Taking The Plunge

It is safe to say artists have experienced the complex distance between what is and what will be. This is usually typified in that stilled moment, the one prior to a performance or clean canvas, when every ounce of being gathers to commence action. It’s like convincing yourself to take the plunge into water, despite the uncertainties of the frigid deep, and the discomfort of stinging eyes. Jumping into action is a faith act, as we follow what will be.

Eventually, swimming with quick peeks and frantic strokes, we accommodate ourselves to the task of consistent motion. Art is the start of a journey between the cold facts of what is, and the exhilarating embodiment of what can be. The broad strokes, the rough gasps for air, the tingling of cold skin, are all part of the excursion into the deep. And, yes, we are changed by the process, soaked, tired, slimy, but we know we’ve done well when others take the plunge in after us.

Lewis Hyde understands these experiences as gifts. He writes, “The passage into mystery always refreshes. If, when we work, we can look once a day upon the face of mystery, then our labor satisfies. We are lightened when our gifts rise from pools we cannot fathom.” (Hyde, The Gift, p. 25)

The gospel parables call us to plunge into storytelling, where, like Jesus, we show people the world in mysteriously new and refreshing ways.This week Kenyon and I met with Jonathon Roberts and Emily Zempel of Spark and Echo. They hold a unique take on storytelling by incarnating, or rather, “illuminating” the Scriptures through the means of experiencing multi-art disciplines through their website and monthly events. Spark and Echo invite artists to respond to the written Word by making art. Here, art mediates the mysterious depths of God’s word. Don't you want to dive in?

Be refreshed. The kingdom has come, let’s swim in it.

--Maria

How Much is Too Much?, or Wrestling with the Place of Culture in Devotional Life

"I was born in a house with the television always on," sing David Byrne and the Talking Heads in their song Love for Sale. What could be truer than that for most of us? Yet even with the television blaring (and sometimes because of the television blaring), we manage to hear God's voice in the culture...because He's everywhere, and not only in a monastery.

We know that, but we also feel a certain tension. Christians live in a gap between "Be still and know that I am God" and Marshall McLuhan's "the medium is the message." I for one often feel the pinch, wondering how to mind the gap.

Witness a recent morning, when I started the day with quiet meditation on events in Jesus' life using Ignatian

exercises designed to help me see Jesus aright so that I "might be with Him, become more like Him and serve Him more." After an hour or so in prayerful reflection on Scripture, I went to the gym carrying two novels, a year-end issue of Time, and an iPod with a Tim Keller sermon downloaded and an energy-pumping playlist. I read from and listened to each in the course of an hour. I also had access, anytime I looked up from my elliptical machine, to four television screens, each tuned to a different channel -- as I was invited to think about (for far less than 30 seconds each) the plight of freezing citrus, the unethical treatment of elephants, full-body scanners, "healthiest super-foods" and "why the Sun didn't swallow the Earth." Just an average couple of hours for an average middle-aged woman, trying to orient myself towards God and live out the implications that flow from what I know and where and who I am. All before 9 a.m.

I'm used to trying to pay attention to everything all at once, yet sometimes I wonder if I fully take in any of it. Sometimes I scream an Anthony Newley-esque "stop the world; I want to get off" as I long for solitude and silence. At other times I want to be in the middle of the action. I still wish I'd been in the crowd for Oprah's and The Black Eyed Peas' "I Gotta Feeling" flash mob scene on Michigan Avenue last fall. Yes it was commercially produced and motivated; but it was an orchestrated act of joy, and I even imagine it as a foretaste of heaven (probably with different lyrics).

Feeling that tension, I've been thinking lately about the dichotomy between the positive role of popula

r culture in my devotional (yes, devotional) life and the overload I feel when "the world is too much

with (me)."

To continue reading go to its original placement on the Washington Institute's website.

--Cary Umhau

Cary is our guest writer, she regularly blogs at www.holyvernacular.wordpress.

com and can also be found at www.caryumhau.com

Through A Glass, Darkly

1 Corinthians 13:12

my hand groping for my glasses

when I wake in the night, my eyes

reaching through the dark

that is close around me, closing

my reflection as I stand

barefoot before the mirror

my bedroom empty of light

and I dissolving in my nightgown

nothing but a shadow blooming

then out of the gloom

a glimmer: my dark eyes peering

trying to find the edges

of myself, searching for

something more certain

*

how we see

or think we see, ourselves

things outside of and within us

things that are bigger than we are

for now, this waiting for my eyes

to adjust to the dark

and later to the light:

when morning comes

I'll push aside the curtains

and be blinded

how we know

to wait for the light to return

so we can see more clearly who we are

and what makes light

and what it is we're made of

*

my hand now scribbling these lines

in the dark, birthing a poem

I cannot see myself

bringing forth the words

from black of wet womb

into the blanketed grey

pushing it out

this slippery living thing

trusting your hands

will be there to catch it

--Emily Ruth Hazel

More of Emily's work can be found in Body & Soul: Poems by Emily Ruth Hazel (Finishing Line Press). Email maria@redeemer.com for information on how to order. Emily also appears in the second edition of RedeemerWrites, and she will read at the IAF Summer Showcase.

