The Severity of Divine Love
John Donne (1571-1631)
and Process Theology
"Here I am! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door,
I will come in and eat with that person, and they with me. (Rev. 3: 20)
Sometimes, if we don't open the door, the wind blows it open anyway. And if it doesn't blow it open, and we are too conflicted to open the door ourselves, we ask it to blow even harder.
A process commentary on John Donne's Holy Sonnet 14
I will come in and eat with that person, and they with me. (Rev. 3: 20)
Sometimes, if we don't open the door, the wind blows it open anyway. And if it doesn't blow it open, and we are too conflicted to open the door ourselves, we ask it to blow even harder.
A process commentary on John Donne's Holy Sonnet 14
The lure of God within the human heart can be experienced in many ways, sometimes as a gentle invitation and other times as a confrontational challenge: a soft wind that caresses the cheek and a strong wind that blows open closed doors. The lure can be gentle or forceful. Even when forceful, we must respond to it. We must let our internal barriers fall away and see what lies on the other side.
John Donne's Sonnet 14 vividly captures the forceful side, the divine severity, portraying the divine lure as a force that must, in some sense, shatter us to draw us nearer to the deep Tenderness. It also captures the way in which, even as we desire to be near, we also desire to be free of it, to go our way, to use our gifts and talents—our reasoning, for example—for self-centered purposes. We are conflicted within the very depths of our hearts, partly drawn to be near to God and partly drawn to be islands unto ourselves. We are like Paul in Romans, with a war inside us.
"Although I want to do good, evil is right there with me. For in my inner being I delight in God’s law; but I see another law at work in me, waging war against the law of my mind and making me a prisoner of the law of sin at work within me. What a wretched man I am!" (Romans 7:21-24, NIV)
Sonnet 14 mirrors Paul's dilemma. Donne pleads with God to "batter my heart, three-person'd God," emphasizing the need for divine intervention to break through his resistance. He likens himself to a besieged town, yearning for liberation through a transformative and forceful divine presence. This imagery of a battering ram speaks to the confrontational challenge of the divine lure, which disrupts and shatters the barriers within us.
This forceful intervention is not an end in itself but a means to bring us closer to divine love. The ultimate goal is to open our hearts to the deep Tenderness that God embodies. Through this process of shattering and renewal, we grow closer to the divine, experiencing a profound and tender love that transforms our lives.
Can process thinkers follow Donne's lead? Can they—we—hear ourselves in Sonnet 14?
Maybe not. Many people who are drawn to open and relational theology, process or otherwise. have been battered by images of a dominating God who will send them to hell if they violate divine will or fail to flatter the Supreme leader. Accordingly, they have a hard time recognizing that, when it comes to interior movements of the soul, God's love, indeed God's tenderness, can feel battering at times, for love's sake.
This is where John Donne's Sonnet 14 can help. It captures the idea of divine love as both overwhelming and purifying, seeking to break through our defenses to transform us. God wants to break down the walls that separate us from divine love. We are tenderly "battered" into love, for love's sake.
Who does the battering? Some may wish to say that we batter ourselves, and God does none of it. We want the lure of God within us to be gentle, not severe—a soft wind but not a battering ram. But is it not possible that, sometimes, it is exactly the battering that we need, especially when we ourselves get in the way.
At the end of the poem the imagery shifts from brute force to eros. Battering becomes ravishing. The one knocking at the door, pushing it down, is revealed as the Lover. We are imprisoned in the love, but it is a freeing kind of imprisonment. We become who we were created to be: prisoners of the Tenderness.
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.
The breaking down of resistance and the opening of doors is a mysterious process. It occurs inside us, but usually it is prompted by circumstances, often difficult. A disease, a failure, a humiliation, a sin. Whether these circumstances are willed by God is beside the point. The essence lies in recognizing that God is at work in our lives through creative transformation, and this transformation is responsive to what is needed and possible in the given circumstances. The difficult circumstances, whatever they are, with help from the Spirit of God, help open the door.
John Donne's Sonnet 14 vividly captures the forceful side, the divine severity, portraying the divine lure as a force that must, in some sense, shatter us to draw us nearer to the deep Tenderness. It also captures the way in which, even as we desire to be near, we also desire to be free of it, to go our way, to use our gifts and talents—our reasoning, for example—for self-centered purposes. We are conflicted within the very depths of our hearts, partly drawn to be near to God and partly drawn to be islands unto ourselves. We are like Paul in Romans, with a war inside us.
