The Apostle Paul is known for his elongated prose and brilliant rhetoric. He also is known for quoting poetry and surprisingly embedding his own poetry in a few of his letters. Some great examples are Colossians 1:15-20, 1 Timothy 1:17, 3:16, 6:15-16 and 2 Timothy 2:11-13.
This morning my pastor, Hagop Tchobanian, preached an excellent message on the first part of Phillippians 2. In this portion of Scripture, Paul includes a creedal-like poem in Philippians 2:6-11. Below is a sonnet I wrote that aims to convey the paradox presented in this Pauline poem, that Jesus Christ is both God and Man. It is called, “Divine Paradox: After Philippians 2:6–11.”
Last week, Christian apologist Ravi Zacharias (1946-2020) passed away. We rejoice in the fact that Ravi is with his saviour in glory, yet we still grieve our loss. Death hurts even though death is common to us all. The writer of Ecclesiastes bluntly states, “For the living know that they will die,” and there’s “a time to be born, and a time to die” (Ecclesiastes 3:2; 9:5).
Death is a major theme in Shakespeare’s Hamlet. Some scholars argue that he wrote this play shortly after the death of his own son Hamnet at age 11. It is no surprise that the play Hamlet wrestles with the bewildering and unsettling reality of death and the loss of loved ones. One of the earliest scenes in the play has Hamlet speaking with his mother and uncle about the death of his father. Hamlet’s mother questions Hamlet’s persistent mourning for his father, telling him not to “seek for thy father in the dust. Thou knowest ’tis common. All that lives must die, passing through nature to eternity” (I.ii.72-74). Hamlet’s uncle chastises him for his “stubbornness” and “obstinate condolement,” stating that “you must know, your father lost a father. That father lost, lost his…” (I.ii.91-92, 95-96). The argument is simple: death happens to all of us. It is normal, and it is natural. Get over it.
As common as death is, however, it never seems natural or normal for death to be in the world. As human beings, we feel as though we were meant to live forever and never to experience the death of loved ones. If it were natural, then death would feel the same as thirst or hunger, merely natural bodily functions. Yet death is abnormal. The Bible is clear that we were made to live forever; death entered the world as a consequence of turning away from our Creator (Genesis 3:19). Paul writes in Romans, “just as sin came into the world through one man, and death through sin, and so death spread to all men because all sinned” (Romans 5:12). Sin and death are our biggest problems in life. We were meant to be holy, alive, and in fellowship with our God.
C.S. Lewis observes in his classic book, Mere Christianity, that “Creatures are not born with desires unless satisfaction for those desires exists. A baby feels hunger: well, there is such a thing as food. A duckling wants to swim: well, there is such a thing as water. Men feel sexual desire: well, there is such a thing as sex. If I find in myself a desire which no experience in this world can satisfy, the most probable explanation is that I was made for another world.” We have a desire to live forever, to be good, to be known, and to be loved. Sin and death stand as obstacles to our fundamental desire as human beings. This is because we were made for another world.
Our culture seems to be diminishing death as an enemy. Celebrations of life have replaced funerals. Assisted suicide is considered medical treatment for terminal illnesses and ageing. Abortion is celebrated as a hallmark of freedom. Death is part of the natural “circle of life,” the answer for death given by Elton John and Disney. Treating death as a normal step in life may offer a superficial anesthetic to the pain of loss, but it isn’t helpful in the long run. The Bible says that “the last enemy to be destroyed is death” (1 Corinthians 15:26). The Christian knows that death isn't right, and the Christian knows that only God can deal with death.
The poem I wrote, “not natural, not normal,” is about death and what Jesus does about it. “He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away” (Revelation 21:4). Amen!
There are times when our prayers seem to go off course, like a ship drifting towards rocky shoals. How do we "right the ship"? One powerful way is to look to the Scriptures and speak God's Word back to Him. Here is a new poem I wrote that addresses this; it's called "Righting prayer's ship" (3 min 29 sec)
Although good poetry is often complex and enigmatic, there is a value in verse that is both lucid and lyrical. The poetry of the Psalms, for example, is beautiful yet understandable at first glance. Worship songs and hymns are other examples of lyrical yet easy to understand poetry. In his poem “Jordan (1),” the 17th century English poet George Herbert challenges his fellow poets’ penchant for convoluted verse. Instead, he argues for clarity: “is all good structure a winding stair? […] Must all be veil’d, while he that reads, divines, catching the sense at two removes?” Reading poetry doesn’t have to resemble ascending (or descending?) a staircase designed by M. C. Escher. Like Herbert, I believe there is room for good poetry that clearly speaks to the reader. Here is a pair of sonnets I wrote that are intended to be clear (I hope!) but also meaningful. The pair of poems is called "Symposium," and the sonnets represent a glipmse into a discussion between a preacher and a lost soul.
