The Creator at a Slant by Michael Winters

by Michael Winters

Emily Dickinson famously wrote “Tell all the truth but tell it slant.” Art often works like that. It hits us from an unexpected angle. A song lyric may sneak up on you and reveal some corner of your inner life you didn’t know existed. A photograph may unexpectedly light up some part of your neural network that’s been dark for decades.

In James K.A. Smith’s new book How to Inhabit Time: Understanding the Past, Facing the Future, and Living Faithfully Now, the author points out how God’s self-revelation also often arrives from unexpected angles.

“The Creator of the cosmos comes at us slant. He shows up in a way that also hides. God’s self-communication, as Kierkegaard would put it, is always indirect, which means it takes more than ears and eyes to see and hear. God can come to the creation he made and yet not be received or perceived (John 1:10–11). When God empties himself, humbles himself, taking the form of a servant, the revelation is oblique (Phil. 2:6–7). On the road to Emmaus, not even resurrection immediately translates into recognition; something else has to be given. There is a grace needed to glimpse the God who graces history.”

As an artist, I find something comforting and encouraging about that. The Creator is artful in his own revelations, rarely as “clear” and undeniable as we’d like. I’ve talked with many artists who feel conflicted about how their faith relates to their art. They feel the gospel truth should be more evident in their artwork. Some feel their art should proclaim the gospel in more linear fashion. No doubt, some are called to this and they need encouragement to work in that way. For most with these types of thoughts though, an unnecessary guilt arises when they can’t figure out how to authentically and clearly make their art tell “all the truth.” But the truth is, God doesn’t even communicate like that, so why do we feel the pressure to?

Some artists that feel that pressure stuff the problem down until it seems to go away. Some make ineffective art that attempts a straight telling of the truth. However, those that end up making compelling, truth-witnessing art usually do so by making it “slant”…and by learning what Dickinson knew at the end of that same poem:

The Truth must dazzle gradually
Or every man be blind —

No single artwork can tell the whole capital-T Truth all at once, but the Truth comes out slant and gradually, and, the truth is, that might be all we can bear. Don’t give up on telling the truth through your art. Indeed tell all the truth, but tell it slant, knowing the Truth must dazzle gradually.

W.W.J.S.? by Michael Winters

by Michael Winters

I’ve often wondered if there is such a thing as “Christian vision.” In other words, is there a way of seeing— a way of connecting subject, eyesight, and mind—that is uniquely Christian?

Among the first words spoken by Jesus in the gospel of John are, “Come and see.” Come and see. So much of the life of an artist, or anyone else for that matter, is directed by what we lay our eyes on. A few weeks ago, Pastor Josh Rothschild preached a sermon titled “You Become What You Behold,” in which he encouraged us to behold Jesus. I was curious: Along with beholding Jesus, can we also learn to behold like Jesus?

If there is such a thing as “Christian vision,” it could only be so in its likeness to Jesus’ own way of seeing. I recently read an interesting book that makes Jesus’ sight its subject. It’s called What Would Jesus See?: Ways of Looking at a Disorienting World by Aaron Rosen.

Rosen makes thoughtful observations regarding sight in the gospels. For example, in discussing Jesus’ declaration that “the eye is the lamp of the body,” Rosen writes, “By declaring the eye a ‘lamp,’ burning and emanating, he invites us to think about it engaging the world not as a passive recipient or even processor of information but as a dynamic force that engages the entire body and soul.”

Humans are not machines. Our sight isn’t like a camera that simply records the information into a box. Our sight is connected to the rest of our bodies and our actions. Like Rosen acknowledges, there’s a dynamism at work that Jesus knew and put to use.

While Rosen himself is not a Christian, but a practicing Jew, it’s clear he has great respect for Jesus: “Few people in the history of the world have understood as clearly and intuitively as Jesus that the way we look at people is intimately entwined with how we treat them.”

After discussing eyesight in the gospels, Rosen goes on to speculate about how Jesus-like seeing might function in our time and place. In drawing to a conclusion, he writes:

“This Jesus, more eagle-eyed, unpredictable, and brilliant than I expected, was not someone I recognized initially, and he still continues to surprise me. Ultimately, the enduring capacity of Jesus to stun and befuddle is a revelation in its own right. As clear as he can be at times—especially regarding how we should regard others—it seems that the Jesus of the Gospels does not want to be, or will not allow himself to be, completely recognizable. With uncanny foresight, Jesus not only avoided the full comprehension of his peers, he took evasive maneuvers for the future, many of which remain effective to this day. Our inquiry into how Jesus would see the world today must remain subjunctive, speculative.”

While this is true, it doesn’t make the question, “What would Jesus see?” any less provocative. It’s a question that will stay with me.

This post originally existed as a newsletter sent to Arts Feedback Group participants. You can learn more about Arts Feedback here.

Al Shands: Embracing the Mystery Reflections by Michael Winters

by Claire Davey

Mystery profoundly marks our lives. For as long as we are on earth, we are under the divine mystery of God and we do not yet understand. Unanswered questions and gray areas may frustrate us into eternity. However, Al Shands – Episcopalian priest, filmmaker, art collector, writer, philanthropist, amongst other titles –offers a new perspective. Shands embraces the mysteries and complexities of life headfirst:

“It’s the unknowns, the tantalizing edges of truth, the hints and guesses of what might be but is not yet, that prove to be the most significant parts of the human experience. In the meantime, that mystery is to be celebrated and cherished.” 

The contemporary art he and his wife, Mary Shands, collected throughout their lives reflects this very idea. In his book Rounding the Circle, Shands writes how contemporary art is often difficult to understand because it takes active engagement with the art. This art will not explain itself. We must become a part of it. This practice does not fall short of being a spiritual one.

Just as there are aspects of God that remain hidden to us, we must use our imagination to make sense of it all. By this, we learn to display a faith that is childlike – one that does not so much seek to have the right answers or the correct theology, but leans more into the wonder of God, gazing with open eyes. And what a beautiful picture of faith this could be.

As I walked the Mary and Al Shands collection at the Speed Art Museum this past week, I had a similar realization with one particular piece. Untitled by Anish Kapoor was at first quite an unassuming piece. A large, yellow disk. That is it. I was quick to judge, writing it off as another piece of modern art that makes me frustrated in my inability to understand the deeper meaning, ultimately doubting that there is one to begin with. Upon further notice, I had no other choice but to interact with the artwork. As I approached, it began to approach me back, as if it was moving closer by the dominance of its deep yellow hue. It became mesmerizing to me. I was lost in it.

“Untitled” by Anish Kapoor. Stainless steel and yellow paint. Promised gift of The Mary and Alfred Shands Art Collection. Speed Art Museum.

We seek to further understand God through the presence of art. As in the rest of life, in contemporary art we experience ambiguity. Yet when we allow ourselves to take a step forward, to observe, and to witness, the beauty begins to unfold. Perhaps the mystery is not such a bad place to linger after all.

Al Shands passed away in 2021, yet his legacy lives on through his artwork collection, writings, films, and philanthropic legacy. The Mary and Al Shands Collection was on display at the Speed Art Museum March 24 - August 6, 2023. 


Claire Davey is currently studying sociology and studio art at Wheaton College in Illinois. Originally from Portland, Oregon, she served this summer as an intern for Sojourn Arts through Love Thy Neighborhood.

