Artists of the Cross

For a month, the world has been trembling with color, the sky has been swirling with chiaroscuro, and I have been thinking about art. I've been singing with My Epic:

I can't sing that song the same way anymore
'cause I start laughing at the parts where I could only weep before
And it sounds sweeter now because the notes can't ring
until they echo through each wasted year that You restored to me

I've been thinking of how You wept for Lazarus
Tears on Your cheeks, resurrection on Your lips
Sometimes mercy can feel like abandonment
But You know all about it

I used to think I had to write these songs just so
For heavens sake and for my own I put myself through hell
But I quit striving for perfection surrendered up to it instead
And now the songs keep pouring out and I cannot contain myself

I've been thinking of how You wept for Lazarus.
Tears on Your cheeks, resurrection on Your lips
(Broken will)
Sometimes mercy feels just like abandonment
(Find your rest / Broken voice)
You let my heart die, but left Yours beating in my chest
(You sing best)

At 30,000 feet above, the earth was small enough to think of everyone I love
And then imagine them a thousand mirrors all reflect it back at once
and any light would multiply and then remind me
that Your love is more than the sum (“Lazarus”)

It seems like we create the most beautiful art, or at least the truest art, when we are caught up in something outside of the art itself. Writers seem to glorify narcissism sometimes. It seems like we give a lot of energy to contemplating our art, what it is, how to improve it. This isn't a bad thing, but I often find in myself a focus on creating instead of on my motivation for creating. I think this perfectionism is the result of what Luther called a theology of glory. I am trying to control my own success (defined by my own standards instead of God's) instead of trying to show Christ. How does one show Christ, in art or in anything? It seems like everything we touch we ruin. On this side of heaven then, how do we reflect Him?

For a Christian, a theology of glory is disturbing and the complete opposite of what He wants for us. We show Christ best when we decrease and He increases. This means our most beautiful and true art will be the art created at the mercy seat of God, covered in the blood of Christ. This means we as Christians and artists must admit our deep need and sinfulness, but this doesn't mean we glorify sin or wear our brokenness as a badge of honor. Our Beloved died for this. It does mean that we lose ourselves in Christ. For unbelievers, art seems centered on self-discovery and self-expression. For believers, though, art is displaying the beauty of another. The notes that ring the sweetest are the ones that echo through our years of sin and His grace in its face. When we surrender to this, to all we are not and yet to all He is, is when we create best. Broken voice, you sing best, and in the end is Christ. We are mirrors, and He is the light shining in us. At least on this side of heaven, I think we show Him best by being loved by Him. We are artists of the cross.

I can imagine Jesus, shadows and light playing some sort of rubato all over His face, with tears in His eyes and resurrection on His lips. Just as leaves are the most radiant when they are dying, we see His beauty at the cross. We reflect His beauty best when we embrace the cross, not even of suffering for Him, but of agreeing with Him that we are sinful and helpless, but that His cross is enough to save us. And let us not forget that there is sunlight and there is spring.

Annie, Ann, and Seeing God

      I spent a night at the beach a few weeks ago and lay out on a rooftop deck watching the stars breathe out and in. They twinkle with a sort of a heartbeat, a pulse. I tried to spot constellations, but stars are dizzying. As I focused on one star at a time, I wondered if they moved or if I just imagined such dancing. Shivering a little under my blanket, I felt lonely in the quietness, vastness, and other-ness of the sky. I wonder how many stars there are that we just cannot see. “The heavens declare the glory of God, and the sky above proclaims His handiwork” (Psalm 19:1). His hand is over the still and steady sparkle of the stars.

       He has created so much good, like wild beach heather, whispering dune grass, warm cappuccino waves, swirled blue skies, and sun that “comes out like a bridegroom leaving his chamber, and, like a strong man, runs its course with joy” (Psalm 19:5). But waves crash unpredictably, and I can't see the end of the sea. Its “waters roar and foam” and “the mountains tremble at its swelling” (Psalm 46:3). I've been thinking a lot lately of how the natural world fits into our continual seeing of God. Nature is a precious tool, and God uses it throughout Scripture to point us to Himself. At the same time, there is so much that general revelation can't say. Even being out in nature, we can feel excluded, and general revelation makes no promises and gives no assurances. Creation is big and beautiful, but it does not welcome us into the dance (Lewis 40).

