“This is not a desk” my freshman English professor explained while pointing directly to her large oak desk.  We all sat silently in our 8am class, some of us still in our pajamas, thinking that our professor probably said something that made sense; we were just too tired to know for sure.  She elaborated, “That tree out the window,” we all turned to look, “that is not a tree.”  She is old enough, I thought, she may have fallen off her rocker.  “‘Tree’ and ‘Desk’ are metaphors for what is actually there” she clarified.  So this is what college is like, I thought.  Despite my professor’s best efforts, I was still pretty sure that her desk was actually a desk.

Today, however, I am not the skeptic that I used to be.  It is clear that there is so much more to an object than the abstract English name we have decided to call it.  When I was in second grade I rode my bike over to a friend’s house for the first time only to be greeted by a charging dog.  Teeth bared and growl out, the dog’s quick advance made me instinctively turn to run—the last thing I should have done.  My run would soon be cut short, not by the dog, but by my imagination and a rather old tree.  Like the cartoons I had watched that very morning, I assumed I could just scale the tree all the way to the top in a matter of a millisecond.  Instead, I didn’t go up at all; I ended my run hugging a tree with my nose scrapped up from my first tree climbing and bark kissing experience.  While I can use many different words and adjectives to describe that encounter with a tree, I can never capture completely all that that tree was to me at that moment.  Even if I could, someone else’s experience with the same tree is likely going to be very different.

The words humans use are limited in their ability to describe what all of our sensory receptors actually encounter.  John Milbank would go further to say that not only does a ‘tree’ loom larger than our aptitude to describe what is knowable about the tree, but that the tree actually possesses qualities that are invisible to all of our sensory experience.   These invisible qualities give life to the visible (what we ‘see’ by embracing all sensory experience) and the visible does the same vis-à-vis the invisible.  While the philosophical importance of this assertion escapes most of us, Milbank opens up intriguing ways to speak of how an object’s possessed beauty, visible and invisible together, draws those who would embrace the object’s beauty:

Beauty arises where the attraction exercised by a formed reality is ineffable and escapes analysis.  We speak of “beauty” just because we cannot capture this attraction in a formula that would allow us to produce other instances of the beautiful.  For the same reason, we cannot substitute an abstraction of essence for the concrete aesthetic experience.

Neither, on the other hand, does an exhaustive description of the object and the way it appears precisely convey our sense of its specific instance, though it may present a beauty of its own, and “bring out” aspects of the object’s beauty…

So it seems that there is an excess in the experience of the beautiful…Since we never entirely bring away from the object all its beauty, this implies that even when we stand before the beautiful object, we are “held” by something that binds us only in its not-quite arriving.  To experience the beautiful is not only to be satisfied, but also to be frustrated satisfyingly; a desire to see more of what arrives is always involved. (from Theological Perspectives on God and Beauty, pg. 1, 2)

In this sense, each tree, painting, landscape, or building is not just ascribed beauty by our words, but beauty actually resides within it, acting as a sort of gravity or destiny towards that object’s truth or goodness.  In all of our encounters then, as subjects held by an object’s beauty, we are on an unfinished (never ceasing?) journey towards that which is good and true.  This is what Milbank describes as “frustrated satisfyingly.”

Since I have started posting for VAF in March I have attempted to maintain some personal distance from what I write. After all, I am not writing for myself; this is not my personal blog. Maybe today I should introduce myself—a little.

Two years ago I traveled to Colorado to meet up with 10 other people that I didn’t know in order to talk about beauty. I was nervous. I hadn’t thought about beauty much.

My mother had been sick for a long time and little progress was being made in her recovery. I was depressed on my own accord—maybe the result of taking on too much all at once. I had long since dropped out of any church that I might attend—a big deal since I was raised in churches—but I had not dropped my faith. I just didn’t feel like I fit in anymore. I was on my way to talk about beauty and I didn’t want to talk about pretty.