“Vision of the parts rejoined” by Michael Winters

by Michael Winters

Earlier this year, we read Remembering by Wendell Berry for the Faith in Fiction book discussion. The book opens with the following prayer as an epigraph or prologue. It’s a beautiful prayer for a storyteller or artist of any kind:

Heavenly Muse, Spirit who brooded on
The world and raised it shapely out of nothing,
Touch my lips with fire and burn away
All dross of speech, so that I keep in mind
The truth and end to which my words now move
In hope. Keep my mind within that Mind
Of which it is a part, whose wholeness is
The hope of sense in what I tell. And though
I go among the scatterings of that sense,
The members of its worldly body broken,
Rule my sight by vision of the parts
Rejoined. And in my exile’s journey far
From home, be with me, so I may return.

- Wendell Berry, from the novel Remembering

I think I’ll write this poem out and put it next to this printout pinned above my desk…

That’s a photo by Ralph Eugene Meatyard I grabbed off the internet, printed and put above my desk. Seen from left to right is Wendell Berry, Denise Levertov, and Thomas Merton. It was a one-time gathering at Merton’s hermitage at the Abbey of Gethsemane near Bardstown, Kentucky. I would’ve loved to have been there that day.

Berry, Meatyard and Merton were all active in central Kentucky in the late 1960s (Levertov was visiting from out of state). Each of these individuals was incredibly talented, but a big part of what made them that way was their conversations with others. Merton and Berry especially are known for their prolific letter writing as well as their published works.

Our talent is not merely a matter of individual giftedness. Our talent is also greatly grown by what we give and take with others who are also yearning for a “vision of the parts Rejoined.” That’s why we do Arts Feedback Groups, fostering a generative community of intentional creatives. In conversation with each other, we hope to help each become better artists.

This post originally existed as a newsletter sent to Arts Feedback Group participants. You can learn more about Arts Feedback here.

Wrestling with Creativity and God by Michael Winters

by Michael Winters

The Vision after the Sermon (Jacob and the Angel) by Paul Gaugin (1888)

Art, faith and wrestling share a lot in common. After painting The Vision after the Sermon (Jacob and the Angel) in 1888, Paul Gaugin wrote a letter to Vincent van Gogh:

“…I have just painted a religious picture, very clumsily; but it interested me and I like it. I wanted to give it to the church of Pont-Aven. Naturally they don’t want it. A group of Breton women are praying, their costumes a very intense black. The bonnets a very luminous yellowy-white….. An apple tree cuts across the canvas, dark purple with its foliage drawn in masses like emerald green clouds with greenish yellow chinks of sunlight. The ground (pure vermilion). In the church it darkens and becomes a browny red. The angel is dressed in violent ultramarine blue and Jacob in bottle green. The angel’s wings pure chrome yellow.  The angel’s hair chrome  and the feet flesh orange…”

In this letter, you can hear Gaugin’s love of painting. Of course, in his day and age he couldn’t send easily send a pic to his friend, so he describes the painting in words. As he vividly names the colors and shapes, you can sense the joy he takes in the unique qualities of each.

You can also hear Gaugin wrestling with his own abilities. Though he admits liking the painting, he says he painted it “very clumsily.” He wrestles not only with his skill but also with the problem of others’ reception of the work. He offered the painting to the church of Pont-Aven, but he writes (cynically?), “Naturally they don’t want it.”

Along the creative journey we must wrestle with our abilities and with offering our work to the public. Our Christian friends might not even value our work. The gallery, or record producer, or publisher we wish wanted our work may not want it.

We can find ourselves like Jacob in Gaugin’s painting and in Genesis 32, on a wilderness journey trying to find our place, wrestling with everything. Maybe, like Jacob, without even knowing it, we’ve been wrestling with God.

Thanks to My Daily Art Display for pointing to the story of Gaugin’s painting. This post originally existed as a newsletter sent to Arts Feedback Group participants. You can learn more about Arts Feedback here.

Drawing Near with Joshua Jean-Marie by Michael Winters

by Jordan Lienhoop

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Drawing near is embodied in Joshua Jean-Marie’s life, extending from his creative practice to his community involvement. A self-taught photographer with a love for film, Josh notices moments of intimacy between people, resulting in work that contains layers of connection. His photographs invite viewers to look closely at the people around them and to engage in a more meaningful way, whether on a bus, at a park, or in a food truck line.

See more of Josh’s work on his Instagram @joshuajeanmarie, and check out his work with the podcast How You Create.

photographs by Joshua Jean-Marie

photographs by Joshua Jean-Marie

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Stitching Stories Workshop: Kabul, Afghanistan by Michael Winters

by Jenny Stopher

Original fabric pieces now on view in our gallery through November 7, 2021.

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My husband and I traveled to Kabul for a second time in early 2020 for the purpose of building relationships with and assisting the staff of a non-profit organization there. My talented and experienced husband had many opportunities to work with the staff of a small business school in the city and assisted in teaching ethics and leadership classes.

However, in the middle of a culture whose views of women and gender roles are so different than here in the United States, I sought to find a way to connect and serve using my God-given calling to work as an artist. My vision was to have an artist-residency-type approach while there. I felt particularly burdened to open some doors to the often-overlooked women who had graduated from sewing and embroidery classes of a local trade school. As a professional fiber artist, I sought to work together with these artisans on some projects with the dual purpose of building relationships and making textile art focusing on our stories of family and faith. 

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I introduced the idea of stitching our stories by borrowing from the practice of henna designs used in cultural celebrations. I told them my story of family and faith in picture and encouraged them to draw their stories and then stitch those designs into provided fabric.  

I brought these embroideries home just as the pandemic was shutting down the world, setting them aside to quarantine. My mind turned to self-care and surviving isolation as the world changed.

Now, over a year later, the world news turns to Afghanistan. I pulled the neglected embroideries out of their lengthy quarantine and, longing to care for the women who stitched them, I ironed them. I ironed and I cried, and I prayed and I journaled, and I ironed some more.  

Tuesday, August 17, 2021:

… My heart breaks with each pass of the iron.

I sat with these young ladies and shared life stories as we stitched together. Their lives didn't look like mine, but we marveled at similar heartbreak of lost family and unexpected family struggles. Now they face unimaginable things, the loss of freedoms that were hard won and not knowing how much will be asked of them from the Taliban troops. The single women fear losing their right to choose their own husband or worse; the married women fear losing their husbands and their children. They all fear losing what little livelihood and possessions they have.

I wish I could erase their pain like this warm iron smooths the wrinkled cotton. But I pray for each as the iron works its magic causing their names stitched into the fabric to pop in bright silk thread.

Please pray for these women.

Jayber Crow by Wendell Berry: A Faith in Fiction Discussion Guide by Michael Winters

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SYNOPSIS (via the publisher)

“This is a book about Heaven,” says Jayber Crow, “but I must say too that . . . I have wondered sometimes if it would not finally turn out to be a book about Hell.” It is 1932 and he has returned to his native Port William to become the town’s barber.

Orphaned at age ten, Jayber Crow’s acquaintance with loneliness and want have made him a patient observer of the human animal, in both its goodness and frailty.

He began his search as a “pre–ministerial student” at Pigeonville College. There, freedom met with new burdens and a young man needed more than a mirror to find himself. But the beginning of that finding was a short conversation with “Old Grit,” his profound professor of New Testament Greek.

“You have been given questions to which you cannot be given answers. You will have to live them out—perhaps a little at a time.”

“And how long is that going to take?”

“I don’t know. As long as you live, perhaps.”

“That could be a long time.”“I will tell you a further mystery,” he said. “It may take longer.”

Wendell Berry’s clear–sighted depiction of humanity’s gifts—love and loss, joy and despair—is seen though his intimate knowledge of the Port William Membership.

