Precisely the Time

A reflection on a T.S. Eliot’s poem “The rock” 

“Oh my soul, be prepared

for the coming of the Stranger.

Be prepared for him who knows

how to ask questions.”

~ T.S Eliot //The Rock

Is spring that different from Lent? New life is birthed in contemplative self-examination, is it not? Dark is the womb that brings forth the miracle of a child. Dark, Dark, Dark, the clouds apocalyptically pronounce the dying of life, and the coming of rain (Mark 15). Rain and seed, meet broken in the dark dirt and this fateful reunion is a story told over, and over, and over in the ground and our lives(Psalms 104:28-31). Ruakh given and taken, “Into your hands I commit my Ruakh!” shouts the creator king. 

What new thing does God do without the old in mind? What wounds does he heal without a scar to leave behind? What doubt does the disciple have that is not answered by time? The tension of new life in the dirt, a tension like rhyme. It is as if the sowing of seed is but part of the story, and the journey from seed to fruit, not even the end. Creation groans with a breath, expectancy a dearest friend, singing all the while: time is redeemed, not wasted, seed is but the promise of new life, and dark is its descent, low is its bowing. 

I see now the examination of my soul in spring lights and Lent, bears a memory to the distant autumnal fire of fall. The trees were burning, the beauty falling to its death. Brown is the dirt that bears the spring seed, dark is the earth that begins to sing. Be ready my soul for the coming of the stranger! Oh my soul be prepared for the parables of the wise, live to listen to the heartbeat of the seed beneath the dirt. Be prepared to welcome the stranger in spring, whose presence expects an offering of conscience and character, an inquisition of habit and presumption. 

Befriend the important questions, sit still beneath the teacher of time. For springs sprouting is falls fiery rhyme. And pregnant is the pain with life, soiled is the seed of our story. Resist the presentisms that ahistorically forget the meaning of the word season, hold in tension the unwelcomed stranger of doubt, the painful jab of reason. Release and remember the circle of life, with peace, be a bearer, of God’s kindly light. And lay your days down before the one who knows how to ask questions (Psalms 90), lay down to rest with the only one who can answer them. Lenten longings, seeds, sorrow, surpassing sight, my Emmaus road, guide me to thy light. Memory, mourning, more to know, let go, leaving seed to surprise the passer by. Supplanting fear for love, replacing hollow doubts with the questions I need to hear. Be prepared for him who knows how to ask questions, who knows.

Note from Phin John: this little poetry is a bit ambiguous, mostly I am thinking here about the connection between lent and spring, and hopefully some of the seasonality and our connection to time. Seems important to remember as Christians, humans, and also as Americans right now. Some of this was inspired by James KA Smith’s book How to Inhabit Time, as well as a reading from the four gospels from Jesus’s death onwards. Love you guys!

What seeds are sitting in you? Who planted them? Who is someone you know who knows how to ask questions?