Don Williams’ Blog

Don September 9th, 2009

LXXVII Wordsworth wrote an endless poem in blank verse on” the growth of a poet’s mind.”  I shall attempt a more modest feat for a more distracted age: a blog, “Things which a Lifetime of Trying to Be a Poet has Taught Me.”  

I think I must have been glad to be back in Northeast Georgia near the mountains, especially with Fall coming on.  (Those who have been paying attention to my complaints about the pitiful lack of Spring and Fall in the upper Midwest will recognize the deft use of understatement in that remark.)

 The Southern Appalachians:  Commentary, 1 Cor. 13:12 

The Southern Appalachians

In their Autumn glory dressed

Are all the beauty we can bear

Or in which we can rest.

The mighty hills of Heaven,

With their oppressive weight,

Would crush out spirits into dust

Seen in our present state.

But when they burst upon us

In sudden majesty,

We will be given souls to match

And purer eyes to see.

Donald T. Williams, PhD

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Don September 3rd, 2009

LXXIV 

Wordsworth wrote an endless poem in blank verse on” the growth of a poet’s mind.”  I shall attempt a more modest feat for a more distracted age: a blog, “Things which a Lifetime of Trying to Be a Poet has Taught Me.”

Narrative poetry has all but disappeared from the modern world.  The closest thing we have to it is the dramatic monolog, done to perfection by Robert Browning.  It seems a sneaky place to start in reintroducing what was once an honored genre. 

SOLILOQUY

I was never before a man of many words.

What I had to say could be expressed

In curses mumbled at the wayward herds

Or loudly shouted at the boys from town.

The buyers of mutton might just be addressed

Not much more civilly, as up and down

We haggled over whether I wold die

Of hunger or live yet another year.

The sky at night was simply the night sky,

A thing to be ignored.  I knew to fear

Then only hunger and the hungry wolf.

I’ve learned a lot since those days of both fear

And hunger, and had more of both than ever.

There was no moon that night, and yet the stars

Shone with a light the like of which I’d never

Seen before.  Not since I was a child

Had I taken notice of the way their light

On a clear, frosty night, out in the wild,

Can fill you up with hunger–no, with fright–

Well, something else that’s both, and yet is neither.

They’d seemed then like a thousand eyes, whose sight

Could see clean through a man and leave no secrets.

Their piercing gaze had never bored as deep

As it did on that night.  They seemed so near!

I told myself it was just lack of sleep,

That they could not be really getting closer.

But as I tried to explain that to the sheep,

The endless blackness which is seen to lie

Between the stars to keep them separate

Was in a moment squeezed out of the sky,

And I was knocked flat on m y face by light

That thundered like the sea–or by a choir

Of voices that shone brighter than the sun,

And burnt me to the bone with searing fire.

I’d always joked that when Messiah came

I’d ask him what he meant to do about

The price of sheep.  If that was not his game,

I’d know he was a Christ of no concern

To me.  But I was in no way prepared

For angels, with their messages that burn

Behind them after they are gone, and drive

You down the dark, deserted roads at night

To see a baby lying in the hay.

Still less was I prepared for such a sight

As that was.  Yes, he had to do with sheep

Alright (the Lamb of God the prophets called him!),

And with their price.  The one he paid was steep:

It was himself, and I purchased the sheep.

Of course, I didn’t find that out ‘til later.

That night I only knew I was afraid,

And hungry for I knew not what.  But listen!

I’ve seen forty summers bloom and fade

Since then, and I would rather know that fear

Than all the ease that Caesar now enjoys

In his bright palace.  Soon–perhaps this year–

I go to join my fathers, hungry still

With an eternal hunger.  But the bread

I found that night in Bethlehem will fill

Me then as earthly meat has not.  I am

Invited to the Supper of the Lamb!

