Some Thoughts on Art and Existence

The trouble with existence is that it’s too much. The soul wishes that God had given us, shall we say, a less detailed world—a world of less overgrowth. For example, when my mind really gets going, when I really start thinking, it works like history. The more it goes, the more detail there is, and the less any sense can be seen in it. Detail begets detail, which obscures and chokes out the shape we seek, as honeysuckle increases and tangles while the shed wallows and goes under the burgeoning mass. The same happens when I write, as even now. Word begets word; sentence begets sentence. Writing becomes a vain attempt to catch up with and bring to a satisfactory completion the verbal profligacy. Writing sometimes seems like an arithmetic model attempting to solve an exponential process. It isn’t even so much that word begets word. It’s more like word begets twins, or quadruplets, or worse. Even now I can’t stop, satisfactorily. Oh, I can stop, and I will. But I can’t stop by having brought it to a satisfactory completion. That’s the real trouble with it. I utterly long to pursue words, sentences, existence; I long to pursue until all comes to perfect completion under one grand shape, and nothing is left to pursue. Yet I can’t do it. The more I pursue, the more I get lost; it’s all too much. I wallow and go under. There are always more words.

Here is where art comes in, though it’s a toss up whether art is more than a gloriously brave and orderly retreat against the overwhelming. As Frost said in the character of Job, “The artist in me cries out for design.” And elsewhere he wrote,

"The present

Is too much for the senses,

Too crowding, too confusing—

Too present to imagine."

As an example, the art of telling history is knowing what to include and what to leave out. Indeed, the art of every explanation is knowing when to stop.

Compare an example in another vein.

I saw a lovely ink drawing of a tree at the Sarah Scaife gallery of the Carnegie Institute in Pittsburgh. I thought to myself, “It’s quite lovely and poignant, but it’s so ordinary a subject—a sketch of a tree. Why draw it? Why look at it?” And then it occurred to me. The drawing stops the tree in a very particular way; it stops the tree, and now gives it to us to examine. And here we have a tree, which in a forest or a meadow or a yard is far too much for us to take in. If we see a tree in any of those places, we see, as it were, but a glimpse of the tree, the barest fraction of what it was and is now and shall become. So when we see it we want to hold it still so we can get a good look at it and see it all. But the tree is in a jetstream of time; it never holds still long enough to satisfy our looking. And we have not the power to hold it still. Except in art. The drawing holds the tree still, and while I know in my mind that I’m still not going to satisfy my looking, I somehow feel that at least I’ve got a chance to look enough to see it all, or even to see all of a fraction. I feel I’ve got the time to look satisfactorily, or I would if I also could hold still. The soul sometimes longs for an Artist to hold it still.

Art then works to redeem the trouble with existence. Art takes life (actually, the barest fraction thereof), holds it still, and gives it to us to examine. Art takes all this unmanageable begetting and puts a kind of stop to it so we can try to make some sense of it. Or we could say that Art takes hold of this profusive begetting and tries to direct it to a satisfactory completion. The trouble with existence is that it’s too much: art perfects by reducing to essence. Then things have a chance at making sense. Art is a gardener. It clips the honeysuckle where necessary; the shed emerges, to be seen again.

Some Thoughts on Beauty, Meaning, Value

The idea and the reality of beauty involve meaning. Beauty gives meaning. It infuses things in specific and existence in general with meaning. The meaning it engenders and infuses is not so much rational meaning, as existential meaning. Beauty participates in and even, in a sense, answers the very reason for being. When we perceive beauty, we understand, whether intuitively or consciously, that we are made for beauty. We are made for a world with beauty. The experience of true beauty in the world as we know it may perhaps be infrequent or even rare. Yet it is for such that we are made. It is for such that we live.

That beauty gives meaning to existence in general and to things in specific leads to another aspect of beauty. Namely, beauty gives value to life and to specific things in life, with value being the worthiness we recognize in something. Value is indeed the close correlate or derivative of meaning. That is, when we apprehend that life or things have meaning, the realization leads us to the implicit or explicit valuation of those things and even of existence itself. We value things that have meaning, and to the extent we see life in general as having meaning, we value life in general.