Maybe I was reacting against a larger stream of thought in American culture: Perfection is Good; Imperfection is Bad. Cosmetically, the opposite of perfection is a blemish; if blemishes were considered to be good then few would sell make-up. Morally, the opposite of perfection is sin. Academically, the opposite of perfection is failure. Much of life is judged through the lens of Morality, Academics or Cosmetics.

Additionally, the business world seeks to measure success by its productivity and fiscal responsibility. These business goals are not left at work; they seem to sneak into our own personal lives and govern our private attempts to manage the way in which we spend our time. Are we being productive? Are we being successful? Are we making the most of what we have? Is our day going according to plan?

I live at odds with perfection. I live at odds with pretty. Maybe that is because real life never seems to measure up. Maybe it is because I don’t like to be told what to do and perfection and pretty are always flapping their jaws somewhere in the back of my conscience. I am starting to wonder if perfection is not just some sort of mythic utopia that is constantly being redefined to suit our changing desires. (See a history of perfection here.)

One thing I found out two years ago was that those ten people could see beauty in the struggles of my life—in the imperfections. Ever since then I have quested to see the world differently. Though I live in a society obsessed with perfection, and though I will likely always feel a compulsion to measure myself accordingly, I have found a renewed energy to explore the ways in which imperfection holds its own beauty.

Much has been made about this Washington Post experiment. The blogoshpere certainly has had its say in the wake of Weingarten’s April 8th article, Pearls before breakfast: Can one of the nation’s great musicians cut through the fog of a D.C. rush hour? The Post has also published some responses to its own article here: Marching to a Different Tune.

Read below for a response by Susan Mohammed, Associate Professor of Psychology at Penn State University (posted here with her permission).

“One of the finest classical musicians in the world, playing some of the most elegant music ever written on one of the most valuable violins ever made”* was disregarded by 1,070 people hurrying past on the morning of January 12, 2007, completely oblivious to the gift in their midst. As part of an experiment arranged by The Washington Post, internationally acclaimed violinist Joshua Bell played six classical selections on his Stradivarius in L’Enfant plaza during the DC rush hour. The virtuoso, accustomed to playing for heads of state, standing room only audiences, and patrons stifling coughs deemed irreverent in the presence of such brilliance, was received by a mere seven people who stopped to watch, if only for a minute. After 43 minutes of sharing his genius, Bell was rewarded with $32.17 from 27 people, most of who dropped in their money on the run.

As it turns out, the God of the universe stages a similar line of experimentation…daily. Who will stop to notice the sublimity of a sunset? The awe-inspiring colors of a rainbow? The symphonic quality of birds singing and crickets chirping? Who will appreciate the value of a single moment in time? A deep breath? A beating heart? Who will recognize the wonder of a child’s infectious laughter? A woman nursing a baby? An elderly couple holding hands? Indeed, life’s most prized gifts are not heralded by trumpet blasts communicating, “Stop now! Do not miss this! Pay attention! This is important!” Rather, they appear without fanfare, in the midst of the daily grind, at inconvenient times…challenging us to prioritize the significant over the tyranny of the urgent.

This experimentation is not only limited to how we treat creation, but how we respond to the Creator Himself. The magnificence of His work is but an enticement designed to woo us into communing with the author, the composer, the architect, the origin of all things. All 66 books of the Bible can be interpreted through an integrative, dominant theme: God seeking to expand His relational circle beyond the Trinity and the angelic hosts to mortal man. With a relentless determination that defies comprehension, invitation after invitation is extended to experience God…as Father, Shepherd, Savior, Friend, and Lover. However, rather than heavy-handed and overpowering, His communicative methods are mysterious and understated in their delivery. To illustrate, He presented Himself to Moses as a burning bush that was not consumed, to Balaam as a talking donkey, to Elijah as a still, small voice, and to the world as a baby in a manger. The disguised nature of His approach requires that distractions be tuned out and our attention tuned in to be able to recognize, acknowledge, and appropriately respond to His advances.

