This Thursday, 31st March, the church commemorates the poet and priest, John Donne (1572 – 1631). He was one of the greatest spiritual writers of the modern age, and he is also recognized today as an important patristic scholar and moral theologian. His poems have been an inspiration to countless Christians down the centuries, invoking an extraordinary sense of beauty and of the profound love of almighty God for humankind.

Donne was born in London and brought up a Roman Catholic. His great uncle was Thomas More, the celebrated Catholic martyr, although this seems to have had little influence on him in his early days as he led a somewhat debauched youth and was extremely sceptical about all religion. He studied at Oxford, Cambridge and probably in Europe, and re-discovered his faith through the Church of England. His early career was as a secretary to Sir Thomas Egerton, a senior minister of Queen Elizabeth I, and he also served as an MP. Later he decided, after much soul-searching, to accept ordination.  Much of his cynicism dissolved and he became a strong advocate for the discerning of Christian vocation, and, in particular, his own vocation as a priest. He eventually became Dean of St. Paul’s cathedral in London where he was a very popular preacher.

However, it is for his poetry that Donne is particularly remembered. He has been classified by some as a metaphysical poet, along with several of his contemporaries. That is to say, his poetry reaches to the very depths, and explores the meaning and origin of all that is. His early poems are passionate, earthy and colourful, although often with a sense of yearning, even regret.  It is in his later “Divine Poems” that Donne seems to discern the extraordinary comfort of God’s love shown to us in his Son, Jesus Christ. The mystery of the incarnation, and particularly the cross and resurrection, are described with tenderness but also with such telling imagery that their meaning and significance become more comprehensible.   They help us to understand.

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 souls delivery.

Thou art slave to Fate, Chance, kings and desperate men,

And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,

And poppy of charms can make us sleep as well,

And better then thy stroke; why swell’st thou then?

One short sleep past, we wake eternally,

And death shall be no more; death, thou shalt die.

(Holy Sonnet X  by John Donne)