Hence, beauty, inasmuch as it infuses things with meaning, suffuses things and existence with value. We value beautiful things and beautiful aspects of existence. We find them worthy. We find them worthwhile. Because we value beautiful things, we want to apprehend them, make them, conserve them, foster them, enhance them, and praise them.

Some Thoughts on 2 Corinthians 10:1-18

Paul’s personal witness led to the first followers of Jesus in Corinth, a city in southern Greece. After some time there, Paul left to witness to Jesus elsewhere. But the church in Corinth developed problems. In thought, spirit, and behavior, some were grievously deviating from the teaching of Jesus. Paul responded by writing to the Corinthians, including this letter around 55 A.D.

Paul’s basic point threading through the passage is captured by a contrast early in it. This sets up the rest of his remarks. Paul refers to “some people [in Corinth] who think we live by the standards of this world.” In contrast, Paul writes, “…though we live in the world, we do not wage war as the world does. The weapons we fight with are not the weapons of the world.” Thus he draws a sharp distinction between the standards of the world, or human standards, and the standards of the kingdom of God. Paul applies the distinction to how he and the Corinthians should conduct themselves in these problems. Yet he does so because the distinction is fundamental to life for followers of Jesus. We – followers of Jesus – are not to live by worldly standards. Even while our lives are embedded in a particular human society, we are to live by kingdom standards.

With this contrast, Paul characterizes how followers of Jesus are to live. All ideas, attitudes, and behaviors are to be made captive or obedient to Jesus. They are to be shaped by the life and teaching of Jesus, not the spirit and teaching of the world, of human society. When problems arise, we are to resist and overcome wrong ideas, attitudes, and behaviors by kingdom means, by prayer, exhortation, and discipline exercised in love – not by worldly means, not by arrogance, contempt, or hate exercised in anger and violence.

In all we think, feel, and do, with respect to self and others, we are to measure ourselves by Jesus, not by any other measure, whether from our self, our little group, or our society. In the end, we are to live in such a way that Jesus commends us, because his standards, his measure and approval, are infinitely superior to any other standards.

Summer

Summer —And twilight rolls in, deep and slow.
Vines swell as on a sea, fences sink beneath waves,
and honeysuckle, spawning schools of white petals,
sends pools of fragrance on gulf currents.

Summer—Then go forth! Launch upon the green tide,
lose your self amidst the extravagant spawning,
breathe deep of sweet spray that breaks, swirls behind
(as you drive) in green and white foam...

Master Model Maker

I am not an avid model maker as some people are. Yet over the years I have snapped and glued together my share of model planes, cars, tanks, ships, spaceships, birds, and even dinosaurs. I confess, though, a fundamental failing in my model making. “Paint all parts before assembly.” Those may not have been the exact words, but they constitute the gist of instructions I failed to follow every time. When I looked at the box in the store, I did not see a lot of dull, monotone parts affixed to plastic strips – a bewildering array of small and large pieces requiring a master maker to paint and assemble carefully and lovingly from beginning to end, step by detailed step. I saw the whole thing. I saw the beautifully painted, fully assembled result on the cover of the box. That is what I desired. That is what I bought. Or at least that is what I thought I bought. Until I opened the box at home; balked at the mass of parts; impatiently began to snap and glue together with only the barest regard for instructions; and ended up with a dull, messy object sort of approximating the work of art the real maker had completed and displayed on the box cover. Then I tried to paint it to look like the image on the cover. “Paint all parts before assembly.” Regularly, frustratingly, I discovered the reason in this instruction. I guess I thought I could make the entire model without painting the parts first, and without following instructions too closely, then paint it in detail to its most beautiful state, as if by magic. What I really needed was a true master model maker, for I am not one.

I thought of all of this when recently re-reading John 13, about Jesus washing the disciples’ feet the night of his arrest, in prelude to his crucifixion, then instructing them that they must follow his example. The foot washing embodied for them that he – their Teacher and Lord – had become a servant to them. They – his followers – must become servants to each other and to others. In our turn, we also – to be followers of Jesus – must become servants.