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

1. INTERPRETING FICTION - The book begins with this notice: “NOTICE - Persons attempting to find a “text” in this book will be prosecuted; persons attempting to find a “subtext” in it will be banished; persons attempting to explain, interpret, explicate, analyze, deconstruct, or otherwise “understand” it will be exiled to a desert island in the company only of other explainers.   BY ORDER OF THE AUTHOR.”
Why do you think this notice was included? How do you think it should affect the way we discuss this book? 

2. CONVERSIONS - As a way of remembering some of the book, Jayber seems to go through a number of turning points, or conversions: What were some of these?

3. PLACE - So much of the book is about place. After he determines to go home to Port William, the world Jayber inhabits is all sacred. He writes, “And I knew that the Spirit that had gone forth to shape the world and make it live was still alive in it. I just had no doubt. I could see that I lived in the created world, and it was still being created. I would be part of it forever. There was no escape. The Spirit that made it was in it, shaping it and reshaping it, sometimes lying at rest, sometimes standing up and shaking itself, like a muddy horse, and letting the pieces fly.”
Is this familiar to you, or does it describe a different way of seeing the physical world?

4. TIME - Early in the book, Jayber describes reflections on the water. He eventually lives by the river watching the surface of the water. He connects with the river as a metaphor of past, present, and future. “The surface of the river is like a living soul, which is easy to disturb, is often disturbed, but, growing calm, shows what it was, is, and will be.”
This book has a long view of time and how individuals, communities, families, and places change over time. What did you notice about the passage of time in this book?

5. RELIGION - Jayber sees the world in a thoroughly Christian way, but he admits streaks of doubt and doesn’t think much of the rotating cast of preachers he hears in church. “To them, the soul was something dark and musty, stuck away for later. In their brief passage through or over it, most of the young preachers knew Port William only as it theoretically was (“lost”) and as it theoretically might be (“saved”).” 
He also writes, “the belief has grown in me that Christ did not come to found an organized religion but came instead to found an unorganized one. He seems to have come to carry religion out of the temples into the fields and sheep pastures, onto the roadsides and the banks of rivers, into the houses of sinners and publicans, into the town and the wilderness, toward the membership of all that is here. Well, you can read and see what you think.”
What did you think of Jayber’s Christianity?

6. MEMBERSHIP - Jayber sees the people of Port William as belonging to the Membership. What can we learn from his understanding of a community?

7. WORK - Jayber dropped out of seminary and gave up his calling to become a preacher. In becoming Port William’s barber he fulfilled a unique social role and in his other work too. What roles did Jayber fulfill for his community?

8. THE NEWS, THE ECONOMY, AND THE WAR - Jayber is critical of the wars and the aggressive modern economy. What are examples of this, and what did you think of his ideas? Is he just an old crank? An idealist? Or did you find him compelling on these themes?

9. LOVE and FIDELITY - After Jayber sees Troy in Hargrave with another woman (not his wife Mattie), Jayber jumps out of the roadhouse’s bathroom window, abandoning Clydie to walk home. Why do you think he responded this way? What did you make of his “marriage” to Mattie?

10. HEAVEN - “This is a book about Heaven. I know it now. It floats among us like a cloud and is the realest thing we know and the least to be captured, the least to be possessed by anybody for himself. It is like a grain of mustard seed, which you cannot see among the crumbs of earth where it lies. It is like the reflection of the trees on the water.”
In what ways is this book about heaven? What do you think Jayber means?

A Study in Human Complexity: Brittany Anne Jarboe Jennings by Michael Winters

by Kathleen Childs

I tend to go about my day in a blur. I move from one problem to the next. One task to the next. I fly about leaving chaos in my wake, not stopping to realize that the car I cut in front of on the highway contained a person, and that person is just like me. The lady checking my groceries, the guy sitting on the bench at the park, my mailman, the person I share my studio with, my boss, my roommate, my mom—all of them are just like me: a person uniquely created in the image of God.

They have wants and needs; a life I barely touch. They aren’t robots that power off when I’m not in the room. They are alive. Breath circulates through their lungs and blood pumps in their veins. They have complex thoughts and feelings and histories that I will never, ever know. They are loved by God just as much as I am. He made them. He sent his Son to die for them. And I have the audacity to so easily function like I’m the only person on this planet who is capable of complexity. 

“A Study in Human Complexity: Brittany Anne Jarboe Jennings” by Kathleen Childs.

For my year-long internship project with Sojourn Arts, I created nine pieces about Brittany Anne Jarboe Jennings instead of the standard lone portrait—and I still feel like I barely scratched the surface of her complexity. How do I even begin to look at someone made in the image of God and try to capture them on paper? You can’t! It is physically impossible to take enough photos, draw enough drawings, paint enough paintings, to really truly convey a person in their entirety. If you know anyone in any sort of real way you already know that. And yet even knowing all of that, in my hubris, I tried.

I started by looking at her. Her long dark hair with the beginnings of grey. I tend to think of her more stony and straight-faced expressions, but I know that when she smiles it is bright and meaningful. She’s a deep thinker and wants to know and question what’s around her. 

From “A Study in Human Complexity: Brittany Anne Jarboe Jennings” by Kathleen Childs, in collaboration with Beren Jennings.

I then looked at her family. Her son Beren, young and exploring who he is and what he’s passionate about. I worked with him on his portrait and allowed him to create his own art and give himself surroundings since Brittany has done art with Beren as well. Sylvan, her second born, full of life and ready to share the joy he finds in the world around him. Darren, her husband, someone I don’t know and a type of relationship I can’t fully understand, but someone she loves and someone who loves her. 

From “A Study in Human Complexity: Brittany Anne Jarboe Jennings” by Kathleen Childs.

From “A Study in Human Complexity: Brittany Anne Jarboe Jennings” by Kathleen Childs.

I explored what she's passionate about. Playing the cello and the music she loves to listen to. Creating art on paper, with portraits of trees, abstract graphite, repetitive lines, and squiggly splotchy patterns with paint. I also collaborated with her on one of these pieces. I asked her to have fun and create whatever she wanted around the portrait I did of her hands which are her tools in creation.

I even tried to contemplate and wrestle with what she’s struggled with. Postpartum depression, anxiety, her relationship with her sons.

From “A Study in Human Complexity: Brittany Anne Jarboe Jennings” by Kathleen Childs, in collaboration with Brittany Anne Jarboe Jennings.

In the end I didn’t produce a portrait of Brittany; I produced my perspective of Brittany. It has giant holes and is incomplete in places. It would take more than a lifetime to be able to understand just how many holes there are and it would take even more time to create enough art to fill those holes. I haven’t shared in or even experienced something similar to a lot of what makes her herself. I don’t know what it’s like to be married or even have a significant other. I don’t have sons. I haven’t experienced depression like hers.

But not understanding and having these gaps is okay. That’s the point. Through studying Brittany I was reminded of why I started this project in the first place: in my pride I believe I can somehow fully know a person through my limited, human interactions with them, when in reality no matter how much time and energy I put into knowing someone there will always be more to know.

Yet it is still well worth getting to know them and putting in the effort. We have to keep trying. The people surrounding us are beautiful image bearers of God who are complex and unfathomable, but worth every second we spend on them. 


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Kathleen Childs spent the past year interning with Sojourn Arts through Love Thy Neighborhood. In the Fall she will attend North Greenville University to study Production Design. As a visual artist, Kathleen loves creating detailed graphite portraits and playing with paint. You can view her work by following her on Instagram @step.one.art.

