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 YouTube: Ash Wednesday | T.S. Eliot | Audio Christian Poetry | Word Aloud Ash Wednesday, one of T.S. Eliot’s most profound and enigmatic poems, marks a significant transition in his life and work. Written in 1930, it is the first long poem Eliot composed after his conversion to Anglicanism in 1927. The poem, often considered one of Eliot’s masterpieces, delves into themes of faith, redemption, and spiritual struggle. It reflects the poet’s personal journey towards spiritual enlightenment and serves as a testament to his newfound religious beliefs. A reading of Ash Wednesday is an exploration of the poem’s religious, literary, and personal contexts, as of the poem’s complex structure and themes. Religious Context And Symbolism Ash Wednesday is deeply embedded in Christian symbolism and tradition. The title refers to the first day of Lent in the Christian liturgical calendar, a day marked by penance, fasting, and prayer. Ash Wednesday is a time for reflection on mortality and repentance, themes that are intricately woven throughout the poem. Eliot’s conversion to Anglicanism profoundly influenced his writing; ‘Ash Wednesday’ is an expression of spiritual awakening and quest for redemption. The poem is replete with religious imagery and references, drawing on Christian doctrine and scripture. The use of liturgical language, biblical allusions, and references to saints and spiritual figures creates a tapestry of faith that invites readers to contemplate deep spiritual truths with which Eliot is grappling. The repetitive and prayer-like quality of the verses echoes meditative practices of the faithful, in part enabling the contemplative nature of the poem. Literary Influences And Techniques T.S. Eliot was a master of literary allusion and technique, and Ash Wednesday expresses Eliot’s ability to blend various influences into a cohesive whole. The poem reflects the influence of Dante, particularly The Divine Comedy, which Eliot admired for its exploration of spiritual ascent and redemption. Dante’s journey through Hell, Purgatory and Heaven parallels Eliot’s own spiritual journey, and the structure of Ash Wednesday can be seen as a reflection of this pilgrimage. Eliot’s use of fragmented narrative, a hallmark of his earlier work such as The Waste Land, is also present in Ash Wednesday. However, in this poem, the fragmentation serves a different purpose. Instead of depicting the disintegration of modern society, it mirrors the fragmented and often painful process of spiritual rebirth. The disjointed structure reflects the internal struggle of the speaker, who is torn between the pull of worldly desires and the aspiration for divine grace. The poem’s language is rich and varied, combining the lyrical and the obscure, the personal and the universal. Eliot employs a range of poetic forms and devices, including free verse, rhyme and meter, to convey the tumultuous journey of faith. The shifting tone and style reflect the complexities and contradictions inherent in the spiritual quest, capturing moments of doubt, despair, hope, and transcendence. Personal Significance Ash Wednesday is a deeply personal work. Eliot’s conversion to Anglicanism marked a profound shift in his life, providing a sense of purpose and direction that had been missing. The poem can be read as a reflection of Eliot’s own struggles with faith and his efforts to reconcile his intellectual skepticism with his desire for spiritual certainty. Eliot’s personal experiences, including his troubled marriage and professional pressures, also inform the poem. Themes of renunciation and acceptance, sin and redemption, are not merely abstract concepts but lived realities for the poet. This personal dimension adds a layer of intimacy and urgency to the poem, which thereby resonates with readers who have faced their own spiritual crises. Thematic Exploration At its core, Ash Wednesday is a meditation on the possibility of spiritual renewal in a world that often seems devoid of meaning. The poem grapples with the tension between faith and doubt, reflecting the existential struggles of modernity. The poem acknowledges the difficulties of maintaining belief in an age of skepticism but ultimately affirms the possibility of redemption and grace. The central theme of renunciation is explored through imagery of ascension and purification. The speaker’s journey is marked by a series of renunciations, symbolizing the shedding of earthly attachments in pursuit of spiritual truth. This process is neither straightforward nor easy; it involves moments of intense struggle and introspection. Yet, through this arduous journey, the speaker moves closer to a state of spiritual clarity and acceptance. Ash Wednesday | T. S. Eliot Because I do not hope to turn again Because I do not hope Because I do not hope to turn Desiring this man’s gift and that man’s scope I no longer strive to strive towards such things (Why should the agèd eagle stretch its wings?) Why should I mourn The vanished power of the usual reign? Because I do not hope to know The infirm glory of the positive hour Because I do not think Because I know I shall not know The one veritable transitory power Because I cannot drink There, where trees flower, and springs flow, for there is nothing again Because I know that time is always time And place is always and only place And what is actual is actual only for one time And only for one place I rejoice that things are as they are and I renounce the blessèd face And renounce the voice Because I cannot hope to turn again Consequently I rejoice, having to construct something Upon which to rejoice And pray to God to have mercy upon us And pray that I may forget These matters that with myself I too much discuss Too much explain Because I do not hope to turn again Let these words answer For what is done, not to be done again May the judgement not be too heavy upon us Because these wings are no longer wings to fly But merely vans to beat the air The air which is now thoroughly small and dry Smaller and dryer than the will Teach us to care and not to care Teach us to sit still. Pray for us sinners now […]

