Passion

The inclination to do good, whether it is conquering a creative technique or a particular ski slope, falls under the realm of the aesthetics. Aesthetics, therefore, relies on desire, this in turn, incites us towards action. This is one of the theories William Dyrness works with in his latest book, Poetic Theology. Here, Dyrness relates how it takes human passion “to act, build, and create;” therefore, we should view these events as deep soul movements towards reaching the good. For Dyrness, our best moments are shaped, not necessarily by what we know, but by the longing “for a life that is attractive.” So, Dyrness asks Christians this question: “In places where community development is in progress, what sorts of practices might best reflect this impulse?”

What are the structures, stories, and events that act like beacons orienting our daily developments? What are our best shared activities that help shape beautiful and good communities? Where do we invest significance? Because of Christ’s redeeming work in the world we should seek out elements and practices that correspond with the gospel in order to sculpt deep and meaningful lives. We need to pick up God’s pattern of play, celebration, and redemption found in the surrounding cultures. Beauty draws people together, beauty also directs us towards God. Beauty, therefore, should also be a hallmark of God's people.

Dyrness further cautions how non-manifested values merely remain separate from us—mere abstractions. As we explore our traditions and the Scriptures we must continually take into account the human drive towards the aesthetic. For Dryness, the impetus to create an attractive life is an expression of God’s presence. We all long to be complete, but as the people of God, this hope relies on Christ's beauty and glory. Far from distractions, we must learn to see worldly goods, this includes our vocation as artists, not as means of power or self-glory, nor as an end in itself, but as a gift pointing us towards a life with God and his good creation; God reflected in and through our cultural patterns and trends. The Hispanic theologian, Roberto Goizueta reminds us how the aesthetic is “rooted” in the concrete. Aesthetics happens through our bodies, for “life is always corporeal.” It, therefore, becomes the artist's job to manifest the human need for the transcendent. Alysha Creighton’s stop action animation The Touch depict these themes of desire, embodiment and the transcendent. The Touch reminds us how the arts, the material, are conduits of God’s touch.

We must question if the desire we have for Christ and his kingdom is purely negotiated through the abstract and propositional. If so, we must devise concrete practices to pull the kingdom into our everyday reality.

Allow your art to draw you, and others, to the love of God. Receive his touch.

Maria

Thank you, Alysha, for granting permission to use, The Touch. Alysha Creighton recently completed a summer residency program at SVA.

Glimpses

This week, while walking back to the office from lunch, I was struck by the image of a demolished building undergoing construction on a midtown street near Broadway. It's the kind of thing you could walk by every day and never notice at all. But as I took in the scene, I was impacted and, honestly, a little disgusted at it's current state. I began to imagine what it might have been before it was demolished: a nice restaurant, hotel or office building. Still, I found it difficult to imagine that it could ever be anything of value again. Whatever it was before has been utterly ruined. My thoughts were interrupted when a piece of dry wall flew out of nowhere onto a pile, startling me.

I hadn't even seen him because he was buried so deep underneath the debris. A young worker, taking his job quite seriously, had gone down under what used to be a stairway and was gutting the basement with a vengeance. In that moment I saw a picture of our faithful Creator. He is committed to restoring all things: our hearts, our relationships and the very structures of creation itself from the rooftop to the bassment. Can we see him at work? Will we put on a hard hat and follow him into the dark?

As we look toward the Center for Faith & Work Conference, let's pray that God will give us glimpses of His spirit accomplishing His work of renewal in the world. Let's ask God to open the eyes of our hearts to see him at work in our city.

Kenyon

The Spirit's Work

In my apartment building in Queens, I am fortunate to have a superintendent with a kind and humble heart. James is a man of principle and deeply committed to his family, including his autistic son, Jason. We live in an old pre-war building with lots of issues so I am in regular communication with James for repairs. The problems in my apartment don't seem to be unique among the other 60 rentals in our building because this year James installed a little drop box in the lobby with instructions for how to make a service request and a little pen dangling from a string. It works like this: the tub gets clogged...again, and I drop a little note in the box explaining the problem, the level of urgency and a range of times that I can be available to receive the work. So, far it's been a pretty efficient little system, with perhaps one drawback. I'm never exactly sure when he's coming or how long it will take to do the repair. Most often, I find myself interrupted from REM sleep by the doorbell and jolted unexpectedly from my Tempur-Pedic pillow about an hour before I had intended to wake up on a weekday morning.

I can't help but notice the similarities of this ongoing relationship to that of my prayer life. I receive so many answers to my prayers with the same scraggly disposition that James meets when he shows up at my door, toolbox in hand. What do we imagine the Spirit's work will look like when we pray, "Lord, change my heart. Make me more like you"? It is far more the will of the Father than my own that I be transformed into one who reflects his character. The disconnect comes in how I tend to think about and imagine the process of bringing about this transformation.

