Eternal LIFE: Attentiveness

So much of our work as artists is bound up in conscious attentiveness. We must pay attention. We pay attention to choices and how they interact in our media, to colors, to light, to tone. Attentiveness leads us to a weary contentment when at last, in the moment of inspiration, our work transcends form and material. The burden of attentiveness becomes the artist's most auspicious exercise, perhaps because it points to the reality that the present moment is imbued with it's reflective worth in eternity. As Maria Fee wrote this week about our next InterArts which will feature an exhibition of her artwork, "We will seek to explore how Eternal LIFE is part of our present life as artists". But how can we cultivate our attentiveness in order to work with eternity in mind?


At lunch with International Arts Movement Executive Director Bryan Horvath this week, we lamented about the human tendency to be blissfully unaware of all the ways that God is working in and through the arts. It's all too easy to imagine that an artist who may have little regard for God's kingdom or the work of the Spirit is consequently disqualified as a conduit of divine presence and power. But God often chooses to work through such unsuspecting people and circumstances. Curious, isn't it? Could it be that one reason for this phenomenon is simply that everything which we call good work is empowered by the Spirit who blows like the wind and falls like the rain on the just and the unjust? And if this is the case then could it also be said that anyone who cultivates a careful observation of this magnum opus of the Spirit through conscious attentiveness to his good work in essence becomes a careful observer of the Spirit? From this viewpoint it's more than a little embarrassing that we who would, by the Spirit, seek to worship, honor and cherish him through an ancient & divine blood covenant are so often the last to notice his precious presence and activity. So, what's that about? How can we connect our conscious lives in the present to the Eternal LIFE of the Spirit such that our work in the present becomes a reflection to us of it's eschatalogical destiny?


Perhaps we can learn from actors in this matter. Let us look to the theater! Actors endeavor to be present in the moment of each scene while also being fully aware of and aspiring toward the play's culmination. The skill of the actor then is to employ their bodies and imaginations in the service of their character's highest ends with an acute attentiveness to every detail of staging, lighting, music, direction and their fellow actors. All of this must happen concurrent with a collaborative effort to move the story forward for the audience with a tremendous amount of focused intention until the dropping of the curtain. This proves even more difficult in film when the scenes are disparate, often shot out of order and over the course of several months. But is it possible in our real lives to be fully present, attentive and yet future-minded? Tall order huh?


It seems impossible to me, until I remember the words of Jesus to his disciples upon his departure from the earth, I am going to send you what my Father has promised; but stay in the city until you have been clothed with power from on high." (Luke 24:49). Jesus speaks here of the coming of the Holy Spirit and his instruction for his disciples is to wait in eager expectation even as the creation now waits for the Spirit of God to be revealed in human beings (Romans 8:19). Our conscious attentiveness, then, is no empty meditation but pregnant with anticipation of power from on high. It is the promise of Christ and the proof of his faithfulness (death on a cross) that becomes the subject of our attentiveness and the source of our power as we anticipate the culminating work of the Spirit in our world. We, like the disciples, must wait in the city for power from on high. And we do not wait in vain for God has shown us that he has held nothing back from us, pouring out his very essence even on those who reject him. Let's pray for eyes to see more of his magnum opus in the artists and industries to which we have been called. 


Kenyon

BODY LIFE: Hoffen und Unschuld

hoffen und unschuld (hope and innocence)

My wife Emily is a person who genuinely loves life. She is apt to make faces at babies on the subway and gasp with joy at the first appearance of spring in Central Park. Historically, I’ve been suspicious of such optimism, but I am finding myself challenged to further examine the source of this hopeful outlook. The more I seek the more I find that perhaps it is my own cynicism that I should hold in suspicion.

Rainer Maria Rilke, one of the great poets of the German language, believed that in order to write poetry one must live a great deal of life and experience it with subtle inundation. In his first and only novel, Journal of My Other Self, the main character muses that a poet must have many adventures and losses which then seep down into his very being, eventually becoming a source of inspiration. In part, Rilke is saying that a poet must actually love life itself.

