Apology

To my [very small] handful of readers, I apologize for the long silence over break; clearly this is something I need to plan for if I’m going to be a serious blogger.

A Vision of Divine Generosity

I fear that much of our zeal has become misdirected; what began as a desire for other believers to know God has become an obsession with recreating other disciples in our own image — the self-made Christian. “If only I can build that ladder to heaven with my own two hands,” we think, “then I will be able to reach God.” Or, as have heard preached: “A relationship with God is like an empty box, you only get out what you put in to it.”

Oh, but I’m happy to remind you that the preacher was mistaken, and that we have been mistaken, and that the Good Book never mentions empty boxes, but it does talk about an empty tomb, and cups so full they runneth over.

That is the vision of divine generosity that took hold of me while I was an undergrad, and that continues to direct both my faith and my art-making.

It happened on a balmy evening in the summer of ’03. I had installed myself on a pile of rotting railroad ties just outside of a little cemetery, where I batted at mosquitoes and tried to summon the strength to return to my studio and correct my latest round of mistakes. A train whistled in the distance — a long, lonely cry that seemed to echo my own mournful defeat. I felt thoroughly empty, consumed from within by my own failure and unworthiness.

But I’d seen this vibrant hillside from the open door of my basement studio, glowing emerald in the the evening sunlight, with shadows like midnight stretching from below the low-hanging trees. It looked like a place of rest, and I thought perhaps I might find some small peace among the silent stones of those who dreamt within the earth. And so I went, and I sat. I was empty. But here, even the air was full, with moisture and the earthy scents of summer; ripening wheat, blossoming dandelion and magnolia, all manner of living things sprouting upwards from fertile soil. And peace fell like rain on my tired spirit.

I sat, unmoving, until it was fully dark, amazed at this silent field of modest graves bearing witness to the graciousness of a loving God. Like that summer night, the divine richness is so great that God asks nothing in return — only that we come and drink our fill of all that is offered to us. We come absolutely empty, ringing horribly with our own hollowness. We have nothing to bring. But all the same, God gives, and we go away filled to overflowing.

If we then worship, it is only because we have been loved by the God who is love. If we then go to serve others, it is only because we already been served by the greatest Servant. The only empty box is the one we bring to be filled. The only thing asked of us is that we come.

In due time, the heavenly ladder will be provided.

[This post is adapted from a piece I originally wrote in January, 2005.]

In the beginning…

In the beginning, there was another blog. I recorded my thoughts and ideas there for nearly 5 years, and not a drunken photograph in sight. But as a newly-minted professional seeking employment in “the digital age,” I have been warned again and again that one can never be too careful about what’s out there on the internet. And so my old blog, with its innocent honesty and many genuinely good thoughts, suddenly seems too risky and immature for a hypothetical employer to find. So this, my readers, is not the beginning, but only one new beginning among many others — a new beginning of dubious necessity.

I am, perhaps, the ultimate conservative.

I am also still undecided as to whether I want my real name attached to this blog. For now, I can identify myself as a Christian (at least, most of the time) and as an artist and educator. The thoughts I hope to share fall at the uneasy crossroads of those three identities, and at my ongoing struggle to keep all three firmly engaged in time and place and culture. So perhaps it would also be helpful to identify myself as an American citizen, and a lifelong resident of the rural Midwest.