For the most part I think we have quite a different view of our hearts than God has. It's fitting. The plumber has quite a different view of your toilet than you do as well. For you, it's part of an unconscious habit of doing a business about which you take no particular notice until something has gone wrong. In God's reality your heart is a place of massive devastation, and yet also a place of glorious beauty and potential. This has everything to do with who he is, and the quality of his nature. In his nature lies the hope of our hearts. He's on the job. But are we awake to receive him?

Kenyon

The Reality of Abundance

On the table of pine

Stood a tiny Bowl of Blackberries (click to listen)

You poured into it the whitest cream.

In the corner her tail

Wrapped around her tiny body

As herself she did softly clean.

Outside on the lawn

Gently blowing the linen

Almost as if it were a dream.

And in the porcelain sink

My sorrows deep.

Pulled the drain and

I sent them out to sea.

My only wish,

For this.

My only wish,

For more of this

by Jonny Rodgers. See it live at the next InterArts.

Something in Jonny Rodgers depiction of that tiny bowl of blackberries served with cream on a picnic table re-affirms for me a sense of the reality of Abundance. There is a place or person somewhere in the universe that truly fulfills the last aching abyss of the human heart. It is only a sense in my deepest heart of hearts, but could there be some validity to this feeling?

Everything in our culture seems to operate at a deficit, home loans, car loans, student loans, national debt....Yet our individual hopes and desires perhaps are running the highest deficit of all. I look at hundreds of faces each day riding the subways. I look at my own face reflected on my desktop as I write. Contentment seems even more elusive today than the large, dark creature I thought I saw while peering intently into the waters of Loch Ness at age sixteen.

When C.S. Lewis refers to our having desires which cannot be satisfied in this life, he hardly seems to paint a picture of Abundance. He does however conclude that we must, then, be made in fact for another world, suggesting the afterlife which is central to the Christian belief in resurrection. Still, it is difficult in the midst of our longings to find comfort merely in the hope of a life to come. Don’t you agree?

The Police, in their harrowing anthem Spirits in the Material World make a similar observation to Lewis’ but arrive at quite a different conclusion. Where does the answer lie, living from day to day? If it’s something we can’t buy, there must be another way. We are spirits in the material world. The answer for Sting seems to be a realization that life in the body is somehow of less consequence than a disembodied life would be. The song gives me a sense of needing to escape my body, a sentiment which was so heart-wrenchingly expressed by the character Evan in Justin Lerner’s recent New York film premiere, Girlfriend. Actor Evan Sneider delivers a stealth performance as a young man with Down’s syndrome who falls in love with a beautiful and troubled single mother in a rural suburb. For Evan, being in his physical body seemed to keep him from his desire for romantic love. Rocking out at my desk to The Police performing this incredibly virile song leaves me with a feeling that we’d all be better off if we could only escape our bodies and live a purely ephemeral, spiritual life. It’s little wonder that the opening lines to the song decry contemporary efforts to reform society or the human condition. Why engage in politics, religion or even relationships if there's no real hope?Indeed, there must be another way.

Being a song-writer and a follower of Christ I am trying to understand the tension between recognizing the brokenness in my own heart and life, and allowing that brokenness to take over my view of myself and the world. If it weren’t for my pain, I wouldn’t have much to share with others. On the other hand, I also have this notion in my gut, having met the resurrected shepherd, that even the darkest night will one day be a distant memory in the face of such beauty as He possesses and which He will one day restore to all things. Living in this hope means loving Abundance: loving the world while regarding only one thing as most precious. That thing is a person, whose mystery is enough to tickle the laughing/crying soft flesh of our longing. Yet, He is master enough to restore all things. The reality of Abundance stares us back in the face through the eyes of this mysterious and masterful person. In holding him dear, all things become dearer to me.

Kenyon

The Practice of Pilgrimage

Amid many recent faith and art conversations, including James K.A. Smith’s Gospel & Culture lecture, one point keeps coming up: talk is good, information invaluable, but transformation also happens through the doing. There is a need in our technological society for Christians to form new practices and disciplines that direct us to the triune God, which in turn allows us to be the physical church in his material world.

Also of late is my back to back attendance of a couple of art and faith conferences. These events have set me thinking how there is an emotional, spiritual, and even physical need for these gatherings and how these short digressions from our noisy lives parallel the Christian practice of pilgrimage. In fact, I’d like to argue that the Christian conference or the neo-pilgrimage is a discipline, a doing, where like-minded people gather to experience and enact a spiritual journey fortified by mutual encouragement. Using Jamie Smith’s term relating to driving desires, there is a liturgy that these specific-themed, extended time, corporate gatherings, offer. (After all, our desires direct us to choose the conference according to its distinct content.)