Wherever, whenever, in whatever form, and to whoever it appears, the glory of God dares us to drop everything, stop dead in our tracks, and take notice. Tragically, however, in a world of warped priorities and an incessant flurry of activities vying for consideration, the priceless is often trumped by the trivial. Far more astonishing than Joshua Bell being ignored by the Washington populace is the God of the Universe being rejected by His own handiwork through His gift of choice.

*Weingarten, G. (April 8, 2007). Pearls before breakfast: Can one of the nation’s great musicians cut through the fog of a D.C. rush hour? The Washington Post.

Some have called Beautiful Angle a group of underground artists, but more commonly they are known as a guerilla arts project making Tacoma, WA, beautiful. Starting in late 2002 Tom Llewellyn and Lance Kagey turned their knowledge of design and printing into a now awarded effort to give Tacomans a sense of pride and activism in their city. (Check out their work and website here.)

Filling a basement full of type, plates and other equipment, they use their own presses to create monthly posters which are then illegally plastered around town—often to the sides of old boarded up buildings. Placing a work of art on something that has been discarded by Tacomans fits Beautiful Angle’s desire to restore meaning and beauty to a town that often takes on a second-rate persona to its larger, pretty cousin, Seattle.

Beautiful Angle’s Tacoma-centric efforts have inspired the city of Tacoma, which usually tears down illegal posters, to ask if they can link Beautiful Angle to their own web site. The posters have become collectors’ items as many Tacomans scour and explore all of the forgotten nooks and crannies of their own city in hopes of finding a new poster. Galleries want to create exhibits and historical societies have begun collecting as well. Even Tacoma-Pierce County’s Chamber of Commerce has awarded Llewellyn with an award of merit for Beautiful Angle’s role in revitalizing Tacoma’s downtown.

It seems that Beautiful Angle is helping to recreate a sense of ownership for Tacoman citizens and their art community as they look anew on their city with a vision for meaning, restoration and action. While it is important not to overlook the fun that Beautiful Angle has in their work, it is clear that others have taken them seriously.

Rather dramatically, one Tacoman writes on the Beautiful Angle web site, “My addiction has grown; I need more. I need to feel alive, and I only feel the surge of blood through the intricate cheese cloth of my body when I’m next to a Tacoma-centric poster. Feed me!” Take a moment to read through some of these comments and you will see a need to remember and to re-envision Tacoma that is aroused with each subversive piece of art—including a comment that urges Beautiful Angle to “keep your hands on the wheel of Tacoma.”

(HT: The News Tribune)

This morning as I read and think of the role of the artist my mind and heart has received yet one more jolt. I received this email from Makoto this morning and as I read it I’m moved deeply by the call he issues near the end of this story. Here is Makoto’s quote : It begins in a belief that our lives are to be lived for others. Arts should let “the other ones loose” from the bondage of decay, apathy and loss. To the extent we are able to do that, to that degree we will see a new language of expression that is not self-centered, but self-giving and generous. Yes, I believe that art can, and ought to, exist apart from wars. But in only place where this has been the case in the history of the world, a place called Eden where a poet named Adam dwelled, is today hidden inaccessibly beneath, or above, the rubble of Iraq. ”

We as artist are making a new culture may God grant us the courage to do so. May we rise up and speak our voices and expressions of beauty, goodness and truth.

Gary

ps

If you are interested in receiving Makoto’s periodic missives just send him an email at refractions@makotofujimura.com.

From: Makoto Fujimura

Subject: Operation Homecoming: Epistle of Injury

Makoto Fujimura
Refractions Volume 22
Operation Homecoming: Epistles of Injury

I recently found myself at New York’s Symphony Space, listening to the voices of soldiers. As a National Council on the Arts member, I was representing the National Endowment for the Arts for the release of “Operation Homecoming.” The N.E.A. gave returning soldiers from Afghanistan and Iraq an opportunity to write down their war time experiences in workshops lead by Pulitzer winning Vietnam era writers. With actors highlighting the evening, (Matthew Modine, Joan Allen, and, most memorably, Stephen Lang) and sitting next to one of the soldier/writers, I had a strange and uncomfortable revelation: a revelation that surely had been bubbling up in me in recent years — How much of the world’s art and literature is linked to wartime experiences?

