the art of mankind

The Smithsonian hosted a free museum day on Saturday. By going to their website, you could print out a free admission card to any participating museum. I took advantage of the offer and visited the Nasher Sculpture Center in the arts district of Dallas. I've never been one inclined to art but several pieces struck me.

The first was Jonathan Borofsky's Walking to the Sky (2004). It's a fiberglass pole with figures of different age, gender, and ethnicity, walking toward the sky (with several onlooker's below). I thought it was incredibly creative but I also saw an immediate comparison to the tower of Babel. The artist intended for it to be an inspiring tribute to the power of human dreams, but we know that man's own efforts actually lead him the opposite direction. As with most of the art pieces, this was incredibly humanistic. I wonder at the lack of ingenious and creative art pointing away from man toward God. This was an incredible sculpture both in design and scope.

Magdalena Abakanowicz's The Bronze Crowd (1990-91) was especially moving. "As a child in Poland during World War II, Magdalena lived through the German and Soviet invasions, experiencing firsthand the horrors perpetrated by dehumanized masses under the sway of evil leadership. Frequently addressing the theme of the crowd in her sculpture, she has said "A crowd is the most cruel because it begins to act like a brainless organism." From a distance, the thirty six over-life-size figures of Bronze Crowd look identical, but a closer view reveals their individuality." It was disconcerting to walk in the middle of the structures as they towered intimidatingly. Expressing that the individual will do atrocious things in a crowd, that they would not do otherwise, the headless army hit the message home with a shock to the senses. Here was a tribute to a different side of humanity, an expression of the fate of man in the midst of his own kind.

In contrast, Borofsky's sculpture The Hammering Man is an expression of the fate of man in the midst of mechanized society. A towering structure (part of a larger series displayed around the world) it utilized a motor to move the arm in an endless hammering motion. In attempting to cast the working man as heroic it brought Marx to mind, one who attempted to cast the working man as heroic in economic policy but the result was actually a dehumanizing mass. Man in a purely mechanized society has no individuality (especially if Imago Dei is not acknowledged). Jonathan's philosophical beginning point for man ends in Magdalena's haunting sculpture (though I doubt he would agree. :-] The connections between the countless expressions of humanity in this museum were astounding.

The last piece of art that was intriguing to me was not about man. It was a frame of the sky. The real sky, the everchanging, "living" sky. James Turrell's Tending, [Blue] is basically a box the size of a room, with a bench along the entire wall inside, and a perfect square cut out of the ceiling. Looking up you see the sky - no trees or buildings - the room is concrete with no color or features other than the bench. It is like stepping into a 3-d frame and it frames the sky. I really enjoyed that piece. We did take pictures while we were there, but I don't have them yet. Perhaps by tomorrow. :-]

I am a mess

I am the most messed up person I know. Dysfunctional is too mechanical a word. I manage to function with veneer’s and good moods and cognitive insights. I like to pretend that I know what it means to be serve the Lord, to abandon myself to His spirit, to know my God and understand the beat of His heart. But it’s mostly just pretending.

I am so tenaciously defensive that I’m incapable of loving; so chock full of fear that I never try; and so wrapped in my self-made identity that the mere mention of a skirt gives me a complex. So confused in my identity that moods toss me any direction the wind happens to blow.

So frail that I barely crawl to God in prayer; so warped that I read the Bible thinking of analytical applications to the general christian life instead of the fortress within. So distorted that every expectation or encouragement for success is kicked in the shin like an unwelcomed burglar. How dare a standard be erected? How dare a light to illumine my weakness exist? Destroy in the name of self-preservation. I hide in the closet giggling as if it’s funny when God searches unrelentlessly to know me.

Who is this King of Glory? In my desperateness to know, I find that my biggest enemy is the thing I love and hate the most: myself.

innocent again

I caught myself looking in the mirror, wishing I was someone else, cause I was born with a bleeding heart and veins of loneliness. And I know it, I've seen it, I've held it in my arms, but love can't seem to break me down. I've pleaded, I've begged, I've bloodied my eyes just to feel it, to believe it will stick around.

Swing wide the glimmering gates.

And I told myself, that habits and secrets were just to get me through the night. I got lost in a world of angles and a city of grays and lies. I feel it, I taste it: this longing to be free, the joy of believing like a child. So you, you there listening, send up a prayer for me, to help me find the light.