It could also be said that love of life is elemental to Christianity since the gospel presents hope for life, even the hope of eternal life. Yet, in the gospel hope is ultimately tied to divine love. Love always protects, always hopes, always perseveres. The story of the gospel portrays divine love as a singular form of activism rooted in irreversible promises and evidenced by violently protective tendencies from the Exodus to the Cross.

If I accept the gospel as true, then I am challenged to accept my own identity as the beloved of God, the focal point of divine love. I suspect that this notion has at least the potential to fill each moment of my small life with palpable hope, a sort of chain reaction of positive realizations: If I am reconciled to God, then perhaps I can be reconciled to my fellow man. If to my fellow man, perhaps there is hope for the complexities of our shared existence in the world.

In this view, it seems that the smile of a baby on the subway might reasonably prompt me to contort my face into a ludicrous expression (perhaps pulling my nose and cheeks upwards toward my eyes and exaggerating the effect with a lipless smile) if for no other reason than to share a moment of solidarity with a child. In the gospel, Divine love has made me innocent again and the world is mine to discover anew as often as I am reminded of this life giving hope.

One artist who certainly understood the human longing for hope and innocence was the incomparable German choreographer, Pina Bausch, whose life and work have been celebrated by director Wim Wenders in the 3D film Pina now playing at select theaters in the city. Certain screenings at IFC and BAM will also include discussions with Mr. Wenders. As we begin the year examining BODY:LIFE at our upcoming quarterly InterArts Fellowship January 16th, this film might help to orient ourselves to the immense care and attention one can give to bodily life and expression.

Kenyon

The Art of Suffering

I said to my soul, be still, and wait without hope

For hope would be hope for the wrong thing; wait without love

For love would be love of the wrong thing; there is yet faith

But the faith and the love and the hope are all in the waiting.

Wait without thought, for you are not ready for thought:

So the darkness shall be the light, and the stillness the dancing.

T.S. Eliot, Second Quartet, East Coker, III

Suffering loosens the belief we are in control. When all we undertake falls apart and God seems to have gone on vacation, distress discerns an action that can be accomplish; that of waiting. What accompanies an artist’s wait? We create in hope. It is this aspect of art that reflects Christ’s redeeming work in the world allowing us to render every act of creativity as a sign of hope. Art reaches for the eternal despite our society’s refusal of such categories. As Christians we understand this hope as the beauty of redemption through the salvific works of Christ.

Edward Farley in Faith and Beauty maintains beauty is a manifestation of Christ’s redemptive work. Redemption allows us to uphold what is deemed valueless. Here, the darkness becomes light, the cast off is repurposed. Artists have the ability to take what is broken then reconstitute and employ it towards art. For Farley it is this transformative action that constitutes beauty. “Redemption reaches and reshapes into new freedoms all the ways in which the human being is infected by sin” (Faith and Beauty, 93).

John Dillenberger goes further and suggests difficult art needs to exist. He relates how the “literary and the visual are… affirmations in their negations; indeed, they negate in order to affirm” (A Theology of Artistic Sensibilities, 224). Artist make plain what needs to be—what should be, what can be. Ultimately, it is hope that drives the impulse of art making for it seeks to grasp Jesus’ work of redemption and transformation. Whether we are believers or not we all long for renovation. The nature of transformation, therefore, must fall under the Christian artist’s purview. In our own work we accept the waiting and the mysterious chaos of our lives then proceed to shape, arrange, and re-form it. Jeremy Begbie encouragingly reminds us, “In Christ, all that is ugly and subversive in the cosmos has been purified, beautified and fulfilled. Therein lies the promise for the transformation of all things” (Voicing Creation’s Praise, 175).