The writings of soldiers, or writing about wars in general, has indeed defined our literature and the arts, from Homer to Dante to Hemingway. If you remove works of art that do not in some way relate to, or respond to wars, our cultural landscape would be full of holes (think of Picasso’s “Guernica”). Perhaps that’s what Jesus meant, when he warned us “such things (wars) must happen.” He did not validate wars by saying this, but he wanted to make sure we understood the inevitability of them: that our inner malaise will surely be translated into greater conflicts. But to have the Prince of Peace tell us that wars must happen is more than troubling. Must we be haunted by wars as part of God’s plan of redemption? Must art exist as primarily funerary?

In modern times, Rothko, Mondrian and other 20th Century masters wove the horrors of the atomic age into their work, as if to visit Hiroshima over and over again. Rothko gave that post-Atomic glow an ethereal transcendence even as Mondrian stubbornly, and valiantly, insisted on the order of grids against the approaching chaos. In both cases, they were exiled to New York, because of the dark specters of evil marching into their homelands. Surrealism (as the recent MOMA/National Gallery exhibit showed) screamed against the insanity of fear birthed in the trenches of WW1. These artists are often remembered for their anti- patriotic rants, or at best being ambivalent observers, and most definitely being anti-establishment. It is ironic that they are now seen as the establishment in the institutions of museums and academia. But the best of arts still can rise above the institutions and establishment that gave permission for them, or the conflicts that they escaped. The arts speak into a void, creating a moment of clarity, a pause in the frenzy.

Then there are the J.R.R. Tolkiens and C.S. Lewis of the world, whose front line experiences gave birth to the most resonant, faith-filled literature of our last century. Tolkien imagined through the dark trenches, surrounded by dying friends, and chose to speak directly against his own fear by naming one by one characters and places of imagined reality that would later form the basis for The Lord of the Rings. Lewis too, injured in the war, later recounts that his journey from atheism to faith was paved by his sense of loss, inconsolable violation (“the problem of pain”, he called it) that he felt in his bones. Having gone through such horrors is no guarantee of a recovery of faith, but it does suggest that faith and culture are linked to the crisis that surrounds us.

T.S. Eliot would have found this dialogue not so unfamiliar. His war- time journey to write the “Waste Land” could also describe our survey of Darfur and Afghanistan. In the “Four Quartets,” he describes “The unimaginable Zero Summer” of the atomic devastation but ends hopefully in the “still point of the turning world”, producing a rare articulation of the heart’s navigation from fear to love. But today, in the shadows of our current chaos in Iraq, and bullet holes in an Amish school still fresh in our minds, such sentiment can come across as too optimistic and even unkind.

—————–

I read recently that most of early Christian art (at least the examples that have survived) were funerary in nature. Apparently, even in the world of faith, art is obsessed with death. Surely, it would be the darkest of confessions for any artist working today to admit that his/her visions are driven by the haunts of war and death, and, like Dante, that imaginative reality is filled with a vision of purgatorio. On the contrary, our recent contemporary art scene is rushing to escapism, lacking in engagement with the present darkness, and even without the disciplined skill to describe the horror. So such a confessional would seem welcome in today’s climate of superficiality. Pausing to listen to the writings of soldiers in “Operation Homecoming,” though, I have begun to see a glimpse of a new kind of realism.

