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The devotions of Bishop [Leather Bound]
Leather Binding on Spine and Corners with Golden Leaf Printing on round Spine (extra customization on request like complete leather, Golden Screen printing in Front, Color Leather, Colored book etc.) Reprinted in 2019 with the help of original edition published long back []. This book is printed in black & white, sewing binding for longer life, Printed on high quality Paper, re-sized as per Current standards, professionally processed without changing its contents. As these are old books, we processed each page manually and make them readable but in some cases some pages which are blur or missing or black spots. If it is multi volume set, then it is only single volume, if you wish to order a specific or all the volumes you may contact us. We expect that you will understand our compulsion in these books. We found this book important for the readers who want to know more about our old treasure so we brought it back to the shelves. Hope you will like it and give your comments and suggestions. - eng, Pages 488. EXTRA 10 DAYS APART FROM THE NORMAL SHIPPING PERIOD WILL BE REQUIRED FOR LEATHER BOUND BOOKS. COMPLETE LEATHER WILL COST YOU EXTRA US$ 25 APART FROM THE LEATHER BOUND BOOKS. {FOLIO EDITION IS ALSO AVAILABLE.}
488 pages, Leather Bound
First published July 14, 2009
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About the author
Lancelot Andrewes
228 books7 followersEnglish bishop and scholar who held high positions in the Church of England during the reigns of Elizabeth I and James I. During the latter's reign, Andrewes served successively as Bishop of Chichester, of Ely, and of Winchester and oversaw the translation of the King James Version of the Bible (or Authorized Version). In the Church of England he is commemorated on 25 September with a Lesser Festival.
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February 8, 2021
Lancelot Andrewes (1555-1626) was a chaplain to Elizabeth I and later Dean of the Royal Chapel to James I. He was bishop of this and that, and took part in the preparation of the King James Bible.
Known for his elaborate and impressive sermons, on his deathbed, he handed a manuscript to his friend William Laud written in Greek, Hebrew and Latin, bearing the 'marks of long and constant use: it was "slubbered with his pious hands, and watered with his penitential tears".' The manuscript was a daily devotional (a liturgy) that he used for his private prayer. And now, thanks to the wonders of the digital age, you can read it (sans visible slubbering) (for free) on your Kindle.
Andrewes worked, spoke and wrote during a period that is known as the golden age of English literature - a 100-year milieu that, in addition to King James Bible, also brought forth such names as Shakespeare, Donne, Herbert and Milton.
The devotions echo the literary accomplishments of that age (aided, I suppose by the literary inclinations of the translator of this edition, John Henry Newman, in 1840). They are poetically wrought, theologically informed and woven through with the content and style of scripture. Devotional literature was held in high esteem in that period, and the works of those years invariably elicit an air of grandeur and majesty. They revel in the beauty of language.
Some turns of phrase:
'I return into my heart, and with all my heart I turn to Thee...'
'Thou who upholdest the falling and liftest the fallen...'
'a happy death, a deathless happiness.'
Say this one out loud to gain a sense of its rhythm:
'Maker, nourisher, guardian, governor,
preserver, worker, perfecter of all,
Lord and Father,
King and God,
fountain of life and immortality,
treasure of everlasting goods.
Whom the heavens hymn,
and the heaven of heavens,
the Angels and all the heavenly powers,
one to other crying continually,—
and we the while, weak and unworthy,
under their feet,—
Holy, Holy, Holy...'
And as you read, you - the contemporary mind - might have noticed it there: 'we the while, weak and unworthy, under their feet'. Amongst all the lyricism and beauty, this emphasising of unworthiness and sin keeps jumping out as the main refrain or leit motif of the devotions, again, again and again.
At the same time as reading through Andrewes' devotions (using them more or less as intended over the course of two or three weeks), I was also reading Paul Tillich's 'The Courage to Be' (1952). In this book, Tillich examines the ontology of anxiety. He defines three main forms of ontological anxiety (ie anxiety that is inherent in our being as humans), and performs an interesting survey in which he identifies the historical periods in which he claims each of these forms were dominant.
In the 16th and 17th centuries, one of the three - the anxiety of guilt and condemnation - carried over from the middle ages, and got all tangled up with the anxiety of fate and death, rediscovered from the classical age. 'If one period deserves the name the "age of anxiety",' says Tillich, 'it is the pre-Reformation and Reformation... In short they asked ceaselessly: How can I appease the wrath of God, how can I attain divine mercy, the forgiveness of sin?' (p55)
Andrewes' devotions certainly seem to demonstrate this anxiety, as he belabours his own sinfulness - I don't think I'm overstating it to say that this exercise takes up more room than any one other devotional act within the whole.
In one place, Andrewes describes his drastic sinfulness as a 'superfluity of naughtiness'. To our ears it sounds quaint and charming, and brings a smile - it sounds like something I might affectionately accuse my loved ones of when they eat the last chocolate - but Andrewes means it with literal breast-beating and thigh-smitting sincerity.