Swing wide the glimmering gates. Leave your pride and pain.
Swing wide the glimmering gates and be innocent again.

~Andrew Osenga

A beautiful kind of wednesday

Last night for homework, I read a paper on the meaning of the Trinity in the life of a Christian. Today in chapel, I managed to escape my office and hear Shane and Shane lead worship. They sang one of my favorites that I haven't heard in awhile: Before the Throne of God Above. For another homework assignment, I attended the Church of Scientology on Sunday and afterwards talked for some time with a young man named Zac about his beliefs. All these things (and more) fill my heart and mind as it overflows into my prayers and into my posts :-] I write this preface as a context for the seemingly random thoughts to follow.

'The truth of the Trinity shines light on the meaning of God is love. Defined in I Corinthians 13, agape is the outward giving of oneself. No one ever says that someone has charity because he loves himself - it must be directed towards another. Unlike Islam or Judaism, our God is not monotheistic; He is not egotistical, isolated, or self-centered. For God to be love, he must exist as at least two persons.'

"Precisely because God is more than one person, this God can both demand absolute justice and he himself pay the price that he requires." [paraphrases and quotes of Scott Horrell]

As I sat and talked with Zac, I wondered how anyone could really believe everything He was saying. I prayed that he would understand the truth. After reading the paper on Trinity I realized again that an infinite God revealed Himself by entering into the reality He created. He is perfectly loving, perfectly demanding justice and extending mercy at the same time towards me and I, for some reason unfathomable to me, was made to know Him: this pretty much makes me cry.

Monday Musings

Writing often feels like walking through a dark narrow alleyway. I'm not sure where I'm going but am compelled to keep moving, compelled by adventure and fear. The second paper is due for my spiritual life class and the topic is breaking free from a habitual sin based on Paul's argument in Romans 6. As I sit down to write, I recognize that a good paper will only come if I put myself into it and I don't like that. Like my music or my painting or even relationships, I instinctively want to self-preserve, but I can't do that and still have meaning in my efforts. Risk is necessary. Will I be misunderstood? Will I fail? Will my thoughts be under appreciated or, worse, shown to be different than I thought they were? Possibly. But things worth doing are often difficult to do. So it is that I approach writing simultaneously propelled and hesitant, hoping to find at the end of the alleyway something extraordinary.

The thing about losing control is that sometimes you don't realize you had it until its gone. So in that way I'm grateful, grateful when I lose control and find myself completely helpless. That's really how it should've been all along: simply following the voice of my Shepperd instead of how I intend to accomplish this or that, peering into the depths of my own vision.

But this doesn't have to do with metaphorical vision. It has to do with physical health, something I've fought for since I can remember. From broken legs and arms to meningitis to carbon monoxide poisoning and reconstructive bone surgery, I've fought to be strong and healthy and unlimited. This time I lost. At first I was flustered, then I was angry, then weary, but now I'm thankful.

Dependence rather than independence, weakness rather than self-reliance, these things make grace sweet. Tomorrow it could all get better or it could all get worse. But the One who sustains my mind and heart and body is gracious and I rest in that.

not the meaning of life

Watching: Penelope: a strangely delightful movie with a normal humanistic undertone.
Miss Pettigrew lives for a day: good movie but not for mixed company.

Reading: The Universe Next Door: excellent summary of various religious worldviews.
The Pleasure of Finding things out: because I needed something light.
He that is spiritual: required reading for class, I'm suspending my opinion.
Poetry: Wordsworth is my current favorite.

Playing: The Well-Tempered Clavier I by Bach: practicing the piano is probably driving my roommate nuts.
Soccer: friday nights with a menagerie of international students (i was the only girl admist 15 guys!)

Speaking: Ethiopian: my roomie taught me how to say hello (tenesteleen!) and that's about as far as I've gotten :-]

Drinking: Chai and coffee and water but especially chai because, it's fall you know.

Listening: U2 The Atomic something or another :-]
Last of the Mohican's soundtrack
An excellent compilation of music/sermon snipits that Jason gave me.

Longing: to do more backpacking. sigh.

expression

The blogs I enjoy reading most (beside those belonging to friends) are blogs about food or photography or travel or sewing or music or reading. Yet, mine is none of those things. Perhaps because I don't do those things with great committment or depth. The thing I do most frequently and sustantially is think. I can't seem to help it. Do I have a problem? Do I need a five step program? Do I need a new blog expressing creative informative things? Possibly. But I'm content to sit and ponder the meaning of life and share it with whoever happens to be nearby :-].

