Well, some things are always there, but this week we weren't. So you get a Learner, and only one Learner 's musings this week. This Learner has been having a tough time, muddling through a series of very challenging situations. The loss of a parent, the loss of a friend's child, the loss of a dear, dear aunt. Those are the big things, compounded by all the littler, normal and not-so-normal challenges of life. It has been difficult to feel...
And just when I thought the world would be gray forever more, I got a story about sunshine. I was reading daily devotionals for a sight-impaired friend and was intrigued that the one day that she wanted me to read to her called us to read Psalms 121 to begin. You see, Psalms 121 is one that her father always read to her, almost every night when she was a child. The coincidence was compounded by the fact that Psalms 121 is the reading my father requested to open my mother's funeral service. It has to do with God always keeping us, shading us from the sun and moon.
The story that accompanied the scripture compared God's presence to your shadow. It is always attached to you, whether you notice it or not. Sometimes it is long and big and impossible to miss. Sometimes it is short and small and really hard to see. Sometimes, especially when the weather is cloudy, it doesn't even appear to be with you. But it is. And so is God. I had never thought about God that way, but it strikes me now as pure genius.
Giving thanks is not something we are programmed to do. I do a pretty good job of remembering to be thankful when I receive something tangible, desired, needed. But today I am thankful that I was listening enough to hear God whispering to me, that even though I wasn't feeling it, like my shadow He is right there with me. Thank you.
Thursday, January 27, 2011
Thursday, January 20, 2011
The Incredulity of Rembrandt
What study of art would be complete without including Rembrandt? And yes, I did purposely play on the title of the work from last week. The paintings we focused on this week were Self Portrait as the Apostle Paul and The Return of the Prodigal Son. The question of the week - Can God really use someone like me? Good question, but we had a hard time getting there. I think we were all preoccupied a bit with the forecast and with good reason. Unofficial reports are around nine inches of snow today.
We started out with an exercise about change. Maybe you have seen those puzzles before - change Cold into its opposite Warm by changing one letter at a time, each step of the way has to be a real word, not nonsense. And then change Dead to Live. We weren't so good at this kind of puzzle which actually emphasized the point of the exercise - change is difficult. But what does that have to do with God using us?
The next step was to consider broken New Year's resolutions, characteristics of our parents that we are noticing we now have, promises that others have broken. Bring to your mind a very real and personal example that you can use to consider whether or not true change is possible. Is it really possible to change - yourself or someone else? There are a lot of impediments to change and it is incredibly difficult. Do you believe it can really be done? Can God do it?
We looked at the self-portrait first, and questioned why Rembrandt chose the Apostle Paul? We used Acts 22:2-21, Philippians 3:4-11 and 1 Timothy 1:12-14 to remind us of the life of Paul, and we came up with a biographical list:
Saul, the Persecutor
The Road to Damascus - Light
Blindness
Healing/Baptism
Another Voice (Commission)
Another Persecution
Confidence In His Heritage
Greatness in Christ's Likeness
Faithful Servant Even Though Had Been Persecutor
Then we were asked to read Acts 22:6 again and reconsider the portrait.
6 “As I was on the road, approaching Damascus about noon, a very bright light from heaven suddenly shone down around me." (New Living Translation)
When we went back to the portrait we saw the light of Paul, but also the look of incredulity on Rembrandt's face. Rembrandt, like Paul, had experienced loss and hard times and yet, in trials they both turned to God. Difficulty strengthened their relationship with God. They didn't feel worthy, they weren't living "godly" lives, they didn't fit the mold of what a follower or agent of God "should" be. And yet God met them where they were, as they were. God changed them and they followed.
We then looked at the Prodigal Son. The use of light highlights the calm, serene acceptance of a father whose suffering and age are apparent in his arthritic hands. The contrast of the poverty of the son's condition is stark, and yet he is enfolded in his father's loving arms. There are attendants, perhaps one is the son who did what he "should", who look on in a very intimate setting. No matter their position or standing, if they choose to enter in to relationship with the father, he accepts them lovingly.
Like the Prodigal Son, neither Paul nor Rembrandt seem to have considered themselves worthy of God's love. And like the prodigal, they didn't question the invitation for long and accepted God's love and call on their lives. Can God do the same for me? Can God use me was the question for this lesson. It seems to me that the real question is will I allow God to change me and use me?
We started out with an exercise about change. Maybe you have seen those puzzles before - change Cold into its opposite Warm by changing one letter at a time, each step of the way has to be a real word, not nonsense. And then change Dead to Live. We weren't so good at this kind of puzzle which actually emphasized the point of the exercise - change is difficult. But what does that have to do with God using us?