      We can't know that God is on our side from bare creation. In A Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, Annie Dillard poignantly paints the unpredictability of nature and our separation from its Creator. Throughout the whole book, she tries to make sense of the death and seemingly senseless pain in the natural world, even in relation to small things, like insects, and she tries to reconcile this pain with the life and seemingly senseless beauty found in these same things. She questions the reader and puts God in the dock, wondering if He is duping us. “Or is beauty itself an intricately fashioned lure, the cruelest hoax of all? […] Could it be that if I climbed the dome of heaven and scrabbled and clutched at the beautiful cloth till I loaded my fists with a wrinkle to pull, that the mask would rip away to reveal a toothless old ugly, eyes glazed with delight?” (255). She watches Tinker Creek, “waters of beauty and mystery,” which are also “waters of separation: they purify, acrid and laving, and they cut me off” (256). She writes of the Biblical waters of separation, the cleansing rites of the priests, purifying the people so that they might draw near to God. “This special water purifies. A man – any man – dips a sprig of hyssop into the vessel and sprinkles – merely sprinkles! - the water upon the unclean, 'upon him that touched a bone, or one slain, or one dead.' So. But I never signed up for this role. The bone touched me” (256). Here Dillard reveals what all men know. We cannot draw near to God on our own; we must be purified. At the same time, she questions God for the brokenness and accursedness of this world, because she refuses to admit her sin. Creation is cursed and its Creator is against us because we have sinned. Just so, we have all touched the bone.

      In the face of a Creator God who is outside of us, who is glorious and just, Dillard must lie to herself for comfort. (“If I am a maple key falling, at least I can twirl” (257).) She is absolutely right that the “universe was not made in jest but in solemn incomprehensible earnest,” yet there is no assurance for us in creation or in our sinful selves that this earnestly beautiful God is for us (259). “Shadow Creek” cannot comfort sinners (260).

      More than shadows, we have Jesus Christ and the Word of God. His incarnation, death, and resurrection speak of nearness to our Creator, peace for His enemies. General revelation can show us a glorious God exists, but it cannot bring us near to Him; such knowledge only condemns us. Though creation can speak of a glorious Creator, it alone excludes sinners from Him, because He is far more glorious and perfect than we are. So I am so glad that He has given us His gospel, a clear message of the cleansing blood of Christ that speaks a better word than the blood of Abel (Hebrews 12:24). Contrary to Dillard's waters, this blood of sprinkling does not separate us from God, but through it Christ secures our “eternal redemption. For if the blood of goats and bulls, and the sprinkling of defiled persons with the ashes of a heifer, sanctify for the purification of the flesh, how much more will the blood of Christ, who through the eternal Spirit offered Himself without blemish to God, purify our conscience from dead works to serve the living God” (Hebrews 9:12-14). “Therefore, brothers, since we have confidence to enter the holy places by the blood of Jesus, by the new and living way that He opened for us through the curtain, that is, through His flesh, and since we have a great high priest over the house of God, let us draw near with a true heart in full assurance of faith, with our hearts sprinkled clean from an evil conscience and our bodies washed with pure water” (10:19-22).

       Following in the footsteps of Dillard, Ann Voskamp, author of One Thousand Gifts, writes of many spiritual experiences she received through nature and the world around her, like traveling to Paris to “make love to God” (Voskamp 201).* From the excerpts I have read of her book and the pieces I have read on her blog, I've found a lack of Christ and clear cut gospel (particularly discussion of sin, not imperfection or weakness or piles of dirty dishes or overdue library books, but downright sin and the forgiveness of it). While I don't mean to review Voskamp's work, I find this type of thinking dangerous and infected with lies. God's blessings cannot provide the comfort and joy for us that Christ, our Savior, does. As the enemy works to blind us to the light of the glory of the gospel of Christ (2 Corinthians 4:4), I think it is sad that we seek communion with Him more in shadows instead of the substance of His Word and gospel. It is not that shadows are bad, but it is that shadows are not where we see Him best. With only shadows, we are outcasts. It is at the cross that we find peace with Him, and it is there that we see His glory shining the brightest. Living in a cursed world with so much sin around us and dealing day by day with indwelling sin, we need these starry sights of Him in the gospel.

      Because of Christ and His cross, I can enjoy glimpses of a Creator who is both transcendent and immanent. The stars dizzy me, but they twinkle like the heartbeat my loving Father put within my chest. I think God wants Christians to see His lavish, almost wasteful, beauty in His creation and be reminded not just that He is beautiful, but that He is for us. I think He wants us to see all things in connection with the grace He has lavished upon us as He has revealed the truth of His gospel to us (Ephesians 1:7-10). “God is our refuge and strength, a very present help in trouble. Therefore we will not fear though the earth gives way, though the mountains be moved into the heart of the sea” (Psalm 46:1-2). Beauty smiles, and it is to welcome us. He has marked us and engraved our names in the palms of His hands (Lewis 40, Isaiah 49:16). Our greatest communion with God is not through creation or His gifts to us but through the Word, sacraments, and prayer as He reminds us of the gospel. We are loved by and love God at the foot of the cross as He freely blesses us with faith in His Son. We see Him best on this side of heaven not in shadows, but in seeing our sin forgiven and His arms open wide to welcome us because of not our work, but Christ's.

