I Told My Love a Story That Had No End

Back in the day, my father took guitar lessons on TV. PBS did this thing where you could watch and play along, and buy the book by mail order, so he did. My dad was pretty interested in education--his and ours. He picked up a few chords and played the folk songs in the book, one of which was

I gave my love a cherry

That had no stone

I gave my love a chicken

That had no bone

I told my love a story

That had no end

I gave my love a baby

With no crying.

How can there be a cherry

That has no stone?

And how can there be a chicken

That has no bone?

And how can there be a story

That has no end?

And how can there be a baby

With no crying?

A cherry when it's blooming

It has no stone

A chicken when in the shell

It has no bone

The story of how I love you

It has no end

A baby when it's sleeping

It's no crying.

Paradox and the resolution of paradox: that's the stuff of love, and of love lost, and of love regained--in other words, of the spiritual life. When God first revealed himself to Moses, who would know him in the intimacy of friendship, He came in the form of a paradox: a bush that burned without being consumed. "I Am Who Am," He said. God speaks in riddles and parables, and sometimes, as with Moses after their friendship had deepened, face to face.

The activity of the Holy Spirit in the Christian life is like a fire that burns without consuming. The goal of the Christian life is not, as in some non-Christian spiritualities, the eradication of personal being. Quite the opposite. God intends always to increase our being, and by doing so, He increases His own renown and glory. But in order to increase our being we must consent to decrease our sin and selfishness. We can become God-like, but only at the cost of having the dross of our bad habits burned away. It feels like we are going to die, and we are, but through submission to God's will in Christ, we are, by dying, destined for new and better life: our own life, but made anew. St. John of the Cross put the process into a poem:

O living flame of love

that tenderly wounds my soul

in its deepest center!

Since now you are not oppressive,

now consummate! if it be your will:

tear through the veil of this sweet encounter!

O sweet cautery,

O delightful wound!

O gentle hand!

O delicate touch

that tastes of eternal life

and pays every debt!

In killing you changed death to life.

O lamps of fire!in whose splendors

the deep caverns of feeling,

once obscure and blind,

now give forth,

so rarely, so exquisitely,

both warmth and light to their Beloved.

How gently and lovingly

you wake in my heart,

where in secret you dwell alone;

and in your sweet breathing,

filled with good and glory,

how tenderly you swell my heart with love.

About a century before John's birth, Bianco of Siena, a member of a preaching band, wrote a hymn to the Holy Spirit, asking for the process, God's will, to occur. His hymn was translated in the 19th century by Richard F. Littledale and admirably set by Ralph Vaughan Williams. It's one of those rare hymns that seems attuned to both the human voice and the ear of the Lord. Perhaps this is just one hymn writer's opinion, but I fancy God responds to those who sing it with their hearts open to its implications:

Come down, O love divine,

seek Thou this soul of mine,

And visit it with Thine own ardor glowing.

O Comforter, draw near,

within my heart appear,

And kindle it, Thy holy flame bestowing.

O let it freely burn,

til earthly passions turn

To dust and ashes in its heat consuming;

And let Thy glorious light

shine ever on my sight,

And clothe me round, the while my path illuming.

Let holy charity

mine outward vesture be,

And lowliness become mine inner clothing;

True lowliness of heart,

which takes the humbler part,

And o’er its own shortcomings weeps with loathing.

And so the yearning strong,

with which the soul will long,

Shall far outpass the power of human telling;

For none can guess its grace,

till he become the place

Wherein the Holy Spirit makes His dwelling.