 George Herbert, “Jordan (1)” The Temple (UK: Penguin Classics, 2017), 76.
Before Christ awakens our soul to a new life in him, we may be quite content with our lives. We feel as though we are kings of our circumstances, and we believe that we are free to live and do as we please. In truth, we are bound by the world, our flesh, and the evil one. Although we “rule” a space no bigger than a nutshell, we count ourselves a “king of infinite space.” This line (and the title of this sonnet) comes from Shakespeare’s Hamlet, where Hamlet states that, like us, he would be content to be king of a trouble-free kingdom, even if it’s as small as a nutshell.
Yet, thankfully, Christ doesn’t leave us to our false comforts and our delusions of kingship… he unravels a person’s life, shatters our crowns, and breaks our scepters. In her book, The Secret Thoughts of an Unlikely Convert, Rosaria Butterfield calls her conversion to Christianity a “train-wreck” as she describes how Christ dramatically upended her life, her career, and her relationships. The metaphor is apt—Christ literally breaks into our lives, shattering our old ways of doing things and our old ways of thinking about things. Although an incalculable blessing, being “born again” is as dramatic as physical birth. When we encounter God, we meet the true King of Infinite Space. This poem is meant to capture this conversion experience.
 Rosaria Butterfield, The Secret Thoughts of an Unlikely Convert (Pittsburgh: Crown & Covenant, 2012), 25.
I travelled to Great Britain a few years ago with my wife. On our first day exploring the sprawling city of London, we came upon St. Paul’s Cathedral. The early 18th century cathedral is an architectural masterpiece designed by Christopher Wren; however, what we found when we went inside was no mere monument to a man’s creative and engineering genius. We found a place to worship God. I wrote this poem describing our experience attending an evensong service at St. Paul’s.
Evensong at St. Paul’s
Jeremy W. Johnston
In a city of beautiful buildings, here is another,
yet unlike any other: St. Paul’s.
We walk, we gaze, we wonder
is there time?--
The evening is here. Day is closing for the day.
But then a sign
calls us—a literal sign—invites us to
We climb up stone steps, enter in.
Even the small doors seem massive doors,
weighty tomes hanging on brass hinges
that shut out distractions, shut in the distracted.
The walking and talking and busyness and bustle all
become strangely dim. Silence becomes our song.
We are submerged into the stunning stillness.
So much larger on the inside.
Look up, can’t help but look up—in life we need to look up more.
A twilight, sky-like ceiling and world-like walls, so vast yet still too small.
Even here is too finite for the infinite to
This man-made place for the maker of man:
the best we can do—this! is barely a droplet of dew.
Outside, we’re wanderers in this city, tourists in town, set apart, outsiders.
We’re aliens in—but not of—this urban place.
But in here, inside,
We’re now in and a part of this sacred space.
The ancientness. The art. The Faith. I belong here.
Still I feel painfully exposed and alone.
It’s humbling to be so small for this brief hour.
God seems so distant here because he is echoed everywhere.
Indeed, we are separated by an infinite divide
but we begin to chant, and recite, and sing, and hear of the One
who fills the boundless chasm, who spans the ever-expanding space.
Holy words for Holy God; carefully prepared words,
some ancient, some old, some uttered soft, some spoken bold.
Haunting voices rising up to darkness and mystery--
my ears, my neck, my mind, my skin—I feel the sound of truth
immersing me, gently washing over me like the very breath of God.
Words so right and real; this place, so here and now.
God’s beauty is seen, the goodness of the Good News is heard--
every note, every utterance, every square inch alludes
to his wonder, his transcendence, his descent, his ascent, his nearness,
This is Evensong. This evening service of prayers, Psalms, and singing
a symbol of unity, harmony
a paradox of the near farness of God.
Liturgy, ritual, words recited, words sung--
We’re reminded that this is a religion as well as a relationship.
He is Creator, we are created. We are together, we are alone.
This is not yet heaven, though it is heaven that this hour harkens us to see.
So, despite the wonder, so much to look at, too much to take in,
I still find myself on this earth. My feet still feel the floor.
My body is still a body, pulled down by gravity of the world
So the tide begins to rise, the tide of blood, muscle, and bone rises
over my mind, my soul.
My weary traveller’s bones—the night of flying, the day of walking,
the hunger for seeing, the desire for doing, and the peace
of this place--
overtake me. My lids slip down beneath the surface,
over my eyes,
like the not-so-watchful three in the Garden of Gethsemane.
This edifice, this service, my effort to worship
One who exceeds imagination.
We’re always reaching up, but you, O God,
must always lift us up.
And you do.
Jeremy W. Johnston
Christian, husband, father, teacher, writer.