In reality, we want to be the master model maker of our life. We want to build the model in our own way and in accord with our own image of it. So we follow the instructions little or not at all. Instead, we want to give Jesus the fully assembled model of our life – the model we constructed without painting the parts first or following the instructions – and have him paint it after the fact to cap the beauty of it. In other words, we do not really want to be like Jesus if it means certain things – such as becoming a servant. We want to be like Jesus in the ways we want to be, not the ways he wants us to be.

If Easter life means anything, if death and resurrection in Jesus mean anything, they mean that we cannot give him our life fully assembled, according to our own design and instructions, and expect him just to cap it with paint – that is, bless it after the fact. He must assemble our life. He must paint all the parts first, and then assemble it rightly. This means he must disassemble our present life (death in Jesus) and then reassemble our life anew according to his design and instructions (resurrection in Jesus). Our life will then become a beautiful model of him as he paints and assembles it carefully and lovingly from beginning to end, step by detailed step. For Jesus – our Teacher and Lord – is the true master model maker.

Ascension Day

Christmas. Good Friday. Easter. Pentecost. We know these days and have a sense of the meaning of each. These are “high holy days” in the Church year, foundational days for followers of Jesus. Apart from them, Jesus would be just another human being – born and dead a long time ago. Apart from them, there would be no Church; there would be no point in being a follower of Jesus.

Yet there is another day in the Church year of equal significance. It comes between Easter and Pentecost. We often just glide over it, perhaps with scarcely a thought about it. That day is today: Ascension Day. Ascension Day marks the departure of the resurrected Jesus from his earthly sojourn. It marks the day God lifted Jesus up to be at his right hand in heaven. (See Acts 1:1-12 for an account.)

Ascension Day has receded from the consciousness of much of the Church in the modern era. I am not sure why. It cannot help that it is marked on a weekday. Also, it does not seem to have the same sentiment or drama as Christmas or Good Friday. Doubtless there are other reasons. For whatever reasons, this receding is a poverty in the life of the Church and the lives of we who love and follow Jesus.

Why is it a poverty? Lifted up to heaven to be at God’s right hand. It sounds interesting, even exotic. But what does the ascension mean? What does it mean for Jesus? What does it mean for the Church and for followers of Jesus? It means much – much more than can be discussed here, decidedly much more than I truly grasp intellectually or spiritually. Nevertheless, this much can be said – can be gladly grasped in mind and heart by each of us. The ascension signifies and certifies that Jesus is Lord of all of created existence, Lord of all people. Jesus, once abased in bleakest humiliation, now reigns on high. The incarnate, crucified, risen Jesus is the ascended Lord who reigns in glory.

However, while he reigns from on high and in glory, he reigns not from an unfathomable, unbridgeable distance. Because he ascended, he sent the Holy Spirit to dwell in the world and in his followers. Ascended, he yet exercises his reign deeply, intimately, and pervasively through the Spirit. Whatever the circumstances in the world, the ascended Jesus is Lord of the cosmos. Whatever the circumstances of life for you and me, he is Lord of you and me. It is a lordship he exercises in and through the Spirit. Thus, in the Spirit, he is deeply, intimately, and pervasively present with you and me. Christmas – Good Friday – Easter – Ascension Day – Pentecost. Because of each and all of these days, we can love Jesus, we can follow Jesus, we can trust Jesus – in all circumstances, in all of life.

Considering the Death of Jesus

In considering the death of Jesus, of the Son of God, Second Person of the Trinity; of the sense of abandonment experienced by the Son of God on the cross; the heart-piercing, spirit-plummeting alienation from comforting Spirit; of God's thus taking into his very being for eternity the utter despair and pain, the abyss, of this abandonment: we must not think we have wounded God, as if he has that vulnerability and we have that capability. We must not think that in this abandonment, this death, we are the center, the central characters, of the action, the drama. The Trinity are, the triune God is, the center, the drama. Yet we must at the same time grasp that somehow, in God's freedom and sovereignty, not in any intrinsic vulnerability or intrinsic capability, not because of any central importance we bear, we have indeed sorely wounded God. Or rather, God in the Son, through the loving obedience of the Spirit, has chosen to be wounded. And into this divine drama has God graciously crossed his world, thus to be healed by that wound.