These men and women chose to write staring into the abyss: to record both their fears and hopes, in this time of certain chaos, grieve over lost lives and opportunities; but they also speak well of their pets and ordinary sun-lit days. Theirs is a stark realism, observing the life surrounding the turmoil, wrestling against the fading memories of loved ones, comrades, and the stenches of war. So many of Operation Homecoming pages are filled with emails, which like radio dispatches, they will remain deeply etched in our minds as immediately potent. These are voices that are directed toward our private spheres, but now allowed to be make public: They deserve our hushed attention for their honest grappling with inner turmoil. Their accounts are true “Survivor” tales but without any shred of sensationalism. Told sometimes gingerly, sometimes in expletives, the soldiers seem to dwell, after a while, in my consciousness as my imaginary neighbors, people whom I might encounter in my street, or kick a soccer ball around with. I am surprised at how much humor fills these pages, not the sanitized kind, but the raw, grimy kind that belongs in beer halls and late night comedy shows. Refreshingly free of showmanship, in our glitz-filled cultural universe, their writings serve more than to recount the war: they speak into our lives with authenticity, and remind us somehow that, despite it all, humanity can still reign in a cruel kaleidoscope of fear called war.

There are poignant lessons, of a soldier writing home as he flew over Iraq, a geography lesson that span some 3000 years. “Have you heard of Mesopotamia?” writes Lieutenant Colonel Cohoes to his sons, “ Two great rivers of the word, the Tigris and the Euphrates, flow together here then empty into the Persian Gulf….King Nebuchadnezzar (I can’t say it either) build the hanging Gardens of Babylon about 2,600 years ago.” Of course, in the reading that took place at Symphony Hall, Matthew Modine could not pronounce “Nebuchadnezzar,” either.

There’s an account of a soldier of Korean descent who recounts his adoptive American father and grandfather fighting in their wars. Echoed throughout the book is generational lineage to wars, that it is not an isolated experience to one generation. Then there is Christy De’on Miller, in an essay she called “Timeless,” a single mom/soldier mourning over the loss of her only son, Aaron:

“At times I believe I can learn to live a life without my son. After all, I must. I am certain there are other mothers who have lost their boys – car accidents, war, illness – who can shop for dinner at the local grocer’s without the macaroni-and-cheese boxes suddenly causing them grief. Moms who can roll sausage balls without tears; perhaps the festive food would even cause a smile. But the memory of him is planted in everything around me. Inside of me. So much is gone. Him, or course. But so much of him has been lost, is fading, breaking down. His blanket, his watch, his uniform…”

The writings amplify the details of life, not just theirs, but ours. They let us into the writers’ worlds, to share in their grief, their loss, and their confusion.

Here was another revelation, then, after listening to the account after account of Afghan and Iraqi soldiers and their families that I, too, lived in a war zone. A different, milder version for sure, sanitized and packaged better. Photos of the bright new facades of “you can have it all” condominiums, to be completed in 2010, tell us that we are all better in downtown Manhattan. Their airbrushed architectural renderings are what a friend calls “architectural porn”. But nevertheless I live and raise my family in a place called Ground Zero, and reading the book opened my eyes to see the invisible collateral of a war far away shadowing us everywhere. Yes, even if there is no visible war around, there are less visible battles going on everywhere.

There are visible scars in culture though. The battle is about the imaginative territories of hope against fears, the sacrifice of love against a misplaced devotion, the anger of revenge against forgiveness. It is a battle that rages in the minds of youth as they negotiate the labyrinth of a techno frenzied universe, sharing a communion of broken promises. When the manifestation of such collateral damage ambushes us, like in the pastoral Amish landscapes recently, or in Littleton, Colorado in 1998, in a high school named after a delicate wild flower, we are astonished.

John Hewett, the development director of the N.E.A., and who also happens to be an ordained minister, told me a poignant story recently. When the evil struck the sleepy Amish community near Lancaster, when a gunman/milkman systematically shot girls one by one, there was a hidden story, in what he called “A Miracle Nobody Noticed.” He wrote:

“I’m convinced most of us get through most days without thinking about God much. I was having one of those days a few weeks ago, until I heard about Marian and Barbie Fisher, two of the ten girls in the West Nickel Mines Amish School. Marian, the oldest, was 13. Her sister Barbie, who lived, is 11. When it became obvious what was about to happen that ghastly morning, Marian turned to the killer and said, ‘Shoot me and leave the other ones loose.’ ‘Shoot me next,’ Barbie said. ‘Shoot me next.’