Redemption does not negate or ignore the ravages of sin but restores all things. Jesus’ transformative power goes further to redirect and transforms our inordinate desires. It is in the waiting where our love, hope, and faith finally reaches out for the Triune God. Barbara Brown Taylor speaks about this in terms of disillusionment. “Disillusionment,” she writes, “is the loss of illusion—about ourselves, about the world, about God—and while it is almost always painful, it is not a bad thing to lose the lies we have mistaken for the truth” (The Preaching Life, 8). It is in darkness we begin to see, feel, know. While waiting for God we offer him the pain, suffering and the waiting, which in turn, makes our work his.

Wait—for the darkness shall be light,

Maria

The Deep Places: Accessibility and Responsibility

ac-cess /'ak,ses/ , n. a means of approach or entering a place.

ac-ces'si-ble, adj. easy to reach or influence.

As artists we have access to a key environment in the structure of a human being. Nigel Goodwin calls it "your belly". Martha Graham calls it "your center". Aretha Franklin calls it "my soul" and King David called it "my innermost being". This deep place exists between dreaming and waking where we are most ourselves, in which no pretense could ever possibly materialize, where the passions and fears that drive our lives are cultivated. But we would be kidding ourselves to think that artists have some kind of original authority or credential at the gateway to the deep places of the human heart. No, it is only in collaborating with the most mysterious Artist of all that we ever even come close to accessing the deepest realms of human longing. It is in this place, the deep place, that we need God to meet us most of all.

So, much of our work as artists is a kind of active or skilled waiting, as we delve into this mysterious place where the Holy Spirit is quite impressively on the move like a merchant sailing a trade route in hostile waters. Much of our work, indeed, is looking, listening and waiting to respond or simply be awed by what the Holy Spirit is doing in us, through us and around us. Unlike us, He is not limited by time, place or resources. He has infinite power to access the deep places in every human heart.

Might we consider that the spiritual responsibility of the artist could be a matter of stewarding the access we’ve been granted to this most potent environment? How are we doing as artists with stewarding the access we have to human hearts? How are we doing as a community of artists within churches...within families...within society? As individuals? Have we learned the discipline of listening, looking and waiting? Are we aware of how He might be moving in our own deep places? Understanding accessibility and responsibility might help us discover an important aspect of our spiritual calling as artists, particularly within the church. But certainly, the first environment we must explore is our own.

Have you been met in the deep places by the Spirit of the living God? Certainly we are being met by many other presences, personas and influences in the deep realms of our hearts from which our longings stir us to daily actions and ways of being; or to use James K. Smith's helpful description, our cultural liturgies. Has the risen Christ stepped into your "inner most being" lately and impacted your "center"? Would you notice if He did? Does He sometimes seem to take flesh in your dreams, or perhaps he's used the melody of a song or a childhood memory to take apart your facade until you crumble at His feet? Has He undone you with His skillful, compassionate artistry? Has he melted your heart with warm fear and penetrating hope?

If artists do not learn to articulate and understand the nature of the spirit’s work through the various mediums of the arts then we may ourselves begin to conceive of a lesser value for the power and access we’ve been given by the grace of God. In this world, we need merciful merchants on the waters of that deep river. Artists do not control the heart, but we can know Him who is the Desire of nations.

It is because of Grace that artist’s can operate in the deep places. Grace was bought with a price. Let us give the Lamb of God the reward of His sufferings. What He seems to desperately want in all of this is to create hearts that are awed by Him and Him alone. As He says, to remove our hearts of stone and give us hearts of flesh. Isn't it ironic that all of the other things that move us deeply and control our lives only make us harder, colder, less alive, less human? But He works with all the maniacal devotion of a research scientist who's discovered a cure, using his own body and blood as the test subject.

Let's look and listen and wait for the Holy Spirit to invade the deep places of our hearts; and as He gives us grace to move others, let's move them to awe at the One who paid such a price to have full access to our hearts.