‘Death,’ says His Grace, ‘throws it all apart. For we are not as we should be. Faith requires our adjustment to God’s truth. God’s triumph in a very real sense requires in us the loss of our everything. Which, as with Mary at the other end of Jesus’s life, is God’s truth.’ The Gospel reading is of John 11: 1-45, which is a long passage, and His Grace’s homiletic theme commences in textual wilderness. Our brokenness – in this place – a family home. Our faith, our doubt, our death… The irruption – death, doubt, fear – within our precious scenes and our most intimate places. Our domesticity. His Grace speaks from the chair, as is a bishop’s prerogative, and says: ‘So much is obscure in the Gospels. We’re always reaching through them. We’re never there. Really, we never are. Our knowledge, our understanding, of the Gospels is never complete, and with each reading comes a new revelation. There are always new riches there. Just as there are between all of us, between myself and you. The Gospels are living texts. This is a part of the conversation we have with our own Christianity. It is a part of who we are in our relationship with Jesus. We are in this sense always on the brink. ‘So yes, there is plenty that doesn’t seem to make sense. As one of the order of bishops, we would be lying if we said that weren’t the case. They are not easy texts to encounter, if by that word we may signify something more than a superficial glancing off against, but rather a profound search for the word of God. The Gospels are written by people who had their own ideas, and often didn’t know what had really happened. Luke is quite explicit on this point. His is an investigation, from the explicitly claimed point of view of an historian, rather than that of a first-hand witness, who attempts, so he says, to set out an orderly account, out of the chaos, the sheer muddle, that has been handed down to him. It is possible to imagine Luke researching and composing his account after many years, when there has arisen a desire to know what exactly happened, and this implies a certain call to faith and certain demands of historicity, to historical exactitude. So in these different ways, the people of the first years of Christian faith are in the dark. There is also a decisive need to define the life of Jesus. And people didn’t get Jesus. The whole meaning of Christianity is only now beginning to take root throughout the composition. So much needs to be evangelized. The light shines almost in tentative fashion like that first star, which drew the wise men from the east to our Lord’s cradle. ‘John’s is widely held to be a very late Gospel. There are others who say that John’s Gospel might have been the first to acquire its true shape, because it most fully expresses Jesus, as we know him to be, as members of the Catholic Church. We don’t really know when any of this is being written, but we get a feel in John of a Gospel refined over many years, through a community. So there’s a lot going on there that I’d like you to think about. ‘What I would like to suggest to you is that, while within the Gospels we are often confronted with clues, guesswork, stories that have been handed down through so many people, and so in this sense we might find ourselves to be in the wilderness, this is the very desolate space itself to which we must give ourselves in order to experience Christ’s full redemption in our lives. I suggest it is for God’s glory that we do so. ‘As we become aware of ourselves, in this seminary, we find ourselves in a very secure, comfortable setting, and there are signs of Easter everywhere. Within the very fabric of these buildings, our Lord is risen; our Lord lives. But now this is our Lenten journey, where death enters, where death breaks us. We are to ride into Jerusalem in triumph, and then we are to be utterly broken, all hope gone, our hope extinguished. And really, I suggest to you, it is only by inhabiting this thought, as if we don’t know Easter is there, that our new life can follow, just when we have given up all hope, when every promise that Jesus made to us seems to have been cancelled. ‘And here now we have the story of Lazarus. I should like to suggest to you that we have a very powerful call now. In our very comfortable space, our domesticity, with all this comfort, where so very little might seem to happen each day, so it might seem to you, there is a disturbance within all of this comfort, and that is a disturbance within ourselves, and that is our call to Jesus. I think it is correct to say that our most comfortable places break in the light of Jesus from the inside, in order that we may take the necessary steps to be with Jesus. ‘Faith is not comfortable. I think that we can all receive the message of the rolling away of the rock from the tomb of Lazarus to say something of vital importance to ourselves concerning our openness to God’s love. The rock we roll away can come in all sorts of guises, but we know when we are blocked, and I firmly believe if we are truthful then we know where those blocks might be. ‘Next Sunday, which will be Palm Sunday, we process as it were to Jerusalem, to begin our Holy Week. Now as I speak to you we are on the brink. Even now, I suggest it might be very good for all of us to lay aside what we think we know, to fall apart a little, and so […]

In this reading from On Spiritual Perfection, Diadochus of Photiké reflects on the relationship between love of God and love of self. His argument is clear and direct: self-love and love of God move in opposite directions. To love God truly requires a turning away from concern for one’s own glory and a complete reorientation towards the glory of the Creator [ … ]