Church-Rents and Schismes, by George Herbert: A Novice's Commentary

As is probably obvious to the readers of this blog, of late I've been really enjoying the poetry of George Herbert (1593-1633). I love the hymns of Newton and Wesley and Watts and Cowper, with their theological depth and immediate accessibility. But for poetry's sake, I like George Herbert even more. Most of his poems (or all of them?) would make poor hymns. The imagery bears much more reflection to tease out the meaning, than a hymn would warrant. But through reading and re-reading, and marking it up, and wrestling, a beauty and profundity emerges. Such was the case as I read and re-read his poem on fights and splits within churches, this past week. What follows will be a breakdown of the poem, with each verse followed by a few of my own observations...

Church-rents and schismes.

Brave rose, (alas!) where art thou? in the chair
Where thou didst lately so triumph and shine,
A worm doth sit, whose many feet and hair
Are the more foul, the more thou wert divine.
This, this hath done it, this did bite the root
And bottome of the leaves: which when the winde
Did once perceive, it blew them under foot,
Where rude unhallow’d steps do crush and grinde
Their beauteous glories. Onely shreds of thee,
And those all bitten, in thy chair I see.

Herbert images the local church as a rose. But this rose, once brave, has lately been half-eaten by a worm, and then its petals have been torn off and blown underfoot and trampled. Only half-eaten, trampled, petals remain of what was once beautiful. The former beauty of the rose, makes the worm that ate it more all the more hideous.

Why doth my Mother blush? is she the rose,
And shows it so? Indeed Christs precious bloud
Gave you a colour once; which when your foes
Thought to let out, the bleeding did you good,
And made you look much fresher then before.
But when debates and fretting jealousies
Did worm and work within you more and more,
Your colour faded, and calamities
Turned your ruddie into pale and bleak:
Your health and beautie both began to break.

I believe that 'my Mother' refers to either Herbert's denomination (The Church of England), or the church universal. In response to the current state of the rose, her mother blushes. Then Herbert begins to reflect on that rose's past. In the beginning, the blood of Christ gave it colour. Then, enemies persecuted the church, but that bleeding did it good, and made the rose look even fresher than before. Is it not the case that red blood would add to the vivacity of any read rose's colour? So it is with churches that bleed because the world hates the gospel: they only get stronger (cf. the entire book of Acts). But then when fighting began within the church, her colour faded, her ruddie turned pale and bleak, and her health and beauty both began to break. I think that this is the most profound verse in the poem. Whereas persecution from without only makes a church stronger in Christ, persecution from within only serves to weaken and destroy it.

Then did your sev’rall parts unloose and start:
Which when your neighbours saw, like a north-winde,
They rushed in, and cast them in the dirt
Where Pagans tread. O Mother deare and kinde,
Where shall I get me eyes enough to weep,
As many eyes as starres? since it is night,
And much of Asia and Europe fast asleep,
And ev’n all Africk; would at least I might
With these two poore ones lick up all the dew,
Which falls by night, and poure it out for you!

The splintering of the church made the persecutors from without come back for more assaults, this time on a weakened church. Enemies of Christ use the momentum from inner-fighting, to deal it a crushing blow from without. This reminds me, for example, of the media coverage surrounding Coral Ridge Presbyterian Church in Florida, when a number of members tried to oust their new pastor, who was a very faithful man and the Grandson of Billy Graham. I'm very thankful that Tullian continues as pastor of that church today, and that the media coverage did not result in a crushing blow to the church! But I digress, and our poem continues. Herbert again refers to his Mother (the larger body of churches?), and then reflects on all the countries of his day (17th century) that had not yet been impacted with the gospel, and through beautiful imagery, says that it would be impossible to cry enough tears for these lost souls. Tragically, whereas in England Christians were fighting and being rendered harmful to each other, they were also being rendered useless to the global cause of missions, because all of their energy was being taken up in harming one another.

Behind the beauty and profundity of this poem, there is great tragedy. Is Herbert not right, and is it not true that fights and quarrels among Christians are all too commonplace, not to mention the most harmful assault a Christian could ever endure? Lord, grant your people humility, and a great passion for your glory, and protect us from being stirred up to harm each other and render each other useless instruments of your fame in a world that desperately needs to see the beauty of Christ!

If you have any other insights into the poem, or if you have any corrections with regard to my very novice interpretation of it, please do leave a comment. My only real exposure to poetry, aside from learning to write limericks in grade school, was a course on Milton, and another on Charles Wesley, both at Tyndale University College and Seminary, during my school days. I am by no means an expert, but I love to read it anyway!

The poem again, in its entirety is as follows:

Church-rents and schismes.

Brave rose, (alas!) where art thou? in the chair
Where thou didst lately so triumph and shine,
A worm doth sit, whose many feet and hair
Are the more foul, the more thou wert divine.
This, this hath done it, this did bite the root
And bottome of the leaves: which when the winde
Did once perceive, it blew them under foot,
Where rude unhallow’d steps do crush and grinde
Their beauteous glories. Onely shreds of thee,
And those all bitten, in thy chair I see.

Why doth my Mother blush? is she the rose,
And shows it so? Indeed Christs precious bloud
Gave you a colour once; which when your foes
Thought to let out, the bleeding did you good,
And made you look much fresher then before.
But when debates and fretting jealousies
Did worm and work within you more and more,
Your colour faded, and calamities
Turned your ruddie into pale and bleak:
Your health and beautie both began to break.

Then did your sev’rall parts unloose and start:
Which when your neighbours saw, like a north-winde,
They rushed in, and cast them in the dirt
Where Pagans tread. O Mother deare and kinde,
Where shall I get me eyes enough to weep,
As many eyes as starres? since it is night,
And much of Asia and Europe fast asleep,
And ev’n all Africk; would at least I might
With these two poore ones lick up all the dew,
Which falls by night, and poure it out for you!