Newmania 19: A tottering pilgrim writes
An illustration of how Newman was regarded as a spiritual counsellor is given in a letter written to him while still an Anglican priest, sixteen months before he entered the Catholic Church. It came from John Bramston, who had been a fellow of Oriel at the same time as Newman and was then an Anglican vicar:
My dear Newman:
I must write one line to you to tell you of the deep affliction it has pleased God to visit me withal–My dearest wife breathed her last breath this morning at 2 o clock. She had long desired to depart out of this world, for her gentle and pure and confiding spirit was no match for the rough ways of this sinful world–she felt her own infirmities so keenly that she could not endure being of no use, as she thought, to any one. But if there was one upon earth who came under the description of our blessed Saviour, as pure in heart, she was.
She always remembered with lively interest the little visit you paid us at Baddow–and took a great interest in every thing which came from you or befell you.
But my purpose in writing is to ask you to give me a few words to do me good–When I lived at Oxford for a short time, I think [I] received more spiritual good from your conversation than you thought of–and since that time I have from your published works gained very great instruction, comfort and support. As you have therefore no parish, consider me for a few minutes one of your children in the faith and write me what you think I need in a state of desolation and bereavement.
I can see God’s hand clearly in this blow, and I think I can say from my heart I would not have it otherwise–but how is it to be improved? I think my tendency is to busy ways, and constant occupation and so to have too little time for meditation, and retirement and prayer.
Give me a line my dear friend and you may be blessed to support a tottering pilgrim in the narrow way.
To which Newman replied:
My dear Bramston:
Indeed you are not wrong in thinking that I should be deeply pained at the news contained in your letter. If sympathy is a warrant for my writing to you, I have it. I never have forgotten my visit to Baddow–I have often thought of your wife–and whenever I did, it was with the hope I should some day see her again….
I quite believe her to be what you describe–I am sure–I feel–that she was, from what I saw of her. In great truth I say that there is no one scarcely whom I have seen but once, but whose memory has been so fixed in me as hers. Ah–how great your loss must be–may God support you under it–and He will do so–It is no unkindness in me thus to speak of it–I am not augmenting your pain–I trust not–As is the pain, so is the consolation.
…. Time comes and goes–years pass–but kind deeds, warm affections, services of love, the religious ties which bind heart to heart, remain. This sorrowful time will pass away–but you will not lose what for the moment you may seem to have lost irrevocably. You will have greater comfort in looking back upon the past than you can now believe possible. Indeed you will–and it will make you look to the future–for you are from henceforth by God’s great mercy one of those who have their ‘treasure in heaven.’
I do really and most fully believe that you are thus visited from God’s especial love to you–and may you be enabled to accept duly and profit by this great though most awful mercy! It is plain indeed, you must know it as well as I, that I am not the person to teach or admonish you. It would indeed be a great forgetfulness of his place, if a person so evidently untrustworthy as I am in religious matters, attempted to do so. Yet since you ask me a question, I will in a few words answer it.
Your intention then, at which you hint, of giving additional time henceforth to meditation or similar exercises, promises the very best consequences. Such exercises are our very great want at present. We all must know in a measure their advantages, particularly in a day when our necessary occupations tend to make us little better than outside Christians. I think it would be imprudent to make any sudden resolution or one which is likely to oppress or perplex you, but I think you have accurately pointed out what is most likely to do you, as any of us, real good. (LD, X, 207-209)
One can hear in the third paragraph an echo of Newman’s own experience of having lost his beloved sister Mary at the age of nineteen in 1828. His description in the next paragraph of himself as “so evidently untrustworthy …in religious matters” may reflect the state of uncertainty and decision he was in about his relationship with the Church of England and the prospect of his going over to Rome.
What a fascinating glimpse of one whose intellectual powers were so evident, and yet he approached this personal ministry with such humility and even uncertainty (a feeling with which I suspect all of us can empathize).
I’m a sucker for Victorian sentimentality, as encapsuled by the “treasure in heaven” line.
The second paragraph, where the syntax and punctuation mirror the seemingly spontaneous flow of thought and emotion, is also very beautiful. One can imagine the help that this letter was to his friend.
