It feels a little odd to kick things off with Gregory of Nazianzus. He doesn’t have the star power of Augustine, Calvin, Luther, or the other big-name denominational theologians. My theology nerd friends haven’t really read him, and truth be told, I only ended up reading his poetry by mistake. I confused him with Gregory of Nyssa when I was ordering books (strangely enough, the two Gregory of N’s were dear friends in life, so I wasn’t far off). I’m glad I made that mistake! Gregory is the poet theologian that I didn’t know I needed. Here’s why:
1. He’s succinct.
There are plenty of massive theology tomes out there that will take you months to properly understand (if not years). And most people don’t read them for a simple reason: who has the time for all that? Gregory’s poems are something you do have time for. In his explanatory poem On His Own Verses, he writes”
By working for others, I wished
to subdue my own unmeasuredness;
indeed, though I write, I don’t write much
when toiling on meter. (35-37)
“Measuredness” was something of a theme in Gregory’s life. As the archbishop of Constantinople, Gregory was used to talking a lot. He railed against heresies! He pontificated about good theology! He led the Church where it needed to be! But after he retired, his life took a different, quieter tone. Starting in 375, he spent 3 years among monks. During Lent of the year 382, he took a vow of silence, only communicating through sign language. His poetry is one more post-retirement attempt to tame his tongue. Consequently, you don’t need years to get read them them. You can knock out a couple during your lunch break.
2. He has a ridiculous amount of personality.
Gregory’s poetry is just fun. Even though he’s this serious, saintly theologian, his writing is always delightfully human. For example, when he addressed people that thought his poetry was bad, I assumed he would tell them something generically saintly. Something like, “If you don’t like these poems, then I beg your forgiveness. My words are a poor tool to represent a being as great as God. You may doubt my eloquence, but don’t doubt him.” Nope:
If these things are petty, do grander ones yourself
You revile meter? No wonder, when you’re meterless,
An iamb-manufacturer, scribbling abortions. (On His Own Verses, 67-70)
Or how about when he’s addressing Christians that refuse to acknowledge the equality of the Father and the Son:
if, rendering offerings to the great Father’s Godhead
worthlessly, and gravening in your heart a hollow fear
you’d deny this thing, and would hurl Christ out amongst creatures,
you insult, O nitwit, the divinity of them both! (On the Son, 40-44)
Not a dull moment here!
It’s not all hotheadedness either. For a significant portion of his poetry, Gregory is wrestling with a profound sadness. There’s no better example than the poem that he wrote when his best friend died: Epitaph to St. Basil:
I had thought that a body could as well
Live without a soul
As me without you.
Basil, beloved servant of Christ;
But you’re gone and I remain.
What’ll become of us?
Will you not set me, when I arise,
There with you in the choir of the blessed?
No, don’t leave me: I swear by my grave
I won’t leave yours, not willingly.
You have Gregory’s word.
It brings tears to my eyes each time. I’m not saying every poem is going to do that, but I can promise that Gregory never holds back. This isn’t dry, dusty theological poetry. It’s vibrant and human! Which leads to a third reason I love his poetry:
3. His beliefs are beautiful.
They really are. Not everyone sees that at first. There aren’t exactly a ton of Amazon reviews on Gregory’s poetry (the copy I’m using, anyway), but a handful of those few complain that Gregory’s poems are too didactic. They say that they’re tools to express his theology, not genuine pieces of art. I think they’re dead wrong.
Admittedly, they don’t rhyme, and their meter isn’t consistent, but these are ancient translated poems. Can we hold them to the same standards as Shakespeare? Besides, there’s plenty of poems out there that don’t rhyme or have consistent meter. If anything, those tend to be seen as more avant garde. We have to look for the beauty of these ancient poems on their own terms. If anything, his poetry beautifies and elevates the disciple of doctrine. Take a snippet of his description of God:
There is one God, without beginning or cause, not limited
By anything existing before, or afterwards to be,
Encompassing the aeons, and infinite. (On the Father, 25-27)
Or the description of his own humanity:
I am soul and body: the one, an efflux of divinity,
Of infinite light: the other was formed for you
From a murky root. (Concerning the World, 32-34)
Sure, it’s directed, doctrinal theology, but the way he spins beautiful words around ideas is beautiful. It’s not just doctrine; it’s art.
With his brevity, his raw humanity, and his beautiful articulation, Gregory has crafted something for the ages. It all makes me wonder, why is so much of modern doctrine dull? We hammer out what we believe in terms that are definitely precise, but if doctrine is the truth of God, shouldn’t it be the culmination of every discipline? Not only philosophy and science, but poetry, art, and music? Why shouldn’t the truth of the most high God be worthy of an art museum? And by no means do I mean that it ought to always please us, as so many inspirational Christian wall hangings strive to do. A lot of art isn’t easy for humanity to swallow, but it’s beautiful all the same. Dostoyevsky famously wrote, “Beauty will save the world.” If God is true beauty (and a fervent Christian like Dostoyevsky knew that he was), I have to imagine that he’s right. We need more theological poets like Gregory in the world. We need people to help articulate beautiful beliefs, not only for evangelization and inspiration, but to write things worthy of God.