Donald T. Williams, PhD

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Don September 2nd, 2009

Leland Ryken, The Word of God in English: Criteria of Excellence in Bible Translation.  Wheaton:  Crossway, 2002, 336 pp., pb., $16.00.   This is a book that every reader, teacher, or preacher of the English Bible needs to read.  Leland Ryken, chair of the English department at Wheaton and a prolific writer on both literary and biblical topics, challenges the direction in which Eugene Nida’s “dynamic equivalence” theory of translation has taken modern translations, charging that they have robbed God’s revealed Word of much of its power and authority.  Ryken argues that one cannot take a book written for intelligent adults and limit it to a sixth-grade reading level without misrepresenting its content and its very nature.  He demonstrates the strong tendency of many modern translations to substitute abstractions for the concrete imagery of the original text, to substitute explanations for the figurative language of the original text, and to eliminate the technical theological vocabulary which the original authors of the text chose to use.  Thus they offer their helpless English readers a text that has been predigested, a text that has already been preemptively interpreted for them without their awareness or consent. 

Dynamic equivalence begins from the truth that idioms differ from one language to the next, so that a “literal” translation does not always make sense.  Therefore one tries to find the structure in the receptor language that would have an equivalent effect to the one used in the original text.  Such an approach is, at least at points, unavoidable.  But Ryken shows that, when combined with the anti-intellectualism and evangelistic pragmatism of contemporary Evangelicalism, this theory has been the excuse for a confusing and bland array of renderings that give us a very different Bible from the one God actually inspired, which was a concrete text full of poetry and mystery and not bashful about making demands upon its readers.  He raises the question how Evangelicals can continue to hold to plenary verbal inspiration as opposed to “thought” inspiration, and yet tolerate an array of translations that do not feel obligated to convey anything more than what their scholars take to be the “thoughts” of the biblical writers, ignoring the forms by which the writers chose to convey those thoughts.  This, he convincingly argues, robs the text of its power and beauty and robs its readers of the opportunity to interpret it for themselves. 

Of Ryken’s many excellent books, this one may be the best, presenting passionate and lucid argument on a topic whose importance cannot be overemphasized.  He supports his contentions with an array of quotations comparing “essentially literal” translations such as KJV, RSV, NASB, and ESV with their dynamic equivalent counterparts such as LB, NLT, CEV, NIV, and TNIV.  The unity and faithfulness of the one tradition versus the variety and sometimes even capriciousness of the other becomes starkly apparent in cumulative effect, lending credence to Ryken’s claim that dynamic equivalence as actually practiced by contemporary versions has “destabilized the text” as well as confused translation with interpretation.  If Ryken is right, the translation we use for preaching and teaching is not a matter of indifference, for it will have a great influence on how and what we teach.  All who care about the Word and who want to read it accurately will want to wrestle with this book.   Donald T. Williams, Toccoa Falls College

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Don August 31st, 2009

LXXIII Wordsworth wrote an endless poem in blank verse on” the growth of a poet’s mind.”  I shall attempt a more modest feat for a more distracted age: a blog, “Things which a Lifetime of Trying to Be a Poet has Taught Me.” 

            Poetry consistently pursued has a way of marking the passages of life.  For the writer at least, and maybe to a lesser extent for his public if he is any kind of a communicator, it leaves a psychological record: what he was reading, where he was hiking, what it was all doing in his head.  The next poem marks a far more significant event than most, though unfortunately it does not necessarily follow that it is a more significant poem.  My daughter, Heather, was born on April 5, 1978.

A METAPHYSICAL CONCEIT

Strange things are taught by Christianity:

That God was born to live a human life;

The mystery of the Holy Trinity

Reflected by a husband and his wife

When, by becoming one, two are made three.

It is an awesome thing to slowly see

The growth of one whose coming was prepared,

The Scriptures say, from all eternity—

This, as all others.  But this one we’ve shared,

Yes and will share:  the holy mystery

To be a copy of the Trinity.

Donald T. Williams, PhD

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Don August 29th, 2009

LXXII

Wordsworth wrote an endless poem in blank verse on” the growth of a poet’s mind.”  I shall attempt a more modest feat for a more distracted age: a blog, “Things which a Lifetime of Trying to Be a Poet has Taught Me.”

            This is in some ways my most ambitious mini sonnet sequence yet—only three sonnets, but they are packed with theological and metaphysical content.  I think I must have been studying the English metaphysical poets about this time: Done, Herbert, Vaughan.  I try to capture some of their compact richness and profundity, but adjusted for a more modern sensibility, or at least set of questions, so that it does not become a mere pastiche.  See how well you think I succeeded.

