Not many who knew Art Van Seters would have known that he wrote poetry, but few, I imagine, would be surprised.
Certainly, Art’s vocation in the service of God involved all kinds of word-smithing. He was a student of theology, constantly seeking to understand and put bits and pieces of the Bible’s words into some kind of meaningful order; he practiced and taught preaching, regularly disciplining himself to discover and declare with power a relevant message from the written Word; and, he was a professor, theological college administrator and pastor, no doubt, carefully marshalling the words he used to advance learning, to lead, or to offer comfort.
I also found out that when he wasn’t working, Art carved many wonderful things that he discovered embedded in wood and stone. Moreover, he skillfully arranged pieces of stained glass into works of art. He was also a gardener, frequently observing, digging, planting and sharing the fruits of things that grow in the earth.
Offering thoughtful, pleasing verbal sounds, making interesting, beautiful shapes, while being in awe, as an active participant in God’s amazing, creating work, were part and parcel of the Art we came to know, respect and love. So it’s no surprise he also wrote poems.
I first became aware of Art’s poetic impulse when I came across several of his poems in ARC, a Montreal-based Presbyterian quarterly, published in the mid-1970s, later to become a periodical of the McGill Faculty of Religious Studies.
Just before he died, I wrote Art an email to express my appreciation for his various ministries to God and Christ’s Church and to tell him of what I felt was his marvelous ability with words, including his poetry, saying I wanted to see more of it published. Even though he was quite unwell, he kindly sent me a reply, modestly telling me he was moved by what I had said. He included a copy of his latest poem, The Fragility Of That Birth (2010), in which he sought to express the mystery of our Lord’s incarnation in words reflective of his own all-too real awareness of the fragility and mortality of human life.
After his death, in conversation with Rowena, Art’s wife, I learned that such Christmas poems, often attentive to whatever was happening in his own private world, were a regular part of a Christmas correspondence to his wide circle of family and friends.
Art was not a wordwright (like Tolkien), who invented new words for the things he wanted to express. But Art loved words; he listened to words; he played with words, in the most serious way possible; and, then he carefully chose and ordered certain words in such ways as to reveal new and deeper insights of faith and life that were constantly pulsating within him.