Two children willing to lay down their lives for their friends. Wonder where they got an idea like that? That’s another miracle nobody noticed”

Perhaps a new renaissance will be birthed out of the “mouths of babes” like these: “shoot me and leave the other ones loose.” Or it may flow out of a grieving mother/soldier like De’on grieving for Aaron, a Marine who lost his life protecting his wounded comrades. Perhaps we will see that whether we are soldiers, or housewives or Pulitzer Prize winning writers (or all of the above), we need to realize that we are not home, at least not yet. That’s the only faith that can compel us to say: “shoot me.” The girl did not complain that “this is unfair,” or argue, “this is unjust:” she just said “shoot me.”

Such fragile, but heroic, voices in the face of violence can easily be ignored, or simply not audible with our doomed ears. It certainly did nothing to stop a milkman from unloading his anger by pulling the trigger. Perhaps such otherworldly gestures look as pathetic, or beautiful, as the string quartet that played on as the Titanic sank. But I submit to you that here, in a miracle nobody noticed, is a bugle call also directed towards us artists. It begins in a belief that our lives are to be lived for others. Arts should let “the other ones loose” from the bondage of decay, apathy and loss. To the extent we are able to do that, to that degree we will see a new language of expression that is not self-centered, but self-giving and generous. Yes, I believe that art can, and ought to, exist apart from wars. But in only place where this has been the case in the history of the world, a place called Eden where a poet named Adam dwelled, is today hidden inaccessibly beneath, or above, the rubble of Iraq.

Operation Homecoming gives us authentic voices that seek be a responsible steward of their experiences. Why would that simple gesture seem so foreign and refreshing? Has our culture become so cynical that we no longer have the capacity to listen without having a wry, critical distance? Or has the media become so profit driven and sensationalistic that they no longer can mediate information responsibly? Because the soldiers have faced certain death, and stood over the rubble that might have crushed them, but having lived, they owned the experience, and chose to tell the tale artfully and carefully. If we all live in a war zone of some kind, should we not do the same? Words alone can impregnate promise or despair in such a precipice: the arts can inspire or despise humanity.

In Jesus’ realism of “these things must happen,” he was also reminding us that our sacrifice, either for just or unjust reasons, would not be the last word. Our efforts, however noble, will not end the cause of injustice. But we are all given a call for self-sacrifice nevertheless. None are exempt, not even a pacifist thirteen-year-old secluded as far away from Iraq as humanly possible. And Jesus knows, first hand, what it means to die an unjust death without picking up a stone, or a spear. Instead, he continues to breath life into us in our funerary songs. By listening to these soldiers/poets, though, we may even begin to feel that life-breath, a hint of a culture of self- giving. Despite the anguish, De’on writes with the same quiet surrender of the Amish sisters :

“My faith doesn’t equal that of Job’s. I question. Why has God cut the fruit from my vine? Taken the only child that remained? Left me with no hope for a grandchild? I‘m certain there can be no more. No more children.
And yet I have no particular animosity for my son’s killer. He’s a nameless and faceless combatant to me. Should I ever have the opportunity to meet him, I hope that I’d forgive him. To me, the buck stops with the Father. His power stings at times. But He’s listened to me; perhaps He’s even cried with me. And yes, I do know what I’m talking about here. ‘It’s a belief, man.’ Aaron’s words. ‘You either believe in God or you don’t.’ Yes, I’d forgive. I do forgive. There is absolutely nothing I’d do to keep myself from spending eternity with God and Aaron.”

Our path back to Eden is blocked, but there is a way in to the feast of the selfless. Only in these words of forgiveness, utterly stripped down to the core of faith, can echo the Timeless, or the Time-ful, promise of an Easter morning. That is our true Homecoming. Even if the condition is unbearably chaotic, or simply cruel, these authentic voices refracts in our fear dominated cultural landscape, mediating how we can choose to face a new day, and breathing certain hope into our stricken hearts.

The good news is full of beauty, goodness, and truth. The Father, Son, and Holy Spirit also exhibit these and many other attributes. Romans Chapter 1 also says men can find God through creation (beauty), conscience (goodness), and truth.

