(…continued) One long ago writer who struggled with this issue was John Donne (1572-1631; pictured above). Donne lived during the reign of King James, the king who authorized the first official (and first legal) translation of the Bible into English (1611). William Shakespeare was also a contemporary. Excellent writing and eloquent speaking were much appreciated in London in those days, and John Donne was among the best. He was a poet, and his poetry still appears in many high school and college English textbooks.
John Donne’s endured much suffering in his 57 years. After a wild and irresponsible youth, he finally settled down, got married, and worked as a government official. But his father-in-law did not like him, found a reason to get him thrown into prison, and broke up the marriage. Donne wrote this poem about the ordeal:
John Donne
Anne Donne
Undone.
Donne was in prison for only a few days, and the courts upheld the legality of his marriage. But the scandal ruined his political career, and he could not find work. He and his wife lived in poverty for sixteen years, during which time Anne gave birth to twelve children, five of whom died in infancy. Anne died in 1617, just five days after giving birth to their twelfth child.
During this time, Donne converted to the Church of England. Years before, he had been a good student, and he was beginning to achieve some recognition as a writer. So, he finished his education and became a priest at the age of 42. He took a call to a small parish, and it was there that Anne died.
Donne’s powerful sermons were noticed, and word of him reached the king. King James appointed him to Saint Paul’s Cathedral, the largest congregation in London at that time. Donne arrived in London just in time for an outbreak of the bubonic plague. His days were immediately consumed with funerals and pastoral care of the sick and dying. Then after two years, John Donne himself got sick. He was diagnosed with the plague and fully expected to die. For six weeks he was completely bedridden, not able to get well, and not able to die.
Then, to the great surprise of all, he got better. It turned out he did not have the plague, but some other disease from which he was able to recover. But for six weeks he was violently ill, certain he was on his deathbed. Of that time, he wrote (paraphrased), “Who, if he knew beforehand what misery he would have to face in this life, would want to be born under these conditions?”
Throughout his illness Donne continued to write sermons, meditations, poems, and devotions. He wrote for himself and for his parishioners, as he tried to understand God and the reasons for their suffering. His writings go over the whole range of responses to suffering, from anger, despair, and confusion; to acceptance, repentance, and a deeper faith.
He begins by quietly accepting his illness as God’s just punishment for his sin. He even said, “In my youth I sinned much by taking to bed many who were not my wife. Now God seems to be saying to me, ‘You liked to be in bed so much; now I will nail you to it.’” Donne had great guilt over his past sins, and he imagined his bed-ridden illness as God’s mocking punishment.
Donne also at this time began to look forward to his approaching death as one looks forward to a good night’s sleep. After a hard day’s work, one looks forward to the night’s rest, and then, to waking up refreshed in the morning. Donne, after a hard life, looked forward to the rest he would receive in death; then, to enjoy waking up in God’s heavenly home.
As the illness and intense suffering dragged on, Donne’s acceptance turned to anger. He began to wrestle with God and question God’s goodness. As Donne looked back on his life, the facts did not add up. After spending years in confused and sinful wandering, he finally dedicated his life to God. But then he lost several children, his wife died, and he was at death’s door. In his anger he, like Job, taunted God, challenging him to explain himself. But through it all, Donne, again like Job, did not abandon God, but continued the relationship and the conversation.
The disease wore on and on, with no answers from God. Then Donne started to think not about his illness, but about his health—when he had it. He came to realize that for most of the time when he had his health, he had no time for God. He then only thought about himself and his own pleasures. Only when this life started to break him, with imprisonment, poverty, the death of his children, his wife’s chronic illness and death, and then his own illness; only then did he really return to God. Donne wrote, “I needed Thy thunder, O Lord, because Thy music did not reach me.” God’s blessings, the music in his life, did not fill him with gratitude to God. But God’s thunder, the afflictions he sent, brought John Donne to his knees in humble gratitude and faith.
Sometimes the immediate reaction to tragedy and pain is to reject God. “I used to go to church, but how can I believe in a God who let this happen to me?” But we, who see so little of eternity, are in a poor position to judge God. We can learn from John Donne that by staying with God, and continuing to bring it all to Him, we can endure until, in eternity, we will see that “our present sufferings are not worth comparing with the glory that will be revealed in us” (Romans 8:18).
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TWO PRAYERS AND A SONNET by JOHN DONNE:
Wilt Thou forgive that sin where I began, which was my sin, though it were done before? Wilt Thou forgive that sin through which I run, and do run still, though still I do deplore? Thou art not done yet, for I have more. Wilt Thou forgive that sin by which I have won others to sin, and made my sin their door? Wilt Thou forgive that sin which I did shun a year or two, but wallowed in a score? Still, I have more. I have a sin of fear, that when I’ve spun my last thread, I shall perish on the shore. But swear by Thyself, Lord, that at my death Thy Son shall shine as He shines now, and heretofore. And Thou having done that, I fear no more.
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O Lord, there is no rest in my bones, because of my sin. Transfer my sins, with which thou art so displeased, upon Him with whom thou art so well pleased, Christ Jesus. Then, and only then, will be rest in my bones.
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DEATH, BE NOT PROUD
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell’st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
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