Emily Dickinson, "The Savior must have been a docile Gentleman" (1487)
Sometimes I think about doing. Perhaps there is a meaning to doing itself, a meaning that holds true for all actions.
Before I offer a close read of this poem of Dickinson's, I have to share with you this timely and moving essay on the death of Nex Benedict. It's a difficult read. You probably will cry. It's absolutely necessary: Jude Doyle, "Children Have a Right to Go to School."
Sometimes I think about doing. Perhaps there is a meaning to doing itself, a meaning that holds true for all actions. You will retort this inquiry is nonsense. Doing depends entirely on what you want to do, as it is obvious that "taking out the trash" has a different meaning than "going to church." But there are times we ask people to do nothing. Emergencies, for example, require first responders be given space to work with. No one is supposed to do anything, not even if it might help, so authorities can control the situation. In such an instance, doing as a concept is explicitly contrasted with being at rest, and associated meanings are visible.
My own musings might be nothing but procrastination. I haven't really understood doing in and of itself, although if someone asks, I will talk about how true rest requires preparation and effort. (You have to take the medicines, use meditation, find a focus. Rest is work.) Perhaps Dickinson's thoughts about doing are better than mine.
When she wonders about a man who trekked “so far so cold… / For little Fellowmen,” she presents a bold action, so bold it is naturally packed with symbolism. What could such a deed mean? I’m tempted to think the one who made the journey a reverend tending to his following. He’s trying to emulate Christ, but his own ministry can’t quite compare, despite his kindness, despite their need.
Thus, Dickinson presents a referendum on doing. Surely doing has value if God or someone God-like was willing to brave the cold for nothing. "[L]ittle Fellowmen," after all, may not be alive when visited. Or they may not choose to believe, which for the way, the truth, and the life, is the equivalent of death:
The Savior must have been a docile Gentleman (1487) Emily Dickinson The Savior must have been A docile Gentleman— To come so far so cold a Day For little Fellowmen— The Road to Bethlehem Since He and I were Boys Was leveled, but for that 'twould be A rugged Billion Miles—
One issue with which to begin close consideration of the lyric: it is simply untrue the “Savior” was “a docile gentleman.” Luke 12:51–“Suppose ye that I am come to give peace on earth? Nay, but rather division.” Dickinson knows the radical nature of Scripture and the fields of bodies of the Civil War. Justice does not necessitate kind deeds, especially not deeds which reinforce one’s status (note the diminutive accompanying “Fellowmen”).
This leads me to believe her first stanza sarcastically dismisses actions we might consider noble. Doing is found wanting. If you do and expect to fail, you are already portentous. Of course, if I'm thinking too much about what doing as a concept means, I'm not doing anything. Strangely, I might be just as bad as "The Savior" who was a "docile Gentleman." In my case, I sacrifice nothing; in the other, everything is sacrificed. Nothing is actually done.
Expanding on this, her second stanza muses on “The Road to Bethlehem,” a larger source for a number of actions. She changes her gender and places herself alongside Christ in time: “The Road to Bethlehem / Since He and I were Boys / Was leveled.” Just as one man looks to Christ to serve others in the cold, she also sees Christ as contemporary. This stanza drips with sarcasm, too, as apparently anyone can become the center of the Holy Nativity. The way to being Christlike has smoothed with time. The difficulties, the ruggedness, that made Him no less than a prophet have vanished.
Dickinson’s cynicism about religion doesn’t mean her poem is wrong in how it situates the moral imagination. Actions, especially good deeds of varying shapes and sizes, trace back to someone we wish to emulate. All the same, anything good depends on being able to imagine obstacles, confront them, and prevail. If it is easy to emulate someone, you may not see obstacles at all. What value is your action then? Is anything done without sacrifice?
The question of doing becomes the question of religion. If a religion is successful, if it commands many, then the initial difficulties which made certain actions a matter of worth disappear. They become ritual, they become heavy with symbolism, but they are not grounded in the way the first actions were. Then, to be religious was to risk everything. Even what one believed could disappear.
There's an exaggerated manliness underlying this notion of doing. That's why I think Dickinson says she was a boy. Still, despite all her sarcasm and cynicism, serious questions remain. What does it mean to do anything? If actions cannot be justified by a most powerful and believed religion, then what are they?
I feel like Dickinson ultimately presents doing as a middle road between doing everything (e.g. sacrificing to visit others in extreme cold) and doing nothing (e.g. "The Road to Bethlehem" is easy now). That's not a satisfactory answer to me, but it is serviceable. It is useful to know that something can be done.