THE WORD:  Sonnets XXIII-XXV 

Epigraph

And the light shone in darkness and

Against the Word the unstilled world still whirled

About the center of the silent Word.

T. S. Eliot, “Ash Wednesday”

          The void gulped down, but could not hold, the Word.

                                                The formless dark was shattered in a bright

                                                Explosion, flinging out across the night

           A dancing host.  As in a flock, each bird,

           In answer to the music that is heard,

                                                Wheels in unison across the height

                                                Of heaven, one. Though many, in their flight,

          Around the central Singer stars now whirred.

                                  Giving voice to the unspoken Name

                                                That held them with strong bonds of pure desire,

           Burning with reflected, holy flame,

                                                They showed forth the unseen, sustaining Fire.

          And still they sing.  The Center which surrounds

          All circles still supplies their burning sounds.

          His life lit up the world while yet the sun

                                                Was but an idea in her Maker’s mind.

                                                Yet Lucifer the mighty looked upon

                                                His glory greedily and was struck blind,

          Inventing darkness of a different kind

                                                From what had been before.  ‘Til then, the night

                                                Had been left to contrast with that which shined,

                                                In pleasant patters setting off the light

          Which lit each angel’s eyes and gave him sight.

                                                But now, light twisted into what was not,

                                                Swirled in perverse patterns, moved by spite,

                                                Was proclaimed as new vision in a plot

          To unseat God himself.  The flaming Word

                                                Could not be quenched, but seeing eyes were blurred

          And self-willed pits of sightless blackness yawned

                                                Inside the minds of some.  They screamed and fell

                                                Into themselves, pursuing a light that dawned

                                                Outside the Son—but all they found was Hell:

          The self, clenched shut against the light, a shell

                                                Of utter loneliness where once had burned

                                                The singing Fire, the holy Flame, the Well

                                                Of light reflected each to each, returned

          To Him who gave, received again, unearned,

                                                The gift: light which was love, love which was life.

                                                All this was what the falling angels spurned

                                                Because it was not of themselves.  The strife

          Which they began comes back to haunt mankind,

                                                Which, likewise seeking Sonless light, is blind.

 Epilog 

The Word in unchanged harmony still burns

At the world’s heart.  Around it slowly turns

A universe of self-inflicted pain.

Against our orbits, futilely, we strain

In grinding discord.  For the blind depraved

There’s no escape but to be damned or saved.

Donald T. Williams, PhD

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Don August 28th, 2009

LXXI

  Wordsworth wrote an endless poem in blank verse on” the growth of a poet’s mind.”  I shall attempt a more modest feat for a more distracted age: a blog, “Things which a Lifetime of Trying to Be a Poet has Taught Me.”  

            Why did I go from seminary studying theology to graduate study in English literature?  It is a question I am often asked.  There are many good answers.  One is that Theology is the queen of the sciences, and Philology, even more than Philosophy, is her chief handmaiden.  Another is the sheer wonder of what Christians believe.  Take the reality of Christ’s Person, for example.  How would a theologian limited to mere prose try to capture it?  I have seen the results, abstract and dry, too often.  The problem is not just that they are incomprehensible; they manage to be incomprehensible without conveying any compensating sense of the beauty and mystery surrounding this most glorious of truths.  Here’s my way of doing it (published in Christianity Today, 17 October 1979).

  TO CHRIST OUR LORDSonnet XXII  

Thrice holy, three times spoken, meant, and heard

By one Voice speaking once, once only hearing,

One only multifold, all-meaning Word

From out of time, in time and flesh appearing;

Separate, though inseparably one,

Thou who art not the Father, yet art God,

Thou who art Son of Man, yet no man’s son;

Root of Jesse, Rock of Ages, Rod

Of Aaron blossoming in barren soil

Whose petals blades are of a burning sword

That strikes its deep wounds full of healing oil;

Servant of all and universal Lord:

With literal metaphors, we stumbling seek

To praise Thee, strong Firstborn of all who speak.