Kenyon

Irresistible Mystery

This Easter season we share the benefit of hindsight as we reflect upon Christ's death. We behold the spectacle of God's shameless love, his inordinate response to our need for rescue and reconciliation. And yet, those who were most expectant of a rescue in Jerusalem experienced instead the disaster of his trial and crucifixion, the scattering of his followers and the seeming triumph of injustice as Jesus cried out in despair to an unresponsive heaven. How can a God who went to such extremes in order to come near to humanity also be known for his elusiveness and mystery? Why would he go to such great lengths to make himself known only to play hard to get? As artists I think we have some sense of the motive in God’s mystery.

When once the inspiration comes to do something which is truly worth doing no matter the cost, an artist will often set her face like a flint in the direction of the goal until it is achieved. But if one has sacrificed greatly for someone or something, one does not announce it with trumpets and fanfare. To do so would belie a false motive. Even the most outrageous and non-conformist artist would cringe at the idea of "showing her hand".

In our historical view of the cross it would seem that the Great Artist does indeed show His hand by outlandishly sacrificing his own life for sinners. Yet many who watched him die could not perceive the implications of the event. Even in his death his motives were cloaked in mystery, revealed only to a few. The soldier who stood near the cross hearing the final words and breath of Jesus, understood him in that subtle moment to be the Son of God. What kind of tactic is this? It would seem that God, in the most radical and inordinate act of history, chose not to spell things out for His audience, but allowed himself to be misunderstood completely. Even after making himself vulnerable to the extent of nakedness and suffering cruel murder he made no justifying statements and offered no concise explanations. He remained a mystery even in His death.

Surely he took up our pain and bore our suffering,
Yet we considered him punished by God,
Stricken by him, and afflicted.
But he was pierced for our transgressions,
He was crushed for our iniquities;
The punishment that brought us peace was on him,
And by his wounds we are healed. (Isaiah 53:4-5)

On the cross, God shows himself to be the Master Artist. His passion for us and his response to our brokenness was far too authentic to be reduced to simple solutions and comfortable conventions. No, instead the Artist's Statement took on flesh and mysteriously dwelt among us. This was certainly an unexpected response to those he considered to be his audience. The beauty of the cross lies in its mystery, that is, in the mysterious intentions of the Master Artist who, in willingly losing it all, gave us everything. Suddenly, the sufferings of an innocent man become the hope of all who will suffer for all time.

The God of the Cross still shrouds himself in glorious, irresistible mystery, though he has made himself vulnerable for our sake. Yet will we today hear the subtle whisper of his ever present Passion? Amid the clamorous mystery of His seeming indifference to our current view of things, could the God of the Passion be as radically involved in rescue and reconciliation today as on the cross?

Kenyon

Our Future Is Now

Sometimes believers work hard at being spiritual, forfeiting the reality of their humanity. Jeremy Begbie, on the other hand, believes it is by the Spirit we grow more authentically human (Begbie, Voicing Creation’s Praise, p. 118). The resurrected life of Christ brings meaning and hope to our bodies—to being human. This hope, according to Gordon Fee, is empowered by Jesus’ resurrection and the gift of the Holy Spirit, which stamps believers with eternity (Fee, Listening to the Spirit in the Text, p.140). As Christians we basically live life geared towards the eschatological—a life imbued with our final outcome—an age when we’ll continuously glorify God in our full Spiritual bodies. According to Fee the early Hebrew believers understood this new age as the life of the Spirit—a fulfillment of a long awaited promise. Artists, we are privileged to live a life filled with the Spirit, looking ahead towards eternity.

What does this mean for artists working in the 21^St century? We must commit to human flourishing. Spiritual renewal is tied to cultural renewal. Having a relationship with Jesus, through the Spirit, enables us to see the world the way God sees it. But it is not enough to keep these visions in our heads. Nicholas Wolterstorff insists “that there is in man a deep dissatisfaction with merely holding in mind his religion.” There is a human longing to make our convictions concrete through song, sculpture, or drama (Wolterstorff, Art in Action, p.145).

It is our job to project through our creations a world that includes the reality of Christ’s glorified wounds. Spirituality can bear the marks of pain and suffering only because they already live with Jesus in the eternal realm. This is true beauty.

Love Jesus, be spiritual, make art.

Maria