Martha: A Diet of Tears

As Jesus and his disciples were on their way,

he came to a village where a woman named

Martha opened her home to him. Luke 10:38

Hallowed preparation call;

how honed steel breaks through

onion, whose tattered outside

coat crackles like pitch in fire.

Now fragrant incense rises to

bring lacrimatory plea

long held composed. Come, Duty,

bid these hoarded tears, unroll.

Down, beyond face, neck, arms trace

path back to garden's fall.

Bulb, broken, nourishes all.

Maria

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

The Artist as Cultivator

In Andy Crouch’s, Culture Making, Christians are encourage to take up the posture of cultivation. Kenyon and I have proceeded to use the term cultivator as one of the various roles of the Christian artist. Tonight at InterArts Fellowship we venture one step further and will highlight the relationship between prayer and cultivation in the life of the artist.

Here is how we see it, both prayer and art are cultivating actions. Prayer tills our souls, cultivation works at shaping the material world. Together, prayer and cultivation echo back to the scene in Genesis 2, God’s Spirit animates the man who is then placed in a garden. Quite rightly, it takes life-giving faith to engage in generative, meaningful work. Furthermore, Henry Van Til states there are two main actions Christians perform in the world, prayer and work, ora et labora, cultus and culture. Both are life expanding. Our prayers speak through our deepest inner being in order to draw us out of ourselves to work assiduously in the world.

This is why I’m intrigued by the story of the cursed fig tree that withers in Matthew 21. It bridges Jesus’ cleaning of the temple, with the stern warning that if God’s people do not produce fruit for the king, they too, will wither. The disciples amazed that Jesus could quickly dissipate the fig tree hear the reply to their wonder, “Whatever you ask for in prayer with faith, you will receive.” According to Jesus, you can even move mountains, if you just ask.

God longs to make us a house of prayer that we may bear choice fruit. But the biggest miracle is that prayer enables us to hand over our harvest, what we have cultivated, back to the Lord. We are called to be both temple, the house of prayer, and Bethpage, the house of green figs. God’s creation is such that it harbors extraordinary potential. There is no need to hoard the firstfruits because we live in God's abundance. So when we enter into relationship, through prayer, with the giver of live, we should begin to see possibilities even among mountainous impossibilities.

The artist as cultivator invests in soul-stretching activity. Through prayer and the the creative process we align ourselves with God. We urge you to hand over your harvest to the true landowner. Prayerfully cultivate, cultivate prayerfully.

--Maria

Flying Quilts

As a painter coming from a fine arts background I’ve always resonated with the craft of quilt making, so it was with great pleasure, if only for a short time, the wall between art and craft came down like a house of cards. This past week 650 red and white quilts, somewhat resembling playing cards, where visually stacked on top of one another in circular formations to create pied-color rooms in the vast Wade Thompson Drill Hall of the Park Avenue Armory.

The installation, Infinite Variety: Three Centuries of Red and White Quilts or as I like to call it, “the flying quilt show,” conveyed a museum-like seriousness through its dramatic lighting and grand physique, yet the affair was whimsical, celebratory, and a homage to the collaborative work of women, past and present. This week the Park Avenue Armory did not displayed high art, or low art, it simply held art. For the installation touted what art does best, it made the mundane monumental.

Pieced together by hundreds of handmade quilts, the exhibition represented the particular, the collaborative, and foremost, it honored relationships. The majority of quilts were created by groups of women looking to celebrate a rite of passage for a community member. Knowing the initial impetus for these quilts deepened the meaning and scope of the show. Represented were hundreds of women, their marriages, childbirths and life stories, patched together and quilted in red and white. Through the grand scale of the Park Avenue Armory, the foundational, yet overlooked things in life were finally honored.

And here is where I tie in the gospel parallel of transformation. Just as Christ’s redemptive work ennobles, artists can pick up this God rhythm, take up the ordinary and celebrate it. Through Jesus’ actions in the world we can praise the small, the quiet, and the humble things of this world. The triune God also bids our work to be collaborative, communal, a celebration of the infinite variety of relationships we hold in our lives.

Piece together some art for the glory of God,

--Maria