Donald T. Williams, PhD

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Don August 20th, 2009

 REVIEW:

“The Passion of the Christ”

Directed by Mel Gibson

This review appeared on ChronWatch, March 26, 2005. URL is http://www.chronwatch.com/content/contentDisplay.asp?aid=13698; rpt. in Free Republic, March 27, 2005, http://www.freerepublic.com/focus/f-news/1371955/posts.

“I did not come to bring peace, but a sword.” – Jesus of Nazareth

            It is one of the chief ironies of history that the person who taught us to turn the other cheek and to return good for evil has been one of the most divisive characters we have ever seen.  That he remains so to this day is clearly shown by many of the reactions to Mel Gibson’s controversial portrait of his suffering and death, “The Passion of the Christ,” recently released on DVD.  Apart from the polarizing impact of the person of Christ himself, it is hard to understand the intensity of those reactions, both positive and negative. It is especially hard to understand the attacks on Gibson and on the film, and the passion with which they have been pursued.

            The two main raps against the movie are that it is anti-semitic and that it presents a skewed and unbalanced portrait of Christ marked by gratuitous violence.  It requires an astounding level of inattention both to the story and to Gibson’s treatment of it to maintain either thesis.  The outcry on both points has to be explained by something other than the merits or even plausibility of the complaints themselves.

            The film is allegedly anti-Semitic because it shows Jewish religious leaders finagling, and a mob of the Jewish people clamoring, for the execution of an innocent man.  One wonders how this particular bit of history is to be portrayed at all apart from the recognition that this was exactly what happened.  The incident in fact took place in the first-century Roman province of Judea.  Who else was there to do these things?   

Only the regrettable history of persecution of Jews by so-called Christians taking advantage of these facts can explain the level of denial in those elements of the Jewish community who object to any recognition of what actually happened.  It is almost like a kind of reverse Holocaust Denial.  For in the film as in the Gospels, Jews are portrayed as both good and evil.  Gibson even goes out of his way to emphasize this balanced portrait.  Bracketing Jesus himself (a Jew) for the moment, the most admired people in the film are Mary and Mary Magdalene (Jews).  And Gibson adds to the Gospel accounts a scene in which Simon of Cyrene (a Jew) risks his own life to take a stand against the cruelty of the Roman soldiers on the Via Dolorosa.  The most selfless act of nobility in the film aside from the passion itself comes from . . . a Jew.  And the most despicable characters in the film are surely neither Caiaphas the devotee of realpolitik, nor the clueless mob, but rather the Roman soldiers below the rank of centurion who enjoy the brutality of their job for its own sake.

            The film itself simply refuses to cooperate with the theory that it is anti-semitic.  And Gibson’s own statements in interviews have been equally telling. Asked point-blank by Diane Sawyer who killed Christ, Gibson’s reply—delivered with apparently spontaneous and heartfelt emotion—was, “I did.”  We all did.  It was our sins.  And he joined a long confessional tradition in Christian art of expressing that sentiment that goes back to Michelangelo and Rembrandt, who portrayed themselves participating in the crucifixion, when his own hand was shown driving the nail.  One finally gets the impression that it does not matter what Gibson says or what he puts in his movie.  Certain people are going to use it as an excuse to advance their own agenda regardless of what the evidence shows. 

Christians must realize that their own history of persecuting the Jewish community is partly to blame for helping to create the blind emotions that now seem to some Jews to justify this reverse Holocaust Denial.  And for this, Christians must be profoundly sorry.  But that history does not excuse the character assassination to which Gibson has been subject on this issue.   Nor does it excuse a refusal to deal with facts, the facts about Gibson’s film or the full facts about Christian history. Not all Christians can validly be implicated in the truly evil actions of some of their ancestors.  Nor can those ancestors be fairly portrayed as ever having been legitimately speaking for the Christian faith.  It is quite true that the Jews in the mob asked for Jesus’ blood to be held against them and their descendants.  It is also true that those Jews did not have the last word on the subject.  The last word on that subject belongs to Christ himself:  “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”  Anyone who claims Jesus as Lord must adopt the same attitude on the subject of Jewish guilt for the crucifixion that He did.  And no one who does not adopt that attitude can claim to be speaking for Christ, no matter what ecclesiastical organization he represents. 