Mirrored in Mourning by Michael Winters

by Jordan Lienhoop

I was standing before two alabaster statues in the Speed Art Museum: Hooded Mourner with Rosary and Hooded Mourner with Missal. Created in the mid-1400s at the School of Jean Cambrai in France, the sculptures are encased behind glass, standing no more than two feet high. Their faces are somber, heads bent, covered by heavily draped cloaks.

These two statues were created to mourn over the tomb of a lost loved one far beyond the life of the person who commissioned them. Past my reflection in the glass encasement, six hundred years later, I found myself mirrored in their mourning. 

Hooded Mourner with Rosary, School of Jean Cambrai (French, active 1420-1435). Alabaster. Bequest from the Preston Pope Satterwhite Collection, Speed Art Museum, Louisville, KY.

Hooded Mourner with Rosary, School of Jean Cambrai (French, active 1420-1435). Alabaster. Bequest from the Preston Pope Satterwhite Collection, Speed Art Museum, Louisville, KY.

Seven weeks earlier, my sister Kait and I sat in our grandparents’ living room, visiting with them before our drive up to Chicago O’Hare. We were about to embark on a two and a half week trip throughout Europe—five countries, Kait’s graduation tour. 

Just before leaving their house, Grandma got a call from the hospital: would she please come in to meet with the radiologist. As my sister and I left for the airport, Grandma and Grandpa left for the hospital. 

It was in Naples, Italy, after a day trip to Pompeii, that we found out about the large mass on her pancreas; that’s all Mom would tell us, as she and Grandma had been avoiding most of our questions, not wanting to worry us. The next day, though, my brother texted me that it was cancerous, untreatable. 

Over the course of one week, Grandma had been diagnosed with stage IV pancreatic cancer. 

Sitting in the Chiesa di Santo Stefano on the Isle of Capri, I prayed: Lord, please heal her. 

In the Basilica of Santa Maria del Mar in Barcelona: Lord, please heal her. 

In the Cathedral of Notre-Dame in Paris: Lord, please heal her. 

Back from Europe, sitting once again in our grandparents’ living room, everything had changed. After a horse and pony show of photos, stories, and souvenirs, we began to talk about her cancer and what chemotherapy would look like. In the rawness of processing the diagnosis, Grandma’s voice was unsteady, crying as she talked about it and trusting Jesus. 

After that long weekend, Kait returned to Indianapolis, Indiana, and I went back to Louisville, Kentucky, where a month later I got a second part-time job at the Speed Art Museum as a security guard, a position that involved hours of walking, looking, and thinking. 

Within the careful shaping of the figures, within the graceful draping of the fabric, I saw a beauty in the midst of sorrow; a beauty I experienced, too, in the weeks before Grandma’s passing. Some of the sweetest moments with her were wrapped in the deepest sorrow, as the preciousness of the time we had left together met the ache of the physical reminders of her lessening days. 

Tucking her into bed at night. Watching the ginkgo tree drop its fruit. Reading the cards sent to her. Feeling October’s sun on my face. Seeing a new depth to my grandparents’ marriage. 

Hooded Mourner with Missal, School of Jean Cambrai (French, active 1420-1435). Alabaster. Bequest from the Preston Pope Satterwhite Collection, Speed Art Museum, Louisville, KY.

Hooded Mourner with Missal, School of Jean Cambrai (French, active 1420-1435). Alabaster. Bequest from the Preston Pope Satterwhite Collection, Speed Art Museum, Louisville, KY.

Seven weeks after her diagnosis, around one o’clock in the morning, Grandma died in her sleep. Though Mom had messaged me early in the morning, I still went into work at the Speed, thinking I would just get through the day, that her death wouldn’t be real if I barely acknowledged it. Before the shift had even started I was in tears, and my coworkers, though they had only known me for two weeks, gave me some of the first comfort I was to receive. 

In the weeks after her death, during my shifts at the museum, I would think about Grandma, endlessly walking circles around the galleries, endlessly walking circles around her in my mind. It was in the tapestry room—a gallery filled with floor to ceiling tapestries of battle victories and parables, with illuminated books of hours and gold reliquaries—that I would stop before the cream-colored statues. 

Though no one in Louisville was affected by the death of my grandma, those statues gave testament to my grief; I did not grieve alone. In front of me was the weight of sorrow carved out of stone, an attempt to honor the life lost, to say, “I will not forget.”

These works of art began a process of grieving my grandma’s death. They led to reflections and revelations, to the working out of my faith, as I questioned God’s power to heal diseases, as I sought hope in the promise of resurrection. 

Three years later, as I look at the statues in the photo, I know that I’m not cast in a permanent state of grief. I have the hope that one day I will see my grandma again when I see my Savior face-to-face—a hope that she clung to as well in the midst of suffering. 


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As a visual artist, Jordan Lienhoop is interested in themes of memory, loss, and redemption. After graduating from DePauw University, she moved to Louisville and has been on staff with Sojourn Arts for the past four years. Jordan loves working with artists and encouraging them in their creative and spiritual walks.

 

This post is part of an ongoing series where we ask artists and arts professionals to share artwork that has significantly impacted their formation as a Christian. 

My Name is Asher Lev by Chaim Potok: A Faith in Fiction Discussion Guide by Michael Winters

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SYNOPSIS (via the publisher)

Asher Lev is a Ladover Hasid who keeps kosher, prays three times a day and believes in the Ribbono Shel Olom, the Master of the Universe. Asher Lev is an artist who is compulsively driven to render the world he sees and feels, even when it leads him to blasphemy. In this stirring and often visionary novel, Chaim Potok traces Asher’s passage between these two identities, the one consecrated to God, the other subject only to the imagination.

Asher Lev grows up in a cloistered Hasidic community in postwar Brooklyn, a world suffused by ritual and revolving around a charismatic Rebbe. But in time, his gift threatens to estrange him from that world and the parents he adores. As it follows his struggle, My Name Is Asher Lev becomes a luminous portrait of the artist, by turns heartbreaking and exultant, a modern classic.

PERSONAL REFLECTION by Michael Winters

Someone in our discussion group pointed out that this story is like a superhero origin story. It’s true. Asher struggles to please his parents and fumbles at fitting into his community but he has a gift of artistic talent. With the help of a few guides along the way, he figures out how to overcome his challenges, though there are many negative consequences in the wake.

This book was excellent for discussion in our context of a church-based arts program. Reading this book made me even more want to help foster a culture of acceptance and welcome for artists in our own Christian community. Asher’s community didn’t know what to do with artists. There wasn’t room for Asher to be his full creative self and thrive there. I hope we can help make room for people to be their full creative selves through Sojourn Arts and at Sojourn Midtown.

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

  1. The paintings Asher paints and exhibits at the end of the book bring the tension between him and his family to a breaking point. What do you think of Asher’s decision to make and exhibit those paintings?

  2. Various characters have different ideas about the role of the artist in society. What did Jacob Kahn, the Rebbe, Asher’s mom and Asher’s dad think the role of an artist was? Do you agree or disagree with their ideas?

  3. At one point when he is young, Asher’s father questions whether Asher’s artistic gift is from “the Other Side”, meaning not from God. Later, Asher himself questions his gift, too. What do you make of Asher’s gift and his seemingly intrinsic drive to create?

  4. Asher has a rich inner world that his parents don’t seem to see. What did you notice about Asher when he was young?

  5. As Asher continues making art in his youth, tensions develop not just with his parents but with his community. The religious community he’s part of has clear expectations for a “good Jewish boy.” Asher mostly wants to please the community but finds himself at odds with it. What did you think about the role of the religious community in Asher’s life?