The next step was to consider broken New Year's resolutions, characteristics of our parents that we are noticing we now have, promises that others have broken. Bring to your mind a very real and personal example that you can use to consider whether or not true change is possible. Is it really possible to change - yourself or someone else? There are a lot of impediments to change and it is incredibly difficult. Do you believe it can really be done? Can God do it?
We looked at the self-portrait first, and questioned why Rembrandt chose the Apostle Paul? We used Acts 22:2-21, Philippians 3:4-11 and 1 Timothy 1:12-14 to remind us of the life of Paul, and we came up with a biographical list:
Saul, the Persecutor
The Road to Damascus - Light
Blindness
Healing/Baptism
Another Voice (Commission)
Another Persecution
Confidence In His Heritage
Greatness in Christ's Likeness
Faithful Servant Even Though Had Been Persecutor
Then we were asked to read Acts 22:6 again and reconsider the portrait.
6 “As I was on the road, approaching Damascus about noon, a very bright light from heaven suddenly shone down around me." (New Living Translation)
When we went back to the portrait we saw the light of Paul, but also the look of incredulity on Rembrandt's face. Rembrandt, like Paul, had experienced loss and hard times and yet, in trials they both turned to God. Difficulty strengthened their relationship with God. They didn't feel worthy, they weren't living "godly" lives, they didn't fit the mold of what a follower or agent of God "should" be. And yet God met them where they were, as they were. God changed them and they followed.
We then looked at the Prodigal Son. The use of light highlights the calm, serene acceptance of a father whose suffering and age are apparent in his arthritic hands. The contrast of the poverty of the son's condition is stark, and yet he is enfolded in his father's loving arms. There are attendants, perhaps one is the son who did what he "should", who look on in a very intimate setting. No matter their position or standing, if they choose to enter in to relationship with the father, he accepts them lovingly.
Like the Prodigal Son, neither Paul nor Rembrandt seem to have considered themselves worthy of God's love. And like the prodigal, they didn't question the invitation for long and accepted God's love and call on their lives. Can God do the same for me? Can God use me was the question for this lesson. It seems to me that the real question is will I allow God to change me and use me?
Thursday, January 13, 2011
Caravaggio's Doubt
Our artist this week was Caravaggio and the works we focused on were The Incredulity of Thomas and The Taking of Christ. The question we were asked to consider is the interrelation of belief, doubt and disbelief. We started out with some questions designed to develop concrete, usable examples that would be personal and specific. Something I believed in but now I disbelieve is... Something I could not believe at first but found to be true is... Something I would like to believe in but still have reservations about is... We came up with some good examples, both from secular lives and our faith lives that laid a foundation for discussion..
The paintings we looked at were commissioned by the Catholic church, to teach the people about Bible stories. Most paintings of the time are very different, idealized, mystical. Caravaggio mastered chiaroscuro (literally light-dark) and used it to emphasize the stark reality and desperate intensity of each of the scenes he painted. He used the common people with whom he lived as his models rather than his wealthy patrons. The lighting draws your attention to Jesus and the faces of the others in the paintings. Everything about the way these scenes were painted says that Caravaggio believed that they were real, gritty happenings and that the people involved were earthy and robust, not the angelic wisps we see in other works. That would speak to the masses who couldn't read and depended on the paintings for their learning, but I'm not so sure how they would be received by those who commissioned them.
And yet, the real people, the tax collectors, peasants, women at the well travelers on the road, those are the people with whom Jesus spent the majority of his time on Earth. That is also the company Caravaggio kept, and for the most part they were his target audience. So what is his interpretation of the event depicted in The Incredulity of Thomas? What does Caravaggio say about the doubt of Thomas?
I think we struggled a little with the printed copies, they were too dark to make out some of the vital details. Our discussion included some great points, especially that Thomas was only asking for what had already been granted to all the other Disciples. They had all seen the risen Christ, Thomas was the only one left out. Have you ever felt like that? I know I have, and doggone it, be fair! Right?! Well, Jesus was fair. He guides Thomas' finger to the wound on his side with an intimate, inviting, accepting visage. Thomas appears to be somewhat horrified and almost regretful that he had insisted on seeing Jesus and feeling the wound. His eyes looking straight ahead, not at the action, not at his hand being guided into Christ's side. Others crowd around, wanting to see what is happening. It is a very intimate encounter that clearly says Jesus accepts and welcomes the doubt.
That leads us back to the original question - what is the relationship between belief, disbelief and doubt? No one wants to admit to having doubts at church, that makes you a bad Christian. We must have felt that because we skirted that conversation and quoted verses that would prove we are good Christians. One of the verses was Hebrews 11:1 (CEV) "Faith makes us sure of what we hope for and gives us proof of what we cannot see." While that may be true, it is hollow and empty for those of us who do not feel that. Words alone are not going to help those of us who doubt.