For some time the emphasis in America has been to focus on truth-telling. Reaching people with the truth by first being good or beautiful has not been considered an effective way to reach the lost. The social gospel may have scared some away from using goodness to attract people to Christ, and the arts themselves have for many decades been a scary place for people of faith.

We know that Paul shared as of first importance that Christ died, was buried, and resurrected victorious in defeat of our separation from God, and that without this truth, people would not enjoy a personal relationship with Him. But somewhere along the line we lost the first importance part of this and decided it was of only importance. The result has been a good news that has largely been the bare truth; in your face, black and white, us and them; dividing the saved from the lost.

This worked for hundreds of years in U.S. history because the government, the culture, and the religion were all in synch with the message of the truth - you either know Jesus or you don’t - make a decision. But in the last 30+ years the culture, the government, and the religion are no longer in agreement about what is true. And in that environment, truth by itself can become divisive.

Jesus met people where they were, not where he wanted them to be (the woman at the well, Zaccheus in the tree, the many people who needed physical healing as well as spiritual). We would like all people to be at the point where the only thing left for them to do is to decide to embrace Christ’s resurrection, but as our culture drifts farther and farther from this never-changing truth, more and more people won’t respond to this message as our first attempt to draw them in. In fact, this direct truth-telling, or didactic approach to reaching people can have the opposite effect. If my understanding of “truth” is a long way from the actual truth, my only reaction might be to be offended by your truth.

While the good news is true, the good news is also beautiful and good, and these are values that all men seem to still find attractive, even if we disagree on the truth itself. People who would not first respond to a discussion of the truth might still be attracted to a discussion of goodness or beauty, or better yet, actual ACTS of beauty and goodness.

Via Affirmativa (The Way of Affirmation) affirms the need to be involved in acts of beauty as well as goodness, and that these acts can be used to invite people in, to create community that can create conversation, which can lead to people wanting to know Christ.

All Beauty was created by God and is owned by Him. Rather than abandoning the arts, the convinced community should be deeply involved in the arts to infuse it with beauty that is also good and true. And this Beauty should be attractional, inviting people into a conversation that will eventually or very quickly lead them to a relationship with Christ.

We don’t need to infuse our art with obvious overt symbols and/or words of religion (although some do this successfully). What we really need is to love our God with all our heart, soul and mind, love our neighbor as ourselves, produce art that is beautiful, good, and true, and become fully engaged with the culture of the artist as an artist. (We don’t ask welders to stop building cars and only weld crosses after they come to Christ. Although a welder here and there might want to do that.)

Via Affirmativa affirms the need for artists to be in the mainstream arts just as business people are in the mainstream of business. We affirm that God wants to redeem artists in their “place” not out of their place, because an artist in the mainstream of the arts who loves God can be salt and light in a place where others who love Christ may never have an influence.

Chuck Blakeman

I’ve always found the first few words of the Bible intriguing, “In the beginning God created….” The first picture of God is one of him creating something out of nothing. It’s not surprising then that when he made us in his image he designed us to be creative.

Language expresses the beauty of our creative side. In human nature and our very bodies God has provided the very building blocks from which we create language.

Consider emotion. Language can provoke powerful emotive responses. Mere words? It’s no wonder Solomon the wise king once said, “Death and life are in the power of the tongue” Proverbs 18:21. Language enables us to encode emotional meaning in a spark which when transmitted to another can light a fire of inspiration or set off a destructive explosion. In this sense language can create emotion. Language is creative and powerful.

The amazing diversity of sounds we use in creating language is another dimension of the beauty of language. From the tonal subtleties of Chinese and Navajo, and the guttural complexities of Arabic, to the intricate ‘clicking’ sounds of Xhosa (African), language gives unique expression to the human soul that reflects its origin in the godhead itself.

Language uses a different canvas; it employs other media than does the painter or sculptor. Its product, though, is exquisite, interpretive, and can pierce the soul quickly and surprisingly.