C. S. Lewis on "trumpery"

 

I recently re-read one of my favorite C. S. Lewis poems and discovered it to be surprisingly contemporary.

 

THE APOLOGIST’S EVENING PRAYER

 

From all my lame defeats and oh! much more

From all the victories that I seemed to score;

From cleverness shot forth on Thy behalf

At which, while angels weep, the audience laugh;

From all my proofs of Thy divinity,

Thou, who wouldst give no sign, deliver me.

 

Thoughts are but coins. Let me not trust, instead

Of Thee, their thin-worn image of Thy head.

From all my thoughts, even from my thoughts of Thee,

O Thou fair Silence, fall, and set me free.

Lord of the narrow gate and the needle’s eye,

Take from me all my trumpery lest I die.

 

After my initial chuckle (I had forgotten that word), I realized the prayer/poem was really about me. Lest I become smug in my judgments, I was reminded that I, too, am capable of arrogance and small-mindedness.

 

Lord Jesus, have mercy on us all.

A general apology

The Apostle Paul, versatile saint,
became all things to all men
so that by all means he might win some.

As for me, I have enough trouble
just being myself. Sometimes it seems
that I have become no one to no person
so that by all means I might
get more sleep.

I owe you all an apology.

I’m sorry, first,
to you, my love,
for not being more consistently
romantic submissive sweet;
for falling asleep during the stories;
for shining at times when I should
fade; for becoming invisible
when you need me stellar.

To you, my children,
when instead of being a sage,
I am merely a clown; for not
being as smart as you thought
I was (I knew you’d find out
one day); for losing some of
the memories; for growing too tired
too soon.

To you, my grandchildren,
for my lack of bright ideas,
my wrong choice of movies;
for old stories that are, of course,
boring, boring; for not being
plump and grey and aproned and
rosy-cheeked; for losing the rules
to Mexican Train and eating the chocolates
behind your backs.

To you, my sisters and brothers,
members of the household of faith,
for being a wimpy elder—age without
wisdom; for my waffling and uncertain
stride; for a whimper when you needed
a clarion call; for not calling;
for a seeming shrug when you needed
an action plan; for being neither prophet,
priest nor pastor; for my day-dreams
of defecting to the Catholics; for my
restless doubts and clawing prayers.

To you, my neighbors,
for not learning your names; for not
bringing you chocolate chip cookies;
for not praying for your salvation; for
not knowing, not knowing, not
knowing.

To you, distant neighbors in Afghanistan,
for seeing my problems as larger than
yours; for not seeing that my problems
contribute to yours; for not sending
money clothes medicine—or for sending
them as a guilt offering; for my lack of tears
and my resounding silence.

To you, my Lord,
for being so intimate I forget
to tremble or being so busy about your work
I ignore you; for inattention even when
in your presence; for starving my spirit
while seated at your banquet table;
for not looking at the world
through your eyes;
for being so underwhelmed
so often.

To One and all,
a general apology.
Forgive me.