"Although I want to do good, evil is right there with me. For in my inner being I delight in God’s law; but I see another law at work in me, waging war against the law of my mind and making me a prisoner of the law of sin at work within me. What a wretched man I am!" (Romans 7:21-24, NIV)
Sonnet 14 mirrors Paul's dilemma. Donne pleads with God to "batter my heart, three-person'd God," emphasizing the need for divine intervention to break through his resistance. He likens himself to a besieged town, yearning for liberation through a transformative and forceful divine presence. This imagery of a battering ram speaks to the confrontational challenge of the divine lure, which disrupts and shatters the barriers within us.
This forceful intervention is not an end in itself but a means to bring us closer to divine love. The ultimate goal is to open our hearts to the deep Tenderness that God embodies. Through this process of shattering and renewal, we grow closer to the divine, experiencing a profound and tender love that transforms our lives.
Can process thinkers follow Donne's lead? Can they—we—hear ourselves in Sonnet 14?
Maybe not. Many people who are drawn to open and relational theology, process or otherwise. have been battered by images of a dominating God who will send them to hell if they violate divine will or fail to flatter the Supreme leader. Accordingly, they have a hard time recognizing that, when it comes to interior movements of the soul, God's love, indeed God's tenderness, can feel battering at times, for love's sake.
This is where John Donne's Sonnet 14 can help. It captures the idea of divine love as both overwhelming and purifying, seeking to break through our defenses to transform us. God wants to break down the walls that separate us from divine love. We are tenderly "battered" into love, for love's sake.
Who does the battering? Some may wish to say that we batter ourselves, and God does none of it. We want the lure of God within us to be gentle, not severe—a soft wind but not a battering ram. But is it not possible that, sometimes, it is exactly the battering that we need, especially when we ourselves get in the way.
At the end of the poem the imagery shifts from brute force to eros. Battering becomes ravishing. The one knocking at the door, pushing it down, is revealed as the Lover. We are imprisoned in the love, but it is a freeing kind of imprisonment. We become who we were created to be: prisoners of the Tenderness.
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.
The breaking down of resistance and the opening of doors is a mysterious process. It occurs inside us, but usually it is prompted by circumstances, often difficult. A disease, a failure, a humiliation, a sin. Whether these circumstances are willed by God is beside the point. The essence lies in recognizing that God is at work in our lives through creative transformation, and this transformation is responsive to what is needed and possible in the given circumstances. The difficult circumstances, whatever they are, with help from the Spirit of God, help open the door.
see also:
Holy Sonnets: Batter my heart,
three-person'd God
BY JOHN DONNE
Batter my heart, three-person'd God, for you
As yet but knock, breathe, shine, and seek to mend;
That I may rise and stand, o'erthrow me, and bend
Your force to break, blow, burn, and make me new.
I, like an usurp'd town to another due,
Labor to admit you, but oh, to no end;
Reason, your viceroy in me, me should defend,
But is captiv'd, and proves weak or untrue.
Yet dearly I love you, and would be lov'd fain,
But am betroth'd unto your enemy;
Divorce me, untie or break that knot again,
Take me to you, imprison me, for I,
Except you enthrall me, never shall be free,
Nor ever chaste, except you ravish me.
A Discussion of Sonnet 14
read and discussed by
Joanne Diaz and Abram Van Engen
"John Donne was an influential metaphysical poet who enjoyed wide fame in his own day, then went largely unread for two centuries, and then, saw his reputation radically revived in the early twentieth century. He was born into a Catholic family, converted to Anglicanism, and became a minister. Along the way, he wrote both "secular" erotic love poems and "religious" poems of many forms. This poem is one of the nineteen "Holy Sonnets" he wrote.
Links:
John Donne: A Scholarly Discussion
Melvyn Bragg and guests discuss Donne (1573-1631), known now as one of England’s finest poets of love and notable in his own time as an astonishing preacher. He was born a Catholic in a Protestant country and, when he married Anne More without her father's knowledge, Donne lost his job in the government circle and fell into a poverty that only ended once he became a priest in the Church of England. As Dean of St Paul’s Cathedral, his sermons were celebrated, perhaps none more than his final one in 1631 when he was plainly in his dying days, as if preaching at his own funeral.