  6. A number of times through the book Asher is drawn to Christian imagery of Jesus, such as pietà and crucifixion images. What do you think these images meant to him?

Joy & Grief in Meena Matocha's Art by Michael Winters

by Jordan Lienhoop

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During Lent 2018, Meena Matocha’s process of art making radically changed. After experiencing loss within her family and community, she began using ash, charcoal, and soil to create deeply emotive paintings—a way of physically and spiritually grappling with the reality of both grief and joy in this life. Both figurative and abstracted, Meena’s work invites slower looking and contemplation through its many layers, materials, and expressive forms.

See more of Meena’s work on her Instagram @meenamatochaart and Facebook page.

“A Prayer in Times of Isolation” by Meena Matocha. 36”x48”, 2020.

“A Prayer in Times of Isolation” by Meena Matocha. 36”x48”, 2020.

“Redemption of Ashes I” by Meena Matocha. Commissioned by Church of the Cross Austin for Lent and Easter 2018. Charcoal, ashes, acrylic and wax on panel, 48”x36”.

“Where O Death is Your Sting?” by Meena Matocha. Charcoal, ashes, acrylic, & cold wax on panel.

“Where O Death is Your Sting?” by Meena Matocha. Charcoal, ashes, acrylic, & cold wax on panel.

“Gravity and Grace” by Meena Matocha. Charcoal, ashes, soil, acrylic and wax on panel, 36x48”, 2019.

“Gravity and Grace” by Meena Matocha. Charcoal, ashes, soil, acrylic and wax on panel, 36x48”, 2019.

“Through a Glass Darkly” by Meena Matocha. Charcoal, ashes, soil, acrylic, wax on panel, 12”x12”, 2019.

“Covid Journal” by Meena Matocha. Fine art paper print of ink sketch on watercolor paper, 2020-2021.

On Motherhood & Artmaking: Jocelyn Mathewes by Michael Winters

by Jordan Lienhoop

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In her artist book Offspring: of motherhood and artmaking, interdisciplinary artist Jocelyn Mathewes uses analog mediums to create an expressive portrait of motherhood, childhood, and time. From pigment transfers to emulsion lifts, her use of alternative processes allows for experimentation and exploration—ways of making that were cultivated in her own childhood and are found today throughout her creative practice.

Jocelyn’s work from Offspring was featured in our exhibit The Art of Motherhood. View more of her work on her website and her Instagram at @jocelynmathews.

“Offspring: of motherhood & artmaking” artist book by Jocelyn Mathewes. 9 x 12 inches, 48 pages, hardcover.

"The Gaze" by Jocelyn Mathews. Polaroid emulsion lifts on watercolor paper with gold leaf.⁠

“Medicine Threshold” by Jocelyn Mathewes. From Within Normal Limits series, 2021. Prescription bottles, paint, shredded money, metallic fiber, elastic, curtain rod. Approx 6' x 4' x 3" (dimensions variable).

“The Heart Size is Unremarkable” by Jocelyn Mathewes. From Within Normal Limits series. Image transfer, collage, embroidery on paper, 9 x 12 inches.

“The Heart Size is Unremarkable” by Jocelyn Mathewes. From Within Normal Limits series. Image transfer, collage, embroidery on paper, 9 x 12 inches.

“30 Works in 30 Days” by Jocelyn Mathewes. Vintage recipe cards, gauze, medical supplies, prescription sheets, maps. Approx 36 x 36. inches.

In a Small Boat by Michael Winters

by Holly Graham

Fondly I remember

the process of finishing special puzzles as a child. My mother would oh so gently turn them over and tape them. Then we would frame them for my room. This didn't happen to all puzzles, only ones that, to us, were true art that we wanted to see always. The act of building the puzzle was rewarding but the real reward was being able to see it every day on the wall.  

This happened a handful of times. All were puzzles created from the work of a single artist: James Christensen. To an anxious but creative child, Christensen's paintings provided a wealth of visual treasures. Each image featured an abundance of detail and imagination. For others, it may have been easy to glance at these images and move on. Not for me. I spent a lot of time peeking into a world that I knew nothing about. I was a spectator in a land not my own. These fantastical  places and characters, the shapes their faces made, the lines their fingers created, became familiar, comforting.  

"Fantasies of the Sea" by James Christensen

"Fantasies of the Sea" by James Christensen

Detail of "Once Upon a Time" by James Christensen

Detail of "Once Upon a Time" by James Christensen

Fondly I remember  

seeing my children's faces for the first time. The road to starting a family had not been an easy  one. Seeing their faces for the first time I was certain miracles were not taken captive by the Old and New Testaments, but could still blaze into our everyday lives.  

I became a stay-at-home mom, something I am sure there must be a better name for, as we do not stay at home, and there are surely far more dignified ways we can describe that role. As they grew we decided homeschooling would be the best for them. So the sinew that formed between my children and I became stronger and stronger. Merriam-Webster suggests sinew is “the tissue that ties muscle to bone... a stabilizing unit.” That's exactly what had taken shape.  

Fondly I remember  

my grandmother sleeping beside me as I lay in her bed as a child. Her and my grandaddy would  watch me sometimes. My grandaddy would sleep on the couch and I would sleep in their bed. After I had been asleep for a while I would hear her little feet shuffle in and she would lay gently  beside me. And I felt peace.  

After 67 years of marriage, precious Grandaddy went to glory. His fight with pancreatic cancer  was more than his body could endure. Near the end I called Grandma on the phone, across the  states that divided us, every day, to hear how he was. When he left us, I continued to pick up that phone. Each and every day I got to hear her voice. Each and every day I got to learn more about her. Her past, her present, her opinions, her friendships, her stories, her... everything.  

Dementia. Like many things that are a product of a broken world, it is hard to understand why it  has to be a reality. But it hit my grandmother and it hit her hard. For her protection and for her to have the best care, she had to be moved to a wonderful care facility designed just for memory loss. In the transition, I simply could not talk to her on the phone as regularly as I liked. My heart ached. I wanted to be with her. I wanted to know how she was feeling. I wanted to know how the world seemed to her, how she felt about all this. I longed to hear what her birds and squirrels had done that day. I longed to hear how her favorite baseball team had done on that day's game. I just... longed.  

Anxiety is a dark spirit that has plagued me since a young age. I was taken to the doctor for tests  at age eight because I was having physical issues. My diagnosis was a manifestation of complications of stress. The doctor asked “why is an eight year old so stressed?” Throughout  life, it would find ways to insert itself. When I was sixteen driving meant freedom, but later in life, anxiety had wrapped its fingers around that as well. Driving alone long distances or to  somewhere I had never been had become something so fearful it was debilitating. I also did not  like driving in heavy rain which left me feeling claustrophobic. Anxiety also wove its web in the thought of leaving my children. The sinew mentioned before was well-formed and I was just as dependent upon them as they were upon me. It had been so hard to have them, I never wanted to be separated from them.  

But then there was the longing. The longing to just be in the same room as my dear friend and  grandmother. Which was met with anxiety's response: “You would have to leave your children. You can't be without them. You would have to drive a very long distance. Alone. It's impossible.”  

And then I decided I had missed enough in life at the hands of anxiety. Events and opportunities  I can never get back and often regretted. I had to break this cycle.  

The first sight my eyes saw as I left the driveway was my children in the glass door waving goodbye. I started shaking, feeling like I couldn't breathe. I just started saying “Jesus, Jesus,  Jesus.” I traveled down the road and as I turned to get on the interstate, a tall dark ominous cloudy sky met me. Like a bully the enemy was pulling out every tried and true tool to get me to fail. I said “Jesus help me!” He said to me “Your comfort is not in your family. Your comfort is  not in your circumstances. Your comfort is in Me.” The rain began to pour. It was thick, I couldn't see in front of me, and it stayed for my whole trip. My enemy was all around me, trying to suffocate me. But in my car, I petitioned for God to stay near and He, as always, was faithful.  

