Recently in a session of
Jeopardy on TV, a quote was given as the clue and the contestants asked to give
the name of the author being quoted. In
reference to marriage, “Love one another, but make not a bond of love; let it
rather be a moving sea between the shores of your souls.” To my astonishment none of the three bright
and learned participants playing the game that evening knew the answer. Nobody even signaled in or made an educated
guess. I concluded from that
demonstration of unfamiliarity that the name of Kahlil Gibran must be fading
from the memory of even the most well-informed among us. But a few weeks later I had the opportunity
to build an entire morning worship service at my church around “The Prophet,”
the literary work of his from which that quote was taken, and I was gratified
to find out after the service was concluded that many in the congregation had
not only read it but some owned a copy and had poured over it more than
once. My skepticism and fear were
immediately dispelled.
Gibran
was born in Lebanon in 1883 and lived until 1931; he died a middle-aged man,
but left behind a great legacy of a dozen writings, of which “The Prophet” has
sold the most copies by far involving one hundred and forty-three English
language printings. He himself
considered it his best work, published in 1923 when he was already fifty years
old, eight years before his death. Over
the last ninety years it has gained a place of exceptional renown among
religious thinkers and students of sacred works.
In
the book a man by the name of Almustafa, who has lived in the city of Orphales
for many years and has endeared himself to the people there, is about to take
passage on a ship and return to his homeland, from which he has long been
separated. He leaves with mixed
emotions, longing for home but in sorrow over departing from his friends. Before he departs, the people of the
community hear of it, leave their places of work and congregate in the huge
square in front of the town temple.
There they surround him, one who they have come to regard as a prophet
of God, and they entreat him not to leave in haste but to speak to them his
words of wisdom before departing. They
ask him to expound on many vital subjects, and he obliges them. Different people in the crowd raise different
themes. Each chapter is an answer to a
specific thematic request.
I feel hampered in writing
about “The Prophet.” I would love to
inundate the eyes and minds and hearts of my readers with quotes from it. There have been several books just of his
quotes that have been published under separate cover. (Google him and you will see.) His words have filled much of the known
world. Nevertheless, please excuse me
from yielding to the demands of limited space and not exhausting all the
possibilities. Here are just a few.
I will start with what he has
to say about children and parents:
“Your
children are not your children. They are
the sons and daughters of Life’s longing for itself. They come through you but not from you, and
though they are with you, yet they belong not to you. . .You may give them your
love, but not your thoughts, for they have their own thoughts. You may house their bodies, but not their
souls, for their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow, which you cannot visit,
not even in your dreams. . .You are the bows from which your children as living
arrows are sent forth.”
Concerning giving:
“What
are your possessions but things you keep and guard for fear you may need them
tomorrow? . . There are those who give and know not pain in giving, nor do they
seek joy, nor give with mindfulness of virtue.
They give as . . .the myrtle breathes its fragrance into space. Through the hands of such as these God
speaks.”
“Though
Comfort’s hands are silken, its heart is of iron. It lulls you to sleep only to stand by your
bed and jeer at the dignity of your flesh.
The lust for Comfort murders the passion of the soul.”
“Work
is love made visible.”
“Your
reason and your passion are the rudder and the sails of your seafaring
soul. If either your sails or your
rudder be broken, you can only toss and drift, or else be held at a standstill
in mid-seas. For reason, ruling alone,
is a force confining; and passion, unattended, is a flame that burns to its own
destruction. Therefore, let your soul
exalt your reason to the height of passion, that it may sing; and let [your
soul] direct your passion with reason, that your passion may live through its
own daily resurrection. . .”
“Life
and death are one, even as the river and the sea are one. . .For what is it to
die but to stand naked in the wind and to melt into the sun? What is it to cease breathing but to free the
breath from its restless tides that it may rise and expand and seek God
unencumbered?”
“When you part from [a] friend, grieve
not. For that which you love most in
[that individual] may be clearer in his [or her] absence, just as the mountain
to the climber is clearer from the plain.”
“Your
joy is your sorrow unmasked. The
selfsame well from which your laughter rises is oftentimes filled with your
tears. How else can it be? . . . The
deeper that sorrow carves into your being, the more joy you can contain. When
you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that
which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy. . .When you are sorrowful,
look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for
that which has been your delight. Some
of you say, ‘Joy is greater than sorrow,’ and others say, ‘Nay, sorrow is
greater.’ But I say unto you, they are
inseparable.”
Where could we find more
transforming and grounding words of wisdom than this man offers us? I consider the book supreme devotional
material. I keep it at my side during my
daily quiet time, valuing everything in it as much as I value the Ten
Commandments or the Beatitudes or the Sermon on the Mount. The book transcends religious and
denominational distinctions, leaping over barriers of cult and culture, form
and fashion, ritual and rubric, sect and tradition. He speaks a universal but profoundly
spiritual and ecumenical language.
Aside from being a poet and
philosopher, Gibran was also an artist.
Dispersed throughout Alfred A. Knopf’s published text are paintings of
his that portray nude male and female figures gracefully posed as if engaged in
an otherworldly ballet. Look at them one
moment and you might think you see departed souls hovering in the clouds. At another you might see primal forces at
work or an erotic celebration or abstract prayerful meditations. They are done in black and white, not in
color, which for me makes them more mysterious.
Rich discussion could be spawned just by a group study of these
drawings, which have been displayed on occasion in museums around the
world.
Gibran is conservative to the
extent that he addresses age old subject matter and liberal in that he
engenders the liberation of the spirit as opposed to its legalistic
imprisonment. His language is not that
of a fiery orator behind a bully pulpit; he does not lay down the law. He simply invites consideration of his ideas
and does so as one friend speaking to another.
At least that is the way I experience him. There is, in fact, one other quote from his
book that seems to capture this central motif.
It comes in answer to a request for him to tell about the gift of
teaching. “No one can reveal to you anything but that
which already lies half asleep in the dawning of your own knowledge. The teacher. . .who is wise does not bid you
enter the house of his [or her] wisdom, but rather leads you to the threshold
of your own mind.” Gibran does that in a
fashion unlike that of anyone else that I know.
“The
Prophet” is one of those rare treatises that cannot possibly be absorbed in one
reading. Only parts of the Bible and a
few other great masterpieces can boast as much.
The repeated readings of which
those in my congregation spoke do not have to be explained to me. I myself am presently engaged in my fourth
reading, and I already am convinced that there will be a fifth. Is it any wonder that Gibran held onto his
manuscript for four years before he finally submitted it to his publisher! You can tell, from its poetic vibrancy and
its sheer literary beauty of expression, that he knew he was in possession of
something rare and lasting. Let’s let
him say it in his own words: “I wanted to be very sure that every word of it
was the best I had to offer.” It must
have quivered in his hand. I know it
quivers in mine, and in my very soul.
To read other entries in my
blog, please consult its website:
enspiritus.blogspot.com
I welcome feedback. Direct it to bobracine@verizon.net
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