The second criticism tends to come from liberal Christians in mainline denominations:  that Gibson presents a skewed and unbalanced portrait of Christ marked by gratuitous violence and thus perpetuates a naïve and unsophisticated view of Christian faith.  This criticism has a bit more credibility than the charge of anti-semitism, for the film does indeed immerse us relentlessly in the full brutality of a Roman crucifixion.  It is at times hard to watch, even for people raised on the graphic violence of much modern cinema.  But this criticism also ultimately fails to convince, mainly because again of its inattention to the actual details of the film itself.  It breaks the most basic rule of interpretation, which was given to us by Alexander Pope long ago:  “A perfect judge will read each work of wit / In that same spirit that its author writ.”   For this movie does not attempt nor claim to attempt a balanced portrait of the life of Christ.  It is not about the life of Christ; it is about his passion, his sacrificial death to atone for human sin.  Its stated purpose in Gibson’s own words is to reveal to us the “enormity” of that sacrifice.  These critics are guilty of one of the worst and most common sins of critics, whether of movies or of books.  They say nothing about how well the work succeeds at what it is trying to do, which they have never bothered to try to understand, but rather criticize it for not being the treatment they would have preferred to attempt.  It is no valid criticism to say that an artist or a work of art fails at doing something which was never its purpose in the first place.

Only two questions are really pertinent:  is the work’s purpose worth attempting, and, if so, does it do a good job of achieving it?  For Christian believers, gaining a deeper understanding of the enormity of Christ’s sacrifice on their behalf is central to their very concept of the purpose of life.  And even for non-Christians, being given an opportunity to understand what lies at the emotional heart of so many people’s faith can hardly be considered an unworthy goal. 

Gibson’s purpose, then, is a worthy one.  Does he succeed at it?  I think that, for most people who are open to that purpose, the answer is a resounding yes.  There is room for some discussion about the issue of gratuitous violence, not from those who have ruled out blood sacrifice in advance as being potentially relevant to Christian faith through a kind of theological question-begging, but from those who are willing to admit the necessity of some accurate presentation of the cruelty of Jesus’ death as essential to Gibson’s purpose.  For some, the film may present more reality than they can bear.  The question of whether the film might have benefited from some application of the “less is more” principle is worth pursuing.  But ultimately I think we will have to conclude that the violence is not gratuitous per se.  Even in the most controversial scene, the flogging, the camera often pulls back from the actual blows to record the reactions of those standing around.  The film audience is protected, as the actual audience was not, from the full reality.  But we definitely get enough of it to get the point.

And what is the point that we get?  I think it is often exactly the one Gibson wanted us to get.  This film is about Jesus’ passion–and it is about how that passion relates to us.  Jim Caviezel is the first actor ever to convince me that Christ might actually have looked—and behaved—like he does.  And I have yet to meet anyone who came out of the film hating Jews.  The most common reactions I have heard are either utter bewilderment or, more often, a profound emotional bonding with the character of Christ.  “Oh!  He did that for me?  How can I not love him?”

Others can talk about Gibson’s masterful use of cinematic technique.  My purpose here has mainly been to remove the stumbling blocks which unsympathetic critics have tried to put in the way of our appreciation of this film.  When those stumbling blocks are removed and the criteria of worthy purpose and powerful fulfillment remain, I must conclude that even if I were not a Christian I would have to give this film an A+.           

 Donald T. Williams, PhD, is Professor of English and Director of the School of Arts and Sciences at Toccoa Falls College in the hills of Northeast Georgia.    

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Don August 11th, 2009

LXVI Wordsworth wrote an endless poem in blank verse on” the growth of a poet’s mind.”  I shall attempt a more modest feat for a more distracted age: a blog, “Things which a Lifetime of Trying to Be a Poet has Taught Me.” 

