).

Christianity. The church. The body of Christ. What is it now, what was it when George Fox knew it, but an archaic torso? An ancient, broken, rigid trunk from which the head has long been separated, from which the limbs that would do the work of love in the world have broken away?

But what if, despite that, we choose to encounter it, to let it engage us? What if we stand in silence before it and, as it were, look upon it “generously“?

Apollo with halo

We cannot see the head, Christ, through whose eyes shone light to enlighten every one; Christianity broke itself off from his headship long ago. But he was also, and is, the heart, still living in that broken body, a heart of heavenly flesh in a body of worldly stone. And his light, although dim as a candelabrum on a high altar, still burns in that occult sanctuary, such that this headless body can some­how still dazzle us with its creative life, awe us with its fierce beauty, gleam divine light from its dismembered form.

For from that archaic, broken, truncated stony form still emanates the light of Christ. It illumines us, penetrates us, searches us, enlightens us. With ruthless mercy it shows us ourselves as we are, offering the ultimate kindness, the judgment of love: “You must change your life.”

Friendly Paralogy

Yesterday’s post gave me unusual difficulty. I’m aware that my thinking in it, especially with regard to use of terms, is fuzzier than usual. What I’m trying to get to, through a paralogical (see link below), thinking-in-print kind of process, is the expression, in various models if need be, of what our situation looks like when we find ourselves and our world being deconstructed by internal contra­dictions, and of what the primitive Quaker tradition has to say to us about passing through that experience to a state of wholeness, peace, and spiritual power.

The writings of leading early Friends do speak to us in detail about that, but they speak in biblical terms, terms that put off many modern liberal Quakers. Yet those terms harbor an “event,” to borrow John D. Caputo’s words (from The Weakness of God: A Theology of the Event), a living reality of practical love that calls to us with a silent but urgent voice. In postmodern paralogy, says Lois Shawver, we practice “generous listening” by trying to “step inside the speaker’s vocabulary.” Doing so as we read the primitive Quaker texts can open our minds and hearts to the transmission of that living reality from the first Friends.

Facilitating that process is one of my goals in writing. Sometimes, as when an epistle by George Fox lends itself readily to adaptation into more contem­porary terms, the goal seems attainable; at other times, such as while struggling with the previous post, I take comfort in knowing that others are doing the job more capably. I also hope for some discussion here in the future, some active Quaker paralogy to help the process along.