This kind of confessional self-abasement forms the basis of his devotion. It is the container of his approach to God, as he expresses himself in litanies of remorse and brings his case for rescue with psalmic logic and fervour.
To our ears it sounds over the top, and even disquieting. What seems to be missing, to put it in terms Tillich might use, is the 'acceptance of being accepted'. Can it be healthy?
I'm not familiar enough with Andrewes' sermons (I've read one) to know how this private mode played out in public ministry, and there is no way of knowing how he might have experienced it spiritually or existentially. Though the introduction to the SPCK 1920 edition of the devotions notes, 'as his contemporaries witness, nothing seemed to disturb his serenity; the same grave, calm gentleness of manner marked him under all conditions', and the devotions are shot-through with compassion and empathy for others. This seems like the opposite of anxiety, or at least anxiety in its right place. Perhaps there's something in this apparent equanimity and compassion.
But what about us, now in 21st century life? The self-esteem movement has more or less done away with Andrewes' devotional approach. Christian devotion these days inevitably focuses on God's grace and love, and a self-assessment that assumes we've already been brought above our worst failings and that they are largely ignored by God. It's a more positive assessment as to our relative goodness and worth, and indeed our innate goodness and worth.
In general, I think it is well to leave Andrewes' apparent self-loathing and anxiety in the past. It consumes too much airtime in his liturgy. But I suspect he uses this mode as a deliberate corrective. As jarring as it is to our sensibilities, I think it is in some ways probably a spiritual exercise to correct the arrogance and lust (or their potential) that he all too clearly saw in himself.
The one sermon of his I've read is full of highly-wrought academic learning and prowess, and his biography is of a man highly esteemed in the politics of church and state (he was still being held in this esteem years after his death when Charles I ordered the publication of a collection of his sermons). His private devotions were perhaps in some ways an antidote to the pitfalls of this.
So what about us? Perhaps we could use a touch of realism.
If we are to carry out an honest assessment of ourselves, we must take into account not only our essential goodness, but also the ways in which we fail to inhabit the full potential of our humanity to be creative, loving, compassionate beings (or, to put it in theological terms, to be true image-bearers of God). We must take stock of the ways we participate individually and collectively in systems and ways of being that are to the detriment of others and the world we inhabit. Be aware, in short, of our 'sin'.
This awareness might be termed 'guilt', in its most natural and healthy state (though much has gone wrong with our experience of that word and concept, to highly destructive ends). Tillich, in bringing forward the philosophy of the Reformation, indicates that a realistic awareness of guilt gives the 'acceptance of being accepted' its full power. And, you could add, the acceptance of being accepted then allows us to hold a realistic view of our shortcomings. A truer, back and forth dynamic develops.
In this way, perhaps something of Andrewes' approach can be brought forward.
None of this gives licence for others to inflict or conjure guilt as some kind of means to an end. But perhaps within the safety of our private (or trusted and compassionate) spheres, there is value in liturgies that admit culpability and short-coming in order to foster a healthy perspective of self, ultimately invigorating an ontological state of acceptance and our position in relation to something (compassionate, loving and accepting) much bigger than ourselves, which leads us to truly 'bear the image' of equanimity, compassion, love and acceptance.
Known for his elaborate and impressive sermons, on his deathbed, he handed a manuscript to his friend William Laud written in Greek, Hebrew and Latin, bearing the 'marks of long and constant use: it was "slubbered with his pious hands, and watered with his penitential tears".' The manuscript was a daily devotional (a liturgy) that he used for his private prayer. And now, thanks to the wonders of the digital age, you can read it (sans visible slubbering) (for free) on your Kindle.
Andrewes worked, spoke and wrote during a period that is known as the golden age of English literature - a 100-year milieu that, in addition to King James Bible, also brought forth such names as Shakespeare, Donne, Herbert and Milton.
The devotions echo the literary accomplishments of that age (aided, I suppose by the literary inclinations of the translator of this edition, John Henry Newman, in 1840). They are poetically wrought, theologically informed and woven through with the content and style of scripture. Devotional literature was held in high esteem in that period, and the works of those years invariably elicit an air of grandeur and majesty. They revel in the beauty of language.
Some turns of phrase:
'I return into my heart, and with all my heart I turn to Thee...'
'Thou who upholdest the falling and liftest the fallen...'
'a happy death, a deathless happiness.'
Say this one out loud to gain a sense of its rhythm:
'Maker, nourisher, guardian, governor,
preserver, worker, perfecter of all,
Lord and Father,
King and God,
fountain of life and immortality,
treasure of everlasting goods.
Whom the heavens hymn,
and the heaven of heavens,
the Angels and all the heavenly powers,
one to other crying continually,—
and we the while, weak and unworthy,
under their feet,—
Holy, Holy, Holy...'
And as you read, you - the contemporary mind - might have noticed it there: 'we the while, weak and unworthy, under their feet'. Amongst all the lyricism and beauty, this emphasising of unworthiness and sin keeps jumping out as the main refrain or leit motif of the devotions, again, again and again.