In the painting Jesus uses Thomas' doubt in a real-life, concrete experience to lead him (and us) to belief. Therein lies the relationship that we came to in our discussion. Doubt is the bridge between disbelief and belief, and between belief and disbelief. Without doubt there is no agent to move you from one to the other. So the question for me becomes, why are we so uncomfortable with doubt, avoiding it at all cost?
We didn't have a whole lot of time to look at the scripture because the discussion was so lively, but I have gone back to look at the recommended passages from John: 1:3-9; 3:16-21; 5:31-40; 8:12-18. They all deal with God bringing/sending light into a dark world. The difference between the light(belief) and the dark(disbelief) is the action of God and acceptance and participation of the people(doubt). I'm left wondering if maybe we shouldn't be embracing and encouraging doubt as a process that explores and deepens faith, rather than seeing it as weakness and a sign of infidelity?
The paintings we looked at were commissioned by the Catholic church, to teach the people about Bible stories. Most paintings of the time are very different, idealized, mystical. Caravaggio mastered chiaroscuro (literally light-dark) and used it to emphasize the stark reality and desperate intensity of each of the scenes he painted. He used the common people with whom he lived as his models rather than his wealthy patrons. The lighting draws your attention to Jesus and the faces of the others in the paintings. Everything about the way these scenes were painted says that Caravaggio believed that they were real, gritty happenings and that the people involved were earthy and robust, not the angelic wisps we see in other works. That would speak to the masses who couldn't read and depended on the paintings for their learning, but I'm not so sure how they would be received by those who commissioned them.
And yet, the real people, the tax collectors, peasants, women at the well travelers on the road, those are the people with whom Jesus spent the majority of his time on Earth. That is also the company Caravaggio kept, and for the most part they were his target audience. So what is his interpretation of the event depicted in The Incredulity of Thomas? What does Caravaggio say about the doubt of Thomas?
I think we struggled a little with the printed copies, they were too dark to make out some of the vital details. Our discussion included some great points, especially that Thomas was only asking for what had already been granted to all the other Disciples. They had all seen the risen Christ, Thomas was the only one left out. Have you ever felt like that? I know I have, and doggone it, be fair! Right?! Well, Jesus was fair. He guides Thomas' finger to the wound on his side with an intimate, inviting, accepting visage. Thomas appears to be somewhat horrified and almost regretful that he had insisted on seeing Jesus and feeling the wound. His eyes looking straight ahead, not at the action, not at his hand being guided into Christ's side. Others crowd around, wanting to see what is happening. It is a very intimate encounter that clearly says Jesus accepts and welcomes the doubt.
That leads us back to the original question - what is the relationship between belief, disbelief and doubt? No one wants to admit to having doubts at church, that makes you a bad Christian. We must have felt that because we skirted that conversation and quoted verses that would prove we are good Christians. One of the verses was Hebrews 11:1 (CEV) "Faith makes us sure of what we hope for and gives us proof of what we cannot see." While that may be true, it is hollow and empty for those of us who do not feel that. Words alone are not going to help those of us who doubt.
In the painting Jesus uses Thomas' doubt in a real-life, concrete experience to lead him (and us) to belief. Therein lies the relationship that we came to in our discussion. Doubt is the bridge between disbelief and belief, and between belief and disbelief. Without doubt there is no agent to move you from one to the other. So the question for me becomes, why are we so uncomfortable with doubt, avoiding it at all cost?
We didn't have a whole lot of time to look at the scripture because the discussion was so lively, but I have gone back to look at the recommended passages from John: 1:3-9; 3:16-21; 5:31-40; 8:12-18. They all deal with God bringing/sending light into a dark world. The difference between the light(belief) and the dark(disbelief) is the action of God and acceptance and participation of the people(doubt). I'm left wondering if maybe we shouldn't be embracing and encouraging doubt as a process that explores and deepens faith, rather than seeing it as weakness and a sign of infidelity?
Thursday, January 6, 2011
Vincent's Hope
We started a new year with a new study - God's Word on Canvas. This study uses classic artwork about the Bible to inspire discussion and examination of the Bible. Our work this week is Vincent Van Gogh's Still Life With Bible, 1885 and the question is, is there any reason for hope?
The still life depicts a Bible open to Isaiah 53 with a well-used, unlit candle behind it. In front of the Bible, lying closed on the table, is a copy of Emile Zola's La Joie de Vivre. The light in the picture is quite interesting, being brightest on Zola's book, but the source of the light is undetermined. After considering the picture and some of Van Gogh's later works we discussed what the artist was trying to say, and what the picture says to us.