I didn’t find that line sentimental, and certainly not the whole paragraph in which it appears. I think that grieving about what is lost eventually can give way to gratitude for what has been, and is now experienced as not utterly lost, and that is, as Newman said, a great comfort. Looking forward, in the communion of saints, to a reunion with the one who has died is also part of our Christian hope, I think.
I was struck by the basic attitude, in both writers, of faith, which does not diminish the sense of affliction, which in turn is experienced within the embrace of faith. So for Bramston, his wife’s death is a “deep affliction,” and he finds himself in a state of desolation and bereavement”; but it is something that “it has pleased God to visit” him with, and he can write that he “can see God’s hand clearly in this blow.” Newman echoes this when he speaks of God’s special love and when he describes it as “this great though most awful mercy.”
Interesting word “sentimental”. For some it is positive, for some negative. Or is it the context that makes it good or bad? “Sentimentality” is generally negative, I think. And “Victorian sentimentality” seems to be something else again. Hmm.
I doubt you’d find many men these days writing like Newman and his friend, but I think we could use some sentimentality or whatever you want to call it. Consider today’s popular music, for instance. Singers just seem to shout.
Two people, Bramston and Newman who listen to each other in the light of their shared faith. A model for the relationship among mature Christians. Here is a pastor who listens to his sheep and answers with humility and respect.
I and others I know would deeply appreciate such a pastor. Alas, we get so many prepackaged answers!
What strikes me is that Bramston is trying to console himself with the old bromide, “she died b/c she was too good for this world” –and it isn’t working. Newman replies with sensible advice: Be a Christian and find consolation in a life of service to others.
I don’t see anything particularly sentimental here, either. Victorian prose doesn’t have the sharp edges we like now, but the sincerity of the writing still comes through.
It’s also nice to think that an almost-Catholic could believe an Anglican vicar had stored enough treasure in Heaven to make the admission fee. I like to think that this was not a view Newman revised despite his later comments about the false teachings of Anglicanism.
Thanks for posting.
Fr Komonchak linked to this earlier this summer: (http://www.newmanreader.org/works/parochial/volume4/sermon20.html)
St. John, his brother, had still more to bear, dying last of the Apostles, as St. James first. He had to hear bereavement, first, of his brother, then of the other Apostles. He had to bear a length of years in loneliness, exile, and weakness. He had to experience the dreariness of being solitary, when those whom he loved had been summoned away. He had to live in his own thoughts, without familiar friend, with those only about him who belonged to a younger generation. Of him were demanded by his gracious Lord, as pledges of his faith, all his eye loved and his heart held converse with. He was as a man moving his goods into a far country, who at intervals and by portions sends them before him, till his present abode is well-nigh unfurnished. He sent forward his friends on their journey, while he stayed himself behind, that there might be those in heaven to have thoughts of him, to look out for him, and receive him when his Lord should call. He sent before him, also, other still more voluntary pledges and ventures of his faith,—a self-denying walk, a zealous maintenance of the truth, fasting and prayers, labours of love, a virgin life, buffetings from the heathen, persecution, and banishment. Well might so great a Saint say, at the end of his days “Come, Lord Jesus!” as those who are weary of the night, and wait for the morning. All his thoughts, all his contemplations, desires, and hopes, were stored in the invisible world; and death, when it came, brought back to him the sight of what he had worshipped, what he had loved, what he had held intercourse with, in years long past away. Then, when again brought into the presence of what he had lost, how would remembrance revive, and familiar thoughts long buried come to life! Who shall dare to describe the blessedness of those who find all their pledges safe returned to them, all their ventures abundantly and beyond measure satisfied?
I was thinking of this just today — someone I know lost her dog, husband, only sibling, and only (adult) child, all in the span of just 18 months, and I was wondering what I would say to her next time I called her. This post (in its 3rd paragraph) gives me more pointers… thank you!
Claire, as someone who has experienced several deaths in the past two years, I would suggest you refrain from trying to say anything other than, “Do you have time for coffee?”
Let your friend take the lead. If she wants inspiring words as John Bramston did, by all means improvise on paragraph 3. She may, however, just want the semblance of a “normal” hour or two in the company of somebody who cares.
Patience, forbearance, and loyalty need no words, and they sometimes set you up a whole lot more than a lot of pretty words. Even Newman’s.
My prayers go out to your friend and to you.