            It is now 1976-77.  I have graduated from seminary with a Masters of Divinity degree and am now pursuing my PhD in Medieval and Renaissance Literature at the University of Georgia, where I will transition from sneaking off to read Dante, Chaucer, Spenser, Shakespeare, and Milton when I was supposed to be studying theology to sneaking off to read Aquinas, Luther, Calvin, and Hodge when I was supposed to be studying literature.  I cannot think of a better approach to education.  But first there is a transitional summer job, which produced the following:

 JOHN 1:14

A COMMENTARY 

Sweet to the nose, but rough to the hands, the pine

Boards must be sawed just so and stacked in line

(Not resting, lest they warp, upon the ground),

Until their turn has come to be nailed down

With all their fellows, framing floor or wall.

Here will be the kitchen, there the hall,

And here a bedroom with its bath, and there

A porch on which to breathe the summer air,

All laced with starlight when the night is warm,

And wonder if the distant thunder storm

Or one of its wild kin will come and pay

A boisterous visit e’er the break of day.

But that is weeks off yet.  For now, the wide-

Spaced workmen must be all kept well supplied

With lumber, hauled up from the pre-sawed stack

By means of someone’s hands and someone’s back.

When palms grow tender, fingers stiff, back sore,

The job has just begun.  You carry more.

And so the summer passed.  I often stopped

At close of day when the last load was dropped

And thought, “In this, I’m not alone:  my Lord’s

Hands also were worn raw by rough pine boards.”

Donald T. Williams, PhD

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Don August 7th, 2009

LXV  Wordsworth wrote an endless poem in blank verse on” the growth of a poet’s mind.”  I shall attempt a more modest feat for a more distracted age: a blog, “Things which a Lifetime of Trying to Be a Poet has Taught Me.”  

One reason we respond to Jesus in faith and repentance is that, despite the wearing grind of life and the seeming futility of existence, He somehow gives us hope.

  FIRSTFRUITS  

Silver that does not tarnish,

Iron that will not rust;

Wood that needs no varnish,

Flesh that is not dust.

Gold that will not perish,

Love that won’t grow cold;

Hopes we ever cherish,

Dreams we tightly hold.

For in the human heart

Old memories still survive

Of One who took our part

And died—and is alive.

Donald T. Williams, PhD

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Don August 6th, 2009

LXIV Wordsworth wrote an endless poem in blank verse on” the growth of a poet’s mind.”  I shall attempt a more modest feat for a more distracted age: a blog, “Things which a Lifetime of Trying to Be a Poet has Taught Me.” 

            One of the great mysteries of God’s work for our salvation in Christ is the doctrine of Effectual Calling.  How does God call us to repentance and faith in such a way that, despite their sinful hearts, Christ’s people find themselves responding to Him?  How does God get us to do something contrary to our very self-centered and rebellious natures yet without violating our free will?  Mysteries are often better portrayed than explained.  That is where poetry comes in.

 TWO ESSAYS ON EFFECTUAL CALLING  I 

The fire danced upon the hearth;

The shadows leaped across the wall.

The hobbits stared up at the man,

Travel-worn, but strong and tall,

And wondered how far, if at all,

They dared to trust him.  Slow and strained

Had been his words; white and pained

His face.  They heard of death and fear

And things they had no wish to hear,

And doubted not the words, but yet the man.

Why should this queer wandering stranger

Seek them out to tell of danger?

They knew not what he stood to gain,

But all to well what they could lose.

They did not know—yet it was plain

They’d shortly have to choose.

The shadows flickered on the paneled wood . . .

And then the ranger stood.

 II 

The sunlight danced upon the sand;

The breakers leaped across the waves.

The fisherman’s heavy, calloused hand

Clenched the net until it tore,

For he was troubled by Prophet’s lore.

The stranger spoke of life and death.

His words were like a salty breath

Of sea-wind on a sun-baked day.

The fisherman reddened, looked away,

And doubted not the truth, but yet the man.

Why should this queer wandering stranger

Seek him out to tell of danger?

He knew not what he stood to gain,

Nor clearly what he stood to lose.

He did not know—yet it was plain

He’d shortly have to choose.

“Leave your nets and come!”  He heard him say.

The stranger walked away . . .

Donald T. Williams, PhD

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