Dillard, Annie. Three by Annie Dillard. New York: Harper Perennial, 1991.

Lewis, C.S. The Weight of Glory. San Francisco: HarperSanFrancisco, 2001.

Voskamp, Ann. One Thousand Gifts. Grand Rapids: Zondervan, 2010. *I accessed this quote through a detailed review by Bob DeWaay on this site - http://www.cicministry.org/commentary/issue120.htm. I haven't read the book personally, but from this review and others, along with reading some of her material myself on her blog, I think my explanation of her ideas is accurate. For a helpful review, see http://www.fightingforthefaith.com/2014/01/mystical-estrogen.html

A Few Thoughts on Dependence

      Summer is so fertile and alive. Soybean fields stretch in green ruffles, corn grows up into a forest, farmers pile hay into beds, and there is green on green all over. Green soybean leaves against green trees and green vines and green bushes and green grass. And all the green and all the crops and all the world hangs on Him who waters “its furrows abundantly, settling its ridges, softening it with showers, and blessing its growth. You crown the year with your bounty; your wagon tracks overflow with abundance. The pastures of the wilderness overflow; the hills gird themselves with joy” (Psalm 65:10-12).

     God is gracious to strip us of the things we use to secure our good. It doesn't always feel like grace. It can feel like panic, like loneliness, like drowning, like “evils have encompassed me beyond number; my iniquities have overtaken me, and I cannot see; they are more than the hairs of my head; my heart fails me” (Psalm 40:12). We cradle high thoughts of ourselves, unwilling to admit our guilt and helplessness. Because we fear being left entirely to Christ and His work, we sing lullabies of lies to quiet our consciences. When I think about my sin, I fear, because I can't fix it or control it. If I am worried, I tell myself the gospel not so that I might believe the truth, but so that I might control my unpleasant emotions. Polluted, I use Him to feel better, and I'm sinning just as much. Nothing I do is good enough to please Him or secure joy for myself. Nothing you do is good enough. We ruin everything, and sin spirals out of control. As I think about my sin, sometimes I want to pull out my hair, and sometimes I want to run outside in the rain and let it pound and sting and clean me. Eventually, we come to the end of ourselves, and there is no where else that we can go but to Christ. (The whole Christian life is a continual coming to the end of ourselves and coming to Christ.) “When iniquities prevail against me, you atone for our transgressions. Blessed is the one you choose and bring near, to dwell in your courts! We shall be satisfied with the goodness of your house, the holiness of your temple!” (Psalm 65:3-4)

      In every chloroplast, sunbeam, and raindrop, He has wrapped us up in reminders of His goodness and our dependence. And it is the safest, most beautiful thing to hang on Christ who atones for our transgressions, the sin that is too strong for us, that has gone over our heads. He takes that sin and rains down blood instead, blood that is so different from our polluted efforts, pure and sufficient blood that can cleanse our consciences from dead works to serve the living God (Hebrews 9:14). 

 

Paintings, "Landscape at Auvers in the Rain" and "Haystacks Under a Rainy Sky," by Vincent van Gogh, accessed from Wikipedia

Good Friday

I drove by a lake cloaked in fog and imagined a man drowned there. Sometimes doubt cloaks my mind, far heavier than fog, thoughts that You're a miser, a sadist, a tyrant. I like to pick my scabs to the irrational scarring of my skin, blood under my fingernails, bitten low. Perhaps it's the control. Sometimes the sight of my own blood makes me woozy, like the thought of drawing it out with a piercing needle. Maybe that's control too. I want control and I want freedom and the two are like oil and water.

There was a heavy weight on Your shoulders, far heavier than I know. Did it feel like You were drowning when You hung there so, pushing Yourself up, scraping Your raw back against the wood, struggling for a gasp of air, for life, His smile? I will never know it, never bear it. What was it like for you, a free bird, to be bound? As the blood flowed out and Your heart beat frantic, did water gather around Your heart in sacs full and ready to burst? You were thirsty.

On my way home that day it started to rain, the heavy spring way. It was Good Friday. This day, Father, You did not spare Your Son. This day blood rained down from Your forehead and into Your dearest eyes, and there was no one to wipe them for You. This day life poured out of You. This day, like the water and blood that ran freely from Your pierced side, the floodgates of free love ran pure and clean and just, clean wetness running, rushing, as a river from Your open side. This day You spared nothing. This day You gave everything. This day You purchased my freedom; I'm no longer under law but under grace. This day the temple was torn in two, from top to bottom. This day is for freedom, for knowledge, for nearness. Keep me in this freedom of knowing; to know You is eternal life.