I emerged from the experience victorious. It was the sweetest kind of victory—the kind that we cannot create ourselves but the kind that is handed to us by a gracious and merciful Savior. A  Savior who sees our weight that we carry and says “let me exchange that for lightness of spirit.” 

I had been marked from this experience. As a visual thinker I wanted an image to represent this  triumph, this death of captivity, and He brought it right to mind. It had been present in my room as a child. I had studied it at great length. Frantically I tried to find it to see if it would apply.  Surely as He is good, it was perfect.  

"Afternoon Outing in a Small Boat with Owl" by James Christensen

"Afternoon Outing in a Small Boat with Owl" by James Christensen

A girl, with love on her sleeve, traveling downstream. The water and wood surrounding her are dark. Her umbrella is up. She feels like a fish out of water, but there is One right there beside her who represents wisdom. Honestly He is bigger than the vessel allows, but He has made himself fit in order to be with her. I understood that at the helm was wine and a snail. But I liked to think of it as communion. Right in her view as she travels is a reminder of the blood and the body that  had been given on her behalf, so that fear couldn't touch her.  

I had this tattooed to my leg. Then a year or so later, I found a button in an old bag of mine that  my husband must've made for me years ago that I hadn't remembered. It featured the exact same  painting. It was like God, my Creator and Friend, was saying, “Hey, remember our road trip?” I  set it up in my office as an altar to the idea that no giant can stand up to His power. They can threaten but they cannot sustain the might of a Father who's child has called out for help. 


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Holly Graham is a Virginia native who earned a BFA from Longwood University. She has held professional appointments in the photographic, curatorial, and art management fields. Four books have been published featuring Holly’s illustrations and one book featuring her “New Life Doll Project” photographic series. Holly is a multidisciplinary exhibiting artist, creating work with a goal of bringing joy, comfort and/or encouragement to others. She currently lives in Kentucky with her husband and two children, whom she homeschools while making art.

You can view her work by visiting hollymgraham.com.

 

This post is part of an ongoing series where we ask artists and arts professionals to share artwork that has significantly impacted their formation as a Christian. 

No Grumpy Rose Watchers by Michael Winters

by Michael Winters

Garden of the Garden #001 by Michael Winters

Garden of the Garden #001 by Michael Winters

“It’s very hard to be grumpy when you’re looking at a beautiful rose—try it. It’s turning to what is good that fills out the life of the emotionally and spiritually mature person. As you step into spiritual maturity, you step into the wonderful world of God so rich with good things that we won’t have enough time to concentrate on them.” - Dallas Willard in Renovated: God, Dallas Willard, and the Church That Transforms by Jim Wilder

At Arts Feedback Group we generally begin each session by going around the circle answering the question, “What is something beautiful you’ve experienced recently?” This question is a joy to ask because it brings forth joy. People light up as they share the beauty they’ve experienced.

We become like what we behold.

While we pay attention to a rose, we become a little more like a rose. Grumpiness becomes less possible. If we lovingly pay attention to Jesus, we become more like Jesus. In a world competing and scheming for our attention we must learn to exercise authority over our own attention. Don’t let algorithms and the media giants (or the Christian publishing industry for that matter) decide for you what is worthy of your attention. God has made you sensitive to beauty, truth and goodness. The apostle Paul encouraged the Philippians, “Whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is right, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is of good repute, if there is any excellence and if anything worthy of praise, dwell on these things.” Dallas Willard adds, “That’s what the spiritually and emotionally mature person’s life is filled with.”

This is not to deny or ignore the reality of injustice, tragedy and sin. Instead, attentiveness to the beauty of God and God’s creation helps prepare us to be the kind of spiritually mature people who can enter the real, broken world and create into what Makoto Fujimura calls “the New”, healing some of the fractures in our broken world.

What is something beautiful you’ve experienced recently?

Discussion Guide: Art + Faith by Makoto Fujimura by Michael Winters

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SYNOPSIS (from the publisher)

From a world-renowned painter, an exploration of creativity’s quintessential—and often overlooked—role in the spiritual life

"Makoto Fujimura is the rare artist whose life has something of the same purifying and galvanizing force of his work. His new book brings those two elements—life and art—even closer together, and is a real tonic for our atomized time." —Christian Wiman

Conceived over thirty years of painting and creating in his studio, this book is Makoto Fujimura’s broad and deep exploration of creativity and the spiritual aspects of “making.” What he does in the studio is theological work as much as it is aesthetic work. In between pouring precious, pulverized minerals onto handmade paper to create the prismatic, refractive surfaces of his art, he comes into the quiet space in the studio, in a discipline of awareness, waiting, prayer, and praise.

Ranging from the Bible to T. S. Eliot, and from Mark Rothko to Japanese Kintsugi technique, he shows how unless we are making something, we cannot know the depth of God’s being and God’s grace permeating our lives. This poignant and beautiful book offers the perspective of, in Christian Wiman’s words, “an accidental theologian,” one who comes to spiritual questions always through the prism of art.

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

  • What made you want to read this book? Did you appreciate it?

  • Theology of Making - In this book, Mako develops a “Theology of Making.” This is grounded in God’s creation. He writes on p. 18, “So why did God create? Our view of the creative process and the role of art hinges on how we answer this question. God created out of love. God created because it is in God’s nature to make and create. The Theology of Making assumes that God created out of abundance and exuberance, and the universe (and we) exist because God loves to create.”

    Does this change the way you think and feel about your own creative work?

  • Fruit of the Spirit - Mako puts emphasis on the “fruit” of our beliefs. What we make is the evidence of what we believe. “Unless there is tangible, fruitful reality that is made into the world, what we know, and what we preach, has not incarnated itself fully in love. No matter how high the ideal, or how great the preaching, the true test of the power of the gospel to affect our lives is in the “bottom line” of what we have created into the world through love.” (62)

    Where does that take your imagination?

  • Plumbing Theology - The book critiques what Mako names “plumbing theology.” What is plumbing theology and can you summarize what he proposes as a better alternative?

  • Spaces for Sanctified Imagination - “We need every practitioner, curator, and cultural institution to create a safe place for artists to experiment and grow in this sanctified imagination. This can start within churches, but I advocate for a general cultural practice that also works outside of church walls.” (48)

    What ideas do you have for creating these kinds of spaces for artists to grow in sanctified imagination?

  • Co-Creation - “By asking Adam to name the animals, God commissions him to use his creativity. In this word “commission” we find co-mission, as well; God is inviting Adam to exercise his ability to co-create in Eden.” (96)

    Can you see yourself as a co-creator with God in the way Mako describes?

  • Mary, Martha, Lazarus, and Christ’s Tears - The book spends a lot of time reflecting on Jesus’ relationship with Mary, Martha and Lazarus. What stood out to you from those reflections?

  • Engaging Art- Mako says in the work of Rothko and T.S. Eliot: “I am finding a “holy ground” that allows me to journey into my faith, my doubts, and my awareness of suffering.” (125) It’s insightful to see how he engages other artists’ work. Does this provide any inspiration for how you want to engage artist’s work?

  • Moving Outward - “The New reverses the spin; instead of being drawn to the Temple, to the mercy seat, to worship, we are sent out into the world to share the feast with outsiders, migrants, and the poor. Instead of the songs of ascent as we climb toward Jerusalem, we will carry the tears of Christ and sing songs of descent beyond the sea.” (139)
    What ways do you want to move out into the world by making?