I'm glad its gray outside because it makes sitting inside with piles of reading all the more cozy and beckoning. Yesterday, I ran in light rain down a historical street lined with huge oaks and bright grass and Tudor mansions. I could almost believe I was back in England.

I don't fit in here. It's apparent on several levels. Strangely, my love of learning is one of them. Everyone bemoans the difficulty I have yet to discover. Reading interesting books on interesting topics is difficult? I never knew! ;-] Second, the absence of dallasite materialistic tendencies but literary, poetic, organic tea drinking habits put me distinctly on my own. Which I'm finding hard to cope with. A 27 year-old still haunted by not fitting in? I annoy myself. Third, I'm full-time staff taking classes on my lunch breaks and in the evenings. That's just weird ;-]. Lastly, I can't seem to consume information about God without being emotionally affected. While the class moves onto the depths of our depravity, I'm still plunging into the depths and wonderousness of His holiness. Yes, I know we've moved on in class, but I haven't! My mind may have wrapped itself (mostly) around a concept but my heart is still wrapping around its implications. My friend aptly described taking many seminary classes at once as a sort of gluttony. I only have two and I already feel gluttonous.

compassion

It's cool outside and I wish I was on top of a mountain. My assignment to demonstrate the unattainable holiness of God by describing a hypothetical situation in which I would perfectly be a communicable attribute of God's(deep breath) turned out better than I had hoped. My last post was steam blowing but now I'm twirling in the wind reveling with the cool breeze and throwing my frustrations out the window. Its fall and I'm in school again. You, faithful readers, are so kind to go up and down, in and out of seasons and moods and perspectives with me. Below is the first part of my paper. The second part: explaining holiness to a 10 year-old, is still being crafted. Criticism are welcomed :-]. I'm off to find some cinnamon.

~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Every day I step onto the subway. It could be argued that, at the end of my life, I will have spent more time riding the subway that I will have spent reading, or eating, or going to church. This is, after all, New York City. And everyday, rain or shine, happy or bleak, crowded or sparse, there he sits.
I have many responsibilities, things to attend to and people waiting for me. I am important and known. My picture has been on a magazine and my name in the paper; everyone in my sphere knows of my accomplishments. I am educated, cultured, rich and refined. He is dirty and his pants have holes. We are nothing alike.
Every day of every week in every month and through every year, he beckons me as I cross the platform. Desperation overrides shame as he disregards the distinction between us. Again and again and again and endlessly, relentlessly, irreverently, he calls for me to notice his plight.
Why hasn’t he gone to a shelter? Why hasn’t he gotten a job? Why hasn’t he picked a different column? Why hasn’t the passage of time altered his state? Why is he as helpless now as he was ten years ago? But none of these questions would bother me.
I never alter my route to avoid him. I never quicken my step to hurry past or lift my chin to avoid eye contact. On the contrary, every day of every week in every month, and through out every year I stop to ask him what he needs. I am never too tired or too cold or too hurried.
“I’m hungry.”
“Let me take you to a place to eat.”
“No, I will not go with you.”
“But I can satisfy your hunger.”
“No, give me food to eat or money to buy it.”
The next day I bring him food.
“I am cold.”
“Follow me to a store where I can buy a shirt that fits you.”
“No, I will not move.”
“But I can make you warm.”
“No, give me warmth where I am.”
The next day I bring him a blanket.
“I am lonely.”
“Come to a place where you will find many friends.”
“No, I will stay here.”
“But I can give you community.”
“No. Stay with me.”
The next day, I stop and say with him as long as he desires. Though many people clamor to meet with me, I sit with him in dirt.
“I can not see, it is dark.”
“Let us go outside where the sun is bright.”
“No. Bring the sun inside.”
“The sun is not meant to be seen inside.”
The next day, when he beckons, I choose to respond. I am different not just from him but from those around me who ignore his constant cry. My desire is that, one day, he will follow me to the feast, the warmth, the community, and the sun. But perhaps he never will, choosing instead to suffer from his own folly.
I have places to go and things to do. I am important and known. I am loved and honored and respected. But still, every day of every week in every month through every year, I pass by the man beckoning beneath the column and notice his plight.
If I was perfect, this would be me: holy with compassion. Constant and everlasting, my compassion would never vary and never end. But this isn’t me. With the first glance and every one since, I pass on by.