At the same time as reading through Andrewes' devotions (using them more or less as intended over the course of two or three weeks), I was also reading Paul Tillich's 'The Courage to Be' (1952). In this book, Tillich examines the ontology of anxiety. He defines three main forms of ontological anxiety (ie anxiety that is inherent in our being as humans), and performs an interesting survey in which he identifies the historical periods in which he claims each of these forms were dominant.
In the 16th and 17th centuries, one of the three - the anxiety of guilt and condemnation - carried over from the middle ages, and got all tangled up with the anxiety of fate and death, rediscovered from the classical age. 'If one period deserves the name the "age of anxiety",' says Tillich, 'it is the pre-Reformation and Reformation... In short they asked ceaselessly: How can I appease the wrath of God, how can I attain divine mercy, the forgiveness of sin?' (p55)
Andrewes' devotions certainly seem to demonstrate this anxiety, as he belabours his own sinfulness - I don't think I'm overstating it to say that this exercise takes up more room than any one other devotional act within the whole.
In one place, Andrewes describes his drastic sinfulness as a 'superfluity of naughtiness'. To our ears it sounds quaint and charming, and brings a smile - it sounds like something I might affectionately accuse my loved ones of when they eat the last chocolate - but Andrewes means it with literal breast-beating and thigh-smitting sincerity.
This kind of confessional self-abasement forms the basis of his devotion. It is the container of his approach to God, as he expresses himself in litanies of remorse and brings his case for rescue with psalmic logic and fervour.
To our ears it sounds over the top, and even disquieting. What seems to be missing, to put it in terms Tillich might use, is the 'acceptance of being accepted'. Can it be healthy?
I'm not familiar enough with Andrewes' sermons (I've read one) to know how this private mode played out in public ministry, and there is no way of knowing how he might have experienced it spiritually or existentially. Though the introduction to the SPCK 1920 edition of the devotions notes, 'as his contemporaries witness, nothing seemed to disturb his serenity; the same grave, calm gentleness of manner marked him under all conditions', and the devotions are shot-through with compassion and empathy for others. This seems like the opposite of anxiety, or at least anxiety in its right place. Perhaps there's something in this apparent equanimity and compassion.
But what about us, now in 21st century life? The self-esteem movement has more or less done away with Andrewes' devotional approach. Christian devotion these days inevitably focuses on God's grace and love, and a self-assessment that assumes we've already been brought above our worst failings and that they are largely ignored by God. It's a more positive assessment as to our relative goodness and worth, and indeed our innate goodness and worth.
In general, I think it is well to leave Andrewes' apparent self-loathing and anxiety in the past. It consumes too much airtime in his liturgy. But I suspect he uses this mode as a deliberate corrective. As jarring as it is to our sensibilities, I think it is in some ways probably a spiritual exercise to correct the arrogance and lust (or their potential) that he all too clearly saw in himself.
The one sermon of his I've read is full of highly-wrought academic learning and prowess, and his biography is of a man highly esteemed in the politics of church and state (he was still being held in this esteem years after his death when Charles I ordered the publication of a collection of his sermons). His private devotions were perhaps in some ways an antidote to the pitfalls of this.
So what about us? Perhaps we could use a touch of realism.
If we are to carry out an honest assessment of ourselves, we must take into account not only our essential goodness, but also the ways in which we fail to inhabit the full potential of our humanity to be creative, loving, compassionate beings (or, to put it in theological terms, to be true image-bearers of God). We must take stock of the ways we participate individually and collectively in systems and ways of being that are to the detriment of others and the world we inhabit. Be aware, in short, of our 'sin'.
This awareness might be termed 'guilt', in its most natural and healthy state (though much has gone wrong with our experience of that word and concept, to highly destructive ends). Tillich, in bringing forward the philosophy of the Reformation, indicates that a realistic awareness of guilt gives the 'acceptance of being accepted' its full power. And, you could add, the acceptance of being accepted then allows us to hold a realistic view of our shortcomings. A truer, back and forth dynamic develops.
In this way, perhaps something of Andrewes' approach can be brought forward.
None of this gives licence for others to inflict or conjure guilt as some kind of means to an end. But perhaps within the safety of our private (or trusted and compassionate) spheres, there is value in liturgies that admit culpability and short-coming in order to foster a healthy perspective of self, ultimately invigorating an ontological state of acceptance and our position in relation to something (compassionate, loving and accepting) much bigger than ourselves, which leads us to truly 'bear the image' of equanimity, compassion, love and acceptance.
October 25, 2017
Thomas Howard noted in "Evangelical Is Not Enough" that he has been praying these daily prayers for many years, so I thought I'd give it try. I'm not sure about it yet. All these thy's and thou's feel kinda highfalutin to me. It then feels more like reading and less like praying. Maybe a modern translation would be better.
January 2, 2016
Inspiring to read this book from the creation of Anglicanism.
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