  • Consider ending discussion the way the book ends, by reading A BENEDICTION FOR MAKERS: 

“Let us remember that we are sons and daughters of God, the only true Artist of the Kingdom of abundance. We are God’s heirs, princesses and princes of this infinite land beyond the sea, where heaven will kiss the earth. May we steward well what the Creator King has given us, and accept God’s invitation to sanctify our imagination and creativity, even as we labor hard on this side of eternity. May our art, what we make, be multiplied into the New Creation. May our poems, music, and dance be acceptable offerings for the cosmic wedding to come. May our sandcastles, created in faith, be turned into permanent grand mansions in which we will celebrate the great banquet of the table. Let us come and eat and drink at the supper of the Lamb now so that we might be empowered by this meal to go into the world to create and to make, and return to share what we have learned on this journey toward the New.”

Arvo Pärt’s Fratres by Michael Winters

by Brittany Anne Jarboe Jennings

A tall elderly man walks through a wooden glen. He smiles often, having a child like joy for the things around him. He stops often, meandering. Active in his slowness. Still in his activity. He listens often. He is listening to the silence in between nature’s composition. This elderly man is Estonian musical composer Arvo Pärt. To him: “Silence is always more perfect than music. You must simply learn to hear it. Silence is utterly full. The fewer the measures, the more genuine the whole—spiritual abundance in the desert. Where the holy men fled.”

Please listen to this recording of “Fratres” by Arvo Pärt before or during reading. It will help what I write make sense.

It was around 2006 when an uncle introduced to me Arvo Pärt’s music. I was at a state university studying cello performance and visual art. I had hit a bit of a wall mentally. Studying classical music felt forced. I was disillusioned with the current American Christian music scene. I was questioning if someone in our present time could be a true artist and a true Christian. I wanted discipleship in this. Looking to past artists, when the Catholic Church was a patron, seemed lifeless. I craved a more intimate view of God, a wider view of His saving grace, and a bigger scope of what an artistic Christian life could be.

My uncle, who is an artist and a Christian, probably gave me the CD of Arvo Pärt’s Fratres during one of our many art chats at his house near campus. After I listened, I knew Mr. Pärt was who I had been searching for. I was searching for music that rang true to my experience as a child of God. I say to my experience because each believers’ journey is uniquely intimate with our everlasting God. I had been in church praise bands for around five years by that point. I had grown up in a Christian and artistic environment. I played church music since childhood and knew the way some older hymns felt true. Experiencing church music from different cultures felt real. However, I was increasingly numb to the four chord, jumping up and down, praise music that currently surrounded me. Not to say this style of music doesn’t have a place; at that past juncture I was searching and it just wasn’t helping.

Arvo Pärt’s music and writings gave me a renewed sense of awe at our Creator God. This someone, who comes across as a wise, gentle giant, had his own rebellious and experimental streak that caused the birth of a new musical movement; an exile from the Soviet Union, who once accidentally set a violin on fire on stage. His rebellion and innovation was rooted in his Christian faith, more specifically the Orthodox Church and early medieval church music. 

So I decided to try and play his music.

Art by Brittany Anne Jarboe Jennings

Illustration of Arvo Pärt by Brittany Anne Jarboe Jennings

I have only played two out of his vast amount of pieces. Spiegel im Spiegel and Fratres, both originally written for violin and piano, then later rewritten for cello and piano. There is a great BBC Soul Music podcast episode about his Spiegel im Spiegel; I encourage you to listen to the episode, as I will not talk about that one and am going to write briefly about his Fratres. No heavy musical language. No music theory. There are ingenious theoretical reasons why Arvo Pärt is one of the most performed living composers of today. There are reasons why his works embody the sound of transcendence. I am not going to write about those because I do not fully understand them and there are great articles and books already on the subject. 

Remember the solitary woods in which we found the elderly man? Please imagine it again. If you haven’t listened to the piece yet, now would be a good time.

This was my experience with Fratres: Playing the opening segment is like sprinting. I am sprinting into this wood trying to catch up with Arvo Pärt. The cello is sounding the afternoon light filtering in narrow bands of warmth through statuesque trees. The light kaleidoscopes as I run past. But I never catch him. As soon as I reach the clearing where he rests, he is gone. I listen to the lonely chords on the piano and pizzicato of my cello. Alone. The whole piece for me is a search. Running followed by the stillness of opening my eyes to all that surrounds me in this afternoon wood. I search through each movement. A slow searching of the clearing’s edges. The lonely piano chords and cello pizzicato, I see him again. I slowly walk towards him. Then disappears. I step in water. Music is good for portraying running water. I search around the stream. It is so freezing my breath is stolen. Partial glimpses of the creator obscured by shadows which move on the opposite bank. Alone again. Then I run. Careful searching followed by running.

For me, playing Fratres is constantly searching for this creator of Light’s sound, while never being in step with him. At least not until the end. Once silence has wrapped the performers and audience in awe, then we all have caught up with the composer. The silence that had flowed in between the running and searching has led us to a final peace. After the music stops, we bask with Pärt in the warmth of the light which now lives in memory. We are all smiling.

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Fratres sheet music and Brittany’s cello.

No recording exists of me playing this piece. I graduated before I remembered to ask for a copy, and I even lost the sheet music in a move. I have recently bought the music, but cannot reach the point where I can proficiently play it. When I hear professional recordings I can imagine playing it again. It’s probably for the best I don’t actually remember how I sounded. Only the memory of the experience is left. Maybe that is all I need.  

God has used Arvo Pärt’s demeanor about art to open my eyes to the quiet joy of God. To quiet myself and know that though God is far mightier and more awe inspiring than all human minds throughout history can collectively imagine, He is also gentle. He is a lover. He delights in creating. That He loves His creations. That He is a still small voice in whirlwinds. A contented smile. Content to smile at me and my smallness. 

A funny thing for musicians is that silence and rests are the hardest to get right. Running is easy. Waiting is not. The space between the notes is equally important. Utmost patience is needed to play this music correctly. Just being with the music is needed to understand it. Presence. Continual presence. Pärt’s music contains the breath of human suffering, sorrow, bliss, and satisfaction. It also reminds me of how our God is empathic to us. Our Triune God knows the range of human thought and emotions. Jesus lived this. To me, Arvo Pärt uses music to emote the human condition. But through the silences, Arvo Pärt emotes the presence of Divine empathy. 


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Brittany Anne is a visual artist and cellist in Louisville, KY. She has shown in various shows around the Ohio River Valley since 2009. Currently she is working on a series of meditative graphite drawings focusing on how the passage of time shows in our changing natural environments. Find updates on Instagram @brittandthecello.

For further information on Arvo Pärt, visit Arvo Pärt Centre.

This post is part of an ongoing series where we ask artists and arts professionals to share a piece of artwork that has significantly impacted their formation as a Christian.

Like a Bell by Michael Winters

by Michael Winters

Kris Martin, Bells II, 2014, bronze, 160 x 320 cm Installation view Sculpture In The City, London Photo Nick Turpin

Kris Martin, Bells II, 2014, bronze, 160 x 320 cm
Installation view Sculpture In The City, London Photo Nick Turpin

At the moment, I can’t think of a visual artwork more tragic than Kris Martin’s Bells II. Two monumental bells are joined in such a way that neither can fulfill its purpose. Like much good art, this metaphor is a sign pointing to a wide range of potential meanings. Among other things, it could definitely serve to symbolize all the bells that have not been rung during covid—concerts and plays and exhibits and worship services that have not happened, or at least not happened with their full freedom ringing. However, the image isn’t only about bells that can’t ring. It’s about the joining of two bells, a terrible co-dependency that keeps each bell from ringing. And what is a bell if it does not ring?