Yes, the discipline of pulling away for solitary prayer and reflection is necessary, but just as invaluable is the practice of setting time aside to travel a long or short distance with a group of God’s beloved. Hands down, face to face time beats Facebook entries. Cell phones give way to meaningful conversations. Sharing similar concerns brings about impromptu prayers. Here, lecturers and friends can offer up “a hymn, a word of instruction, a revelation, a tongue, or an interpretation” for the benefit of God’s people amid a culture that continually pushes relationships into a virtual world.

We need each other to reignite our specific mission in the world. Our journey—we surprisingly find at these gatherings—is not so solitary, after all. In deed, the Center for Faith & Work looks to gather on November 4th and 5th, those who understand the doing is just as important as the knowing. We hope you will join us this fall on our neo-pilgrimage as we examine God’s call towards cultural involvement and human flourishing.

--Maria

Visual Poems

Recently viewing Terrence Malick’s visually stunning, Tree of Life, I revisited another visual treasure, Julian Schnabel’s poetic film The Diving Bell and the Butterfly. The Diving Bell and the Butterfly beautifully conveys the human capacity to create and generate art despite tragic and confining perimeters through the story of Jean-Dominique Bauby, jet setter and fashion editor of Elle magazine. After a stroke leaves him paralyzed with Lock-in Syndrome, Bauby grapples with the meaning of life. However, Bauby still possesses control of one body part, an eyelid. It is through the means of blinking, Bauby slowly communicate his story.

After such accomplishments do we dare utter excuses for not making art? The Diving Bell and the Butterfly discloses how our particular vantage point of the world must be shared, even if the sole instrument toward production is the blink of an eye. To work through brokenness is to honor and own our humanness; this is heroic poetry. Tree of Life offers the same message, the cosmic proportions of our spiritual journey, comes through the broken, small and mundane; poetry in motion.

Poetry constructs a defense against despair, and it takes battling despondency for Jean-Dominique Bauby to realize not all human actions had been taken from him, he continues to own and utilize memory and imagination. Memory allows him to cherish relationships and past events—the sensory world he so took for granted—while imagination offers the freedom to visit these moments with a fresh perspective. For Bauby memory becomes aligned with the intrepid explorer clad in an ancient diving bell suit; an ambivalent symbol for both discovery (about himself, the world, his relationships) and claustrophobic confines. The butterfly is the flight of imagination; it signifies incomprehensible hope, beauty and the true freedom our souls and bodies long for.

Schnabel’s film draws on visual and linguistic metaphors to produce a tale of a man and his physical constraints that also relates to our lives. Unfamiliar hardships—the diving bell or personal constrains of our lives--together with the winged butterfly of our imaginations, allow for murky-watered journeys in under-visited and unfamiliar places. The film makes a case for beauty and creativity and how they sanction and hallow our existence.

If our tendency is to think outside of our bodies, as some suggest, Schnabel accomplishes an act of incarnation by placing us inside a body. The camera skirts by eyelashes to view the world through Bauby’s good eye. We, thereby, are forced to enter into the “skin” of Jean-Dominique Bauby. Within his metaphorical shoes we join the groping action of human creativity that strives to make sense of the world. Likewise, as we watch and hear Bauby “grope” to find import within his meaningless body, we too begin to discover the implications of our broken and encumbered lives. Much like Tree of Life, The Diving Bell and the Butterfly celebrates life, and that’s poetry, too.

Be a poem,

--Maria

Summer Prayers

In July

i.

Oh, Holy Spirit,
Come upon me, like a warm breath of air, sweet with the smell of summer;

Or the first telling of lilacs in spring.

Guide me home.

I don't know how to get there myself.
I am incomplete.

ii.
Father,
Weigh heavy on me with desire;

Might I trust the light of your grace.

Part your clouds that I may gaze into a world of light,

And my soul be set free.

I run towards it,

And I don't look back.

I am taken up,

I am part of

A foreign light.

It is not me,

But it must be for me.

Oh wonder! Oh power!

You are terrible,

But my soul longs to be filled with your beauty.

To send off,

Into the glorious adventure.

I run towards it.

Ever and ever and ever towards it.

I don't look back.


iii.
Father,

Do fill me with your purpose.

Show me that nothing satisfies as fully and as completely

Yet lays on me so gently and so safely.

Don't let me go.

Make me alert.

Show me that strength and perseverance are real.

May your urgency rest upon me.

Make sharp my perception

Yet don't let me stray into superiority or selfishness.

Father,

Make your intentions clear to me.

Might I walk into them without fear

But confident in your ways.
In August

i.
Father,

Melt me into myself,
Quiet and afraid in you,

My protection.

ii.
I am not alone.

These feelings are shared

By Christ.

iii.
Father God,
Teach me to let go.
Would that your warm breath caress against my face,

And comfort me as nothing else will.
That your quiet voice

Would be my strength alone,

To fill this hole inside of me.

Remake me

A creature sensitive

To these things.