Paying Attention to Poetry
Reading poetry as a spiritual practice in the local church
If you’re a long-time reader of this Substack, you’ll know that attention—and our struggles to practice it—are a frequent theme of our writings here. For instance, we spent over a year diving deep into Johann Hari’s book Stolen Focus, which explores the challenge of paying attention in this present technological age.
Here is the first post in that series:
And the last post (where you can also navigate through to other posts in the series, if you’d like):
Attention is a miracle.
Attention matters, not only because it is presently in jeopardy, exploited by our technological tools and centuries of accelerating life in the modern world, but also because it is an essential part of being embodied human creatures. Our five senses, for example, serve to cultivate our attention and help us know both who we are as humans and the vibrant nature of our interconnected life in a particular place (as well as within creation as a whole). The centrality of attention to humanity flows from our creation in God’s image. God, the loving creator and sustainer of all life, is vigilantly attentive to creation. Reflecting on Simone Weil’s suggestion that attention is a miracle, my friend Phil Kenneson writes:
[The] reason that attention is a miracle, is because attention, real attention, draws us out of ourselves into communion with God, with one another, and with the world. Yet as Scripture and our own experience amply testify, our natural tendency is to take this good gift of attention and do with it what we do with all of God’s good gifts: bend those gifts back onto ourselves to serve only ourselves and our own small agendas. (Practicing Ecclesial Patience, 10)
Attention matters for each of us as human persons, and also for our communities (and especially churches), which are a sort of social bodies. Just as each of our human bodies draws upon our attention to who we are and what surrounds us as we navigate the world, so too our churches rely on attention to navigate the world in parallel ways.
What does our community desire? What are we capable of? What are our limitations? Who are the people and institutions that surround us and with whom we must collaborate for the care of this place?
Meaningful answers to these questions can only emerge with attention (and conversation, which is one essential way we give and receive attention). Although we will ultimately answer these questions as communities, congregational leaders who guide us in healthy ways must model practices of attention and encourage us to exercise attention personally and in all facets of our life together.
So, how might we cultivate habits of attention in our churches, when at the present cultural moment, attention is in such short supply?
Poetry can re-train our attention.
I have argued incessantly, in books, articles, and here on this Substack (which, for newcomers, was originally called The Conversational Life) that conversation is a vital practice for recovering our capacity for attention. But I am also convinced that another key practice is the reading (and perhaps even the writing) of poetry. In part, this is because poetry helps to train our attentions (the next five paragraphs were adapted from an article I wrote for Relevant magazine, way back in 2012). It’s not enough to bemoan our short attention spans or wish we weren’t so addicted to our phones; we have to retrain our bodies, minds, and hearts to pay attention. Bringing more poetry into our lives and spiritual practices is one way to do so.
Learning to read a poem carefully trains us to pay extraordinary attention to the sounds and images of language that we might easily overlook in our haste. It is not surprising, given the value our culture places on speed and efficiency, that poetry is not a particularly popular art-form these days; poetry books are very rarely bestsellers. More than other kinds of writing, poems offer us an invitation to abide with their words. Often, the poet offers us an image for our consideration, holding it up and allowing us to look it from many angles. The image may (or may not) come into focus as we read the poem slowly and re-read it again and again.
Consider one of my favorite poems, Emily Dickinson’s “Hope is the Thing with Feathers.” A careful reading of the poem challenges us with the question of what hope is? Dickinson observes that hope is like a bird whose song is heard most sweetly in the storms of life. Hope not only offers its comforting song to us, but never asks or demands anything from us—not even a crumb. Dickinson’s words and images, like those of any superb poet, stir up wave of further questions: What image would I give to describe hope? How am I being an envoy of hope to others, offering comfort in the storms of life and not asking anything in return? Such questions are the beginning of a potentially long conversation with the poem.
In some poems, we are swept away by the vivid imagery the words create in our minds—regardless of whether the poet intended it. Consider C.S. Lewis’s poem, “To Sleep,” for instance. Our minds could be swept away with his imagery of a dark and mysterious forest in which “light and shadow interlaced,” and yet at some point we are yanked back into the poem and realize this forest is the world of sleep.
Finally, the poem asks us to attend to its sound: the meter, the rhymes, alliteration. I remember memorizing Lewis Carroll’s poem “Jabberwocky” in middle school, and how the sounds of the words, many of which were nonsensical, clung fast to my memory. Some of the sonic elements of poems will require diligence for us to recognize; it takes a careful ear to recognize them.
Like a rich and carefully crafted dessert, one must savor a poem in order to enjoy it fully—its images, its context, its sounds. A good poem is hospitable, inviting us to sit for awhile and enter into a conversation. Poetry, however, does not come naturally for us in our times; it is a discipline to which we must commit ourselves. (Read the full article from Relevant.)
What does this have to do with church?
What might it look like for a church to commit itself to the discipline of poetry, as a means of deepening their capacity for attention?
You might hesitate, wondering if the members of your congregation even want to read poetry. But most likely, they already do! If musical worship, psalms, or liturgical prayers are part of your weekly services, you are using poetry in your church. However, in worship services, we are too often inclined not to incorporate time to reflect on and devote some attention to these forms of poetry. If you’re like me, some songs (poetry set to music) have a way of sticking in our heads, and so they are an opportunity to carry that form of poetry with us as we leave the worship service and go about our week. Can we do this with other poetic forms? Certainly, we will need moments of silent reflection in our worship services, which help to create space for paying attention to the poetry. Is your church equipping its members well to engage and understand these poetic forms?
But poetry also has a role to play outside of gathered worship and can become a life-giving and transformative part of our individual connection with God. Because of the different sort of attention it requires, poetry can be a tool toward helping us slow down the pace of our thinking and our lives. If prayer or scripture reading feels difficult or stale, incorporating poetry can breathe new life and imagination into these practices. Through poetry, we encounter new images and fresh language, which wake us up from stale routine and help us reimagine and recommune with the God who uses language and words to create and connect.
Does your church have a practice of engaging poetry? What does that look like? What fruits might emerge from this practice in your life together?
Where to begin?
While the internet sometimes diminishes our capacity for attention, it also gives us opportunities to connect with writers who are crafting beautiful and spiritual poetry to explore our faith and connect with God. Consider some poetry from Drew Jackson, Malcolm Guite, Tania Runyan, or The Rabbit Room.
Each week, The Englewood Review of Books publishes a collection of classic and contemporary poetry that accompanies the scripture readings from the Revised Common Lectionary. Read these poems in your personal devotional time, or communally in congregational worship. (This coming Sunday, November 30, is the first Sunday of Advent—a perfect time begin this new practice!)
Our friends at The Ekklesia Project will host a Zoom gathering on December 13 at noon EST to read and discuss the poetry of Advent, Christmas, and Epiphany. Register here.
ICYMI:
In case you missed it, a round of up links and news from Cultivating Communities and The Englewood Review of Books:
Have you taken our 2-minute survey? If you are part of a church congregation, we’d love to know a little bit more about how your church engages its neighbors and place.
The ERB published a holiday gift guide! Get ideas for all the thoughtful readers on your Christmas list.
Shane Claiborne’s newest book, Of Grace and Bombs: A Peacemaker’s Iraq War Journal is available now in paperback and ebook. Part historical record, part memoir, part theological reflection, this book explores how Christians should respond to the violent age in which we live.
I’m leading a poetry of Advent class for my church on Sunday mornings this season. This is the perfect post to explain why we need poetry in this time of attentive waiting!
Thank you for the shout-out! :)