It’s like Judas joined to his greed, or like Peter joined to his fear and denial.

In the marvelous book Pilgrim at Tinker Creek, Annie Dillard experiences an episode not unlike Moses at the burning bush. To describe the inner experience of that external vision, Dillard writes, “I had been my whole life a bell, and never knew it until at that moment I was lifted and struck.”

It makes me wonder if God has made us all bells. Sin has kept us from ringing—by co-dependencies, or ignorance, or wounds like cracks in the liberty bell—but in our joining with Jesus, as he is lifted, we are lifted and ring true.

The resurrection of Christ makes me hopeful that we’ll all be lifted and we’ll all ring true and clear, like Mary Magdalene when she recognizes the risen Jesus and hears his voice. Ronald Rolheiser retells the story from John 20 in his book Sacred Fire. Picking up where Mary is outside the tomb weeping:

“Jesus meets her, alive and in no need of embalming, but she does not recognize him. Bewildered but sincere, she asks Jesus where she might find Jesus. Jesus, for his part, repeats for her essentially the question with which he had opened the gospel: ‘What are you looking for?’ Then he answers it: With deep affection, he pronounces her name: ‘Mary.’ In doing that, he tells her what she and everyone else is forever looking for—God’s voice, one-to-one, speaking unconditional love, gently saying your name. In the end, that is what we are all looking for and most need.”

Hearing Jesus’ voice saying our name is what will lift us up and make us sing like a bell.

Jack by Marilynne Robinson: A Faith in Fiction Discussion Guide by Michael Winters

SYNOPSIS (via the publisher)

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Marilynne Robinson, winner of the Pulitzer Prize and the National Humanities Medal, returns to the world of Gilead with Jack, the latest novel in one of the great works of contemporary American fiction.

Marilynne Robinson’s mythical world of Gilead, Iowa—the setting of her novels Gilead, Home, and Lila, and now Jack—and its beloved characters have illuminated and interrogated the complexities of American history, the power of our emotions, and the wonders of a sacred world. Jack is Robinson’s fourth novel in this now-classic series. In it, Robinson tells the story of John Ames Boughton, the prodigal son of Gilead’s Presbyterian minister, and his romance with Della Miles, a high school teacher who is also the child of a preacher. Their deeply felt, tormented, star-crossed interracial romance resonates with all the paradoxes of American life, then and now.

Robinson’s Gilead novels, which have won one Pulitzer Prize and two National Book Critics Circle Awards, are a vital contribution to contemporary American literature and a revelation of our national character and humanity.

PERSONAL REFLECTION by Michael Winters

John Ames Boughton, aka Jack, is a different character than his namesake John Ames, the main character of Robinson’s Gilead. And as Jack is a different kind of character, the book is a different kind of book. Not as soaring and transcendent as Gilead or Lila, Jack still captured my attention with its characters’ complexities and philosophical dialogue. Some in our discussion group found the book a little slow moving, but the slower pace rewards with deep insights around human nature and Robinson’s returning themes around grace and religious belief. I thought this book a great fit for our Faith in Fiction discussion group. We especially enjoyed talking about the references and parallels to stories found in Genesis.

QUESTIONS FOR DISCUSSION

  1. The first quarter of the book follows a long conversation between Jack and Della when they surprisingly find themselves locked in a cemetery together at night. As the long night is ending, Jack wonders, “What would be the one sufficient thing to say, before the flood of light swept over them, now that their world was ending? Amen, he thought. (p. 75)” Why do you think Jack thought “Amen” was a fitting response to that strange night?

  2. In the cemetery, Jack and Della imagine that the world is ending and that they could be like a new Adam and Eve. In reality, they’re still surrounded by a society that doesn’t approve of their interracial relationship, which is also illegal. What did you notice about the social and family dynamics revealed by their relationship?

  3. Jack understands himself to be a shady, shabby character who can’t help but cause harm. After quoting scripture ironically, Jack tells Della he’s “the Prince of Darkness, she replies, “No, you’re a talkative man with holes in his socks.” Jack says, “You saw them?” and she replies, “No, I just knew they were there.”
    Della doesn’t accept Jack’s dark view of himself. She see something else in him. At one point in the cemetery she says, “I think most people feel a difference between their real lives and the lives they have in the world. But they ignore their souls, or hide them, so they can keep things together, keep an ordinary life together. You don’t do that. In your own way, you’re kind of—pure.” (p. 73)
    What do you think she sees in him?

  4. Della has a lot going well for her. She’s got a good job and comes from a respected family. She’s attractive. Why do you think she’s willing to risk her career and her relatively good social standing for a relationship with Jack?

  5. Jack speaks of “harmlessness,” sometimes feeling it was more than he could aspire to, but he wants to live a life that doesn’t cause harm. What do you make of that as a life philosophy?

  6. Jack has a comical introduction to the black church in St. Louis and later develops a conversation with the pastor there. Both Della and Jack’s fathers are pastors too. What role do pastors and the church play in the book?

  7. Clothing is a recurring theme in the book. When Della and Jack first meet she mistakes him for a preacher due to the suit he’s wearing. He eventually trades that suit in for a shabbier one that won’t lead anyone to think that way about him. He also is aware of his nakedness under his clothes. What do you think Jack’s relationship with his clothing says about him?

  8. Jack changes the way he’s living after he becomes attracted to Della. What does he do differently? Do you think he’s really a changed man by the end of the book?

  9. Are there any takeaways for you? Any one thing you want to remember from reading this book?

Other related resources:

  1. Russell Moore interviews Marilynne Robinson about Jack

  2. "Loneliness in Marilynne Robinson’s Jackby Amy Stinson, at Rabbit Room

  3. "Grace in Marilynne Robinson’s Jackby Amy Stinson, at Rabbit Room

Collaboration & Experimentation with Tim Robertson by Michael Winters

by Jordan Lienhoop

Tim copy.jpg

Tim Robertson’s time in Cambodia from 2009 to 2014 greatly shaped his view of art and community, forming a creative practice around collaboration and experimentation. That path has led him from pigment transfers to risograph printmaking—techniques and tools that continue to create new opportunities for learning and sharing his art making with others.

See more of Tim’s work on Instagram @timothyirobertson and @risolutionpress, as well as his website, where you can get a copy of his photo zine. Plus, check out a photo from his 2015 exhibit Shelby Park Dreams here.

Last Blink (2015) by Tim Robertson. Pigment transfer and mixed media on wood.

Last Blink (2015) by Tim Robertson. Pigment transfer and mixed media on wood.

Spread from Seed Vault (2017) by Tim Robertson. Photo zine with embossed cover

Spread from Seed Vault (2017) by Tim Robertson. Photo zine with embossed cover

Spread from Seed Vault (2017) by Tim Robertson. Photo zine with embossed cover

Spread from Seed Vault (2017) by Tim Robertson. Photo zine with embossed cover

Gingko (2020) by Tim Robertson. Risograph print, black and gold ink

Gingko (2020) by Tim Robertson. Risograph print, black and gold ink

This New Silence (II) by Tim Robertson. From Shelby Park Dreams series (2015).

This New Silence (II) by Tim Robertson. From Shelby Park Dreams series (2015).

This post is part of a series featuring artists involved in our ministry and community in Louisville, Kentucky.