Some More Jazz for Another Wednesday

The jazz today is an intense number from another great group: Freddie Hubbard on trumpet, McCoy Tyner on piano, Ron Carter on bass, and the great drummer, Elvin Jones.

The Humanities in Higher Education

Read this article about the decline of the humanities in "Higher Education."

Then, listen to this lecture by Daniel N. Robinson entitled "Higher Education: What Makes it 'Higher?'" Here's part of his answer, it is not rock-climbing walls. I intend to write something about the things he says, but I do not have time to re-listen to the lecture at the moment. But, since it is good and worth the time I will be re-listening to it. In case you think I might be wasting your time, view Dr. Robinson's biography and available lecture series.

Getz and Coltrane for Your Wednesday

Stan Getz, John Coltrane, Oscar Peterson, Paul Chambers, and Jimmy Cobb performance in Germany

Let Us Not Mock God With Metaphor

Head on over to this site to read John Updike's poem "Seven Stanzas At Easter." In 1960, Updike entered a religious art festival with this poem and won the first place prize of $100; he gave the money back to the congregation.

The first stanza echoes St. Paul's own words about the importance of the Resurrection. Overall, I appreciate Updike's insistence to not "water-down" what the gospel says and be "embarassed by the miracle."

Happy Easter

Happy Easter

This painting is from Eugene Burnand (1850-1921). It is called "Les Disciples Pierre et Jean Courant au Sepulchre le Matin de la Resurrection" (The Disciples Peter and John Running to the Sepulchre on the Morning of the Resurrection). It is in the Musee d' Orsay in Paris. I am sure you can you guess which one is Peter and which one is John.

The Dream of the Rood

(Photo of the crucifix inside the Church of the Gesu, Rome.)

This poem is called "The Dream of the Rood" (ca. 750). The author is unknown. Like Herbert's "The Sacrifice" below, this poem offers another perspective from the Crucifixion--the cross itself (Rood is the old English word for cross). Once again I am going to post a link to the poem since the link offers commentary, but here is a sample.

"On shoulders men bore me there, then fixed me on hill;
fiends enough fastened me. Then saw I mankind's Lord
come with great courage when he would mount on me.
Then dared I not against the Lord's word
bend or break, when I saw earth's
fields shake. All fiends
I could have felled, but I stood fast.
The young hero stripped himself--he, God Almighty--
strong and stout-minded. He mounted high gallows,
bold before many, when he would loose mankind.
I shook when that Man clasped me. I dared, still, not bow to earth,
fall to earth's fields, but had to stand fast.
Rood was I reared. I lifted a mighty King,
Lord of the heavens, dared not to bend.
With dark nails they drove me through: on me those sores are seen,
open malice-wounds. I dared not scathe anyone.
They mocked us both, we two together. All wet with blood I was,
poured out from that Man's side, after ghost he gave up."

Read the entire poem here.

Dark was the night

Here is Blind Willie Johnson's "Dark was the Night, Cold was the Ground." Although it is wordless, the moans and music are laments over the suffering of Christ.

That spectacle of too much weight for me

GOOD-FRIDAY, 1613, RIDING WESTWARD by John Donne

LET man's soul be a sphere, and then, in this,
Th' intelligence that moves, devotion is ;
And as the other spheres, by being grown
Subject to foreign motion, lose their own,
And being by others hurried every day,
Scarce in a year their natural form obey ;
Pleasure or business, so, our souls admit
For their first mover, and are whirl'd by it.
Hence is't, that I am carried towards the west,
This day, when my soul's form bends to the East.
There I should see a Sun by rising set,
And by that setting endless day beget.
But that Christ on His cross did rise and fall,
Sin had eternally benighted all.
Yet dare I almost be glad, I do not see
That spectacle of too much weight for me.
Who sees Gods face, that is self-life, must die ;
What a death were it then to see God die ?
It made His own lieutenant, Nature, shrink,
It made His footstool crack, and the sun wink.
Could I behold those hands, which span the poles
And tune all spheres at once, pierced with those holes ?
Could I behold that endless height, which is
Zenith to us and our antipodes,
Humbled below us ? or that blood, which is
The seat of all our soul's, if not of His,
Made dirt of dust, or that flesh which was worn
By God for His apparel, ragg'd and torn ?
If on these things I durst not look, durst I
On His distressed Mother cast mine eye,
Who was God's partner here, and furnish'd thus
Half of that sacrifice which ransom'd us ?
Though these things as I ride be from mine eye,
They're present yet unto my memory,
For that looks towards them ; and Thou look'st towards me,
O Saviour, as Thou hang'st upon the tree.
I turn my back to thee but to receive
Corrections till Thy mercies bid Thee leave.
O think me worth Thine anger, punish me,
Burn off my rust, and my deformity ;
Restore Thine image, so much, by Thy grace,
That Thou mayst know me, and I'll turn my face.

Good Friday

For Holy Week, rather than write posts myself, I will post different art (visual, literature, music) by people much more brilliant than myself. This first poem is from Jesuit priest, innovative poet, Gerard Manley Hopkins (1844-1899).

New Readings

Although the letter said
On thistles that men look not grapes to gather,
I read the story rather
How soldiers platting thorns around CHRIST'S Head
Grapes grew and drops of wine were shed.

Though when the sower sowed
The winged fowls took part, part fell in thorn
And never turned to corn,
Part found no root upon the flinty road,-
CHRIST at all hazards fruit hath shewed.

From wastes of rock He brings
Food for five thousand: on the thorns He shed
Grains from His drooping Head;
And would not have that legion of winged things
Bear Him to heaven on easeful wings.


Friend and poet of Hopkin's, Robert Bridges, indicated that this poem had similarities with George Herbert's poem The Sacrifice. I apologize for the unnecessary music that is on the following page, either turn off your sound or turn the volume down and hit pause. Read "The Sacrifice" here.