It helps me to know that this was an early painting, completed shortly after the death of Van Gogh's father. Vincent had tried several jobs, including clergy like his father, but his father considered him a failure. Van Gogh was very fond of the literature of his day and considered Zola's work to be a Bible for modern life. La Joie de Vivre - literally The Joy of Life - is a story about the Christ-like figure Pauline Quenu, an orphan who is mistreated and robbed of her inheritance by the family who takes her in. Throughout all her travails and loss she remains optimistic and a servant to the poor.
So the question asks us to consider, after reading Isaiah 53, if there is reason for hope in a servant-king. Why does Pauline continue to hope? Why do other Christ-like figures hope - Jean Valjean in Les Miserables, Vianne in Chocolat, Aslan in The Chronicles of Narnia, John Coffey in The Green Mile, Gandlaf, Optimus Prime, Spock, Cool Hand Luke? Why do we continue to hope?
I think we settled on the idea that hope is an innate longing in all humans. We all believe that life, things, can be different (and by different we mean better) than they are right now. But we decided that there is a difference for Christians. As people we often pin our hopes on our own abilities, the abilities of others, our personal strength, wealth. But as Christians we can also put our hope in the servant-king foretold in Isaiah 53.
Our group agreed that there is always reason for hope, it just isn't always easy to feel that hope. Even though we believe that God will make up the difference for us between what we feel and what we need in order to get through difficult times and trials, it is sometimes really hard to feel that, deep in our souls, in the very pit of our stomachs. Do Christians have a corner on the hope market? I don't think so. And I don't think Vincent felt that either. The message of the still life for me is that the Bible is always there, unchanging, but the way it speaks to us needs to change, to be relevant to the times. For Vincent Van Gogh the hope of Isaiah 53 didn't have much meaning because it was colored and overshadowed by the poor relationship he had with his minister father. The candle is out, the words on the page are illegible, but the Bible is still there and open. La Joie de Vivre, although closed, basks in and also seems to reflect the light. Vincent was able to find hope in Zola's work, in the idea of a life of servant-hood, caring for others. As Christians, our hope in God is without limitation, if we can only feel and trust it.
The still life depicts a Bible open to Isaiah 53 with a well-used, unlit candle behind it. In front of the Bible, lying closed on the table, is a copy of Emile Zola's La Joie de Vivre. The light in the picture is quite interesting, being brightest on Zola's book, but the source of the light is undetermined. After considering the picture and some of Van Gogh's later works we discussed what the artist was trying to say, and what the picture says to us.
It helps me to know that this was an early painting, completed shortly after the death of Van Gogh's father. Vincent had tried several jobs, including clergy like his father, but his father considered him a failure. Van Gogh was very fond of the literature of his day and considered Zola's work to be a Bible for modern life. La Joie de Vivre - literally The Joy of Life - is a story about the Christ-like figure Pauline Quenu, an orphan who is mistreated and robbed of her inheritance by the family who takes her in. Throughout all her travails and loss she remains optimistic and a servant to the poor.
So the question asks us to consider, after reading Isaiah 53, if there is reason for hope in a servant-king. Why does Pauline continue to hope? Why do other Christ-like figures hope - Jean Valjean in Les Miserables, Vianne in Chocolat, Aslan in The Chronicles of Narnia, John Coffey in The Green Mile, Gandlaf, Optimus Prime, Spock, Cool Hand Luke? Why do we continue to hope?
I think we settled on the idea that hope is an innate longing in all humans. We all believe that life, things, can be different (and by different we mean better) than they are right now. But we decided that there is a difference for Christians. As people we often pin our hopes on our own abilities, the abilities of others, our personal strength, wealth. But as Christians we can also put our hope in the servant-king foretold in Isaiah 53.
Our group agreed that there is always reason for hope, it just isn't always easy to feel that hope. Even though we believe that God will make up the difference for us between what we feel and what we need in order to get through difficult times and trials, it is sometimes really hard to feel that, deep in our souls, in the very pit of our stomachs. Do Christians have a corner on the hope market? I don't think so. And I don't think Vincent felt that either. The message of the still life for me is that the Bible is always there, unchanging, but the way it speaks to us needs to change, to be relevant to the times. For Vincent Van Gogh the hope of Isaiah 53 didn't have much meaning because it was colored and overshadowed by the poor relationship he had with his minister father. The candle is out, the words on the page are illegible, but the Bible is still there and open. La Joie de Vivre, although closed, basks in and also seems to reflect the light. Vincent was able to find hope in Zola's work, in the idea of a life of servant-hood, caring for others. As Christians, our hope in God is without limitation, if we can only feel and trust it.
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