A businessman approaches an architect because he needs a larger space for his business. The architect agrees to design a new building. The architect could design a big box that looks like Wal-mart, Best Buy, or a dozen other large retailers.
Or he might design something more akin to a Guggenheim Museum.
Why? Why even bother to reach for the heights of your profession, the epitome of beauty, the full release of expression? One functions just as well as the other . . . and costs significantly less.
I once went to the symphony in Poland. The Krakow Chamber Orchestra played Bolero, by Maurice Ravel. By no means is this the most profound piece of music ever written. Ravel himself called it “simplistic.” At the culmination of the piece during this performance, however, the audience sat in stunned silence for much longer than was appropriate before they began to applaud. But once that applause began, it did not stop. The orchestra returned and performed the last bit again as an encore. Again, the audience refused to stop clapping. The entire orchestra returned for a second time and played the entire, fifteen-minute piece again. (What exhaustion for the percussionist on the snare!) When the applause resumed, the conductor turned around and said, “Please! We cannot.”
There are times (I’ve written about this before) when I have to just stop reading and let an exquisite sentence settle into my mind. Sometimes, I reread a paragraph several times because it is so well-conceived. My friend, Hannah, is really good at writing like this. She recently penned, “The invisible fibers of my spiritual muscles had broken down through the relentless repetition of stress and spiritual warfare.” (Here is the context, if you’re interested. You have to scroll down some to get to Hannah’s part.) That’s poetry in paragraph form.
So all those examples mean . . . what?
There’s a message that I want to convey when I write, but any number of people could tell you the same thing. I am not so presumptuous as to think that God reveals Himself to me with any sort of exclusivity. Once you get the grammar right, like the structure inside a building, the function of writing is settled. But then, the message takes on the personality of the writer and attempts to link his or her subject (for me, a continually increasing understanding of God) with the lives of his or her readers.
There is something significant in a beautiful building, a superb symphony, a perfectly proportioned paragraph. (And it’s not just the alliteration. Ha-ha!) Such things affect us more deeply and connect us more securely not only to the creators and performers but to everyone around us. The audience in Krakow that night stood up “in one accord.”
Visitors to the Vietnam Veterans Memorial in Washington D.C. just know to be quiet—even the children. No one has to tell us to do that. The place evokes a reaction.
The best writers (fiction, nonfiction, prose, poetry—it doesn’t matter) do the same thing: ignite a reaction in the reader’s mind . . . and sometimes in his heart. I think most artists/designers are trying to do this. But the writer has a further advantage; he can also be the voice of that shared human experience.
I write because I want to understand—and help the reader understand—how profound God truly is. If, through my unique presentation, I can reach into another’s soul like God has reached into mine and pluck the strings of comprehension so precisely that Truth reverberates into your toes and permanently reconditions your heart . . . well . . . then, facts and observations become authentic Christ-likeness and the earthly expression of His glory. It doesn’t get any better than that.
Just after I finished the rough draft of this post, I read *this* blog entry by John Piper. So now that I made you plow through my convoluted thought processes, go read how he phrases it so eloquently: that each of us is the “secretary of the praise of God.”
A block of precious marble
but still cut from the earth like any other rock
to be carved into the likeness of the Son
Like Michelangelo carving David: “It is easy. You just chip away the stone that doesn’t look like David.”
Just chip away the stone that doesn’t look like Christ
Many shards–large and small–fall away
But the sculptor hits a vein in the marble
until the stone releases that weak, discolored thread it grasps so frantically
Why, Lord, did you choose THIS block of marble
knowing that an ugly, feeble vein was hidden inside?
He chose it for the veins
not despite them
not ignorant of them
Those veins make this image of the Son different from all His others
Those veins are the stone’s beauty
merged into Christ
“Sometimes I consider myself there, as a stone before a carver, whereof he is to make a statue: presenting myself thus before GOD, I desire Him to make His perfect image in my soul, and render me entirely like Himself.” –Brother Lawrence, The Practice of the Presence of God
For those God foreknew he also predestined to be conformed to the image of his Son, that he might be the firstborn among many brothers and sisters. –Romans 8:29
On occasion, the rebel in me rises up and questions the idea of being ‘conformed to’ an image alongside thousands of others. I don’t want to look like/act like/think like everybody else. Conformity is the antithesis of creativity. As I was pondering this Brother Lawrence quote alongside everything God has revealed to me about beauty recently, this image of the veins in the marble arose. The veins, though they have to be…tamed…differentiate one statue from another without actually changing the form. Such is the uniqueness we have in Christ even as we are conformed to His image.
Do you have an image that helps you understand our identity in Christ? Please share it in the comments!
I’ve never met a follower of Christ who didn’t enjoy a beautiful sunset, a mountain vista (especially in autumn!), or a fresh flower glossed with dew. God is, without doubt, an artist. I am astounded by the fact that it wasn’t necessary to make sunsets beautiful or leaves colorful in autumn. He masterminded beauty because He is intrinsically beautiful, because He loves us, and because He wants us to enjoy what He has created. He wants us to enjoy Him. Each beautiful vista, each moss-covered rock, each rough and gnarled tree, is a gift we can only enjoy because He also created within us the capacity (meaning this open space where we see, understand, and/or create) for beauty.
Thus, I think it’s fair to say…
Much like God is love, He is beauty.
Beauty nourishes the soul.
There is also something in our spirits that delights in humanly created beauty: a well-written sentence, a well-chiseled sculpture, a well-crafted jar with perfect proportions and elegant lines. Reflecting on Oswald Chambers’ life, David McCasland writes, “Art was God’s gift to make life on earth bearable. Poetry and music were not luxuries, but necessities.” I have occasionally, while reading a book, come upon a sentence so beautiful that I had to pause, reading it over and over until I felt that I had drunk in everything it had to offer. But I’m a self-confessed word-nerd. For you, maybe it’s paintings, pottery, or poetry. Okay, so I enjoy all those, too. My point is that beauty nourishes the soul.
Back in 2013, I didn’t realize my soul was starving until we went on vacation. In an archaeological museum, I saw a marble statue of a man. It had been on a ship that sunk in the Mediterranean Sea where it remained partially buried in the ocean floor for something close to a thousand years. The right side of the statue, which had been covered by sand for all those years, was pristine: smooth, clear, almost alive. You could sense the now-unknown artist’s exquisite understanding of the human form and his mastery of his craft. The left side, which had been exposed to salt water and animal life for those same years, would have been unrecognizable on its own. It was mottled gray, craggy—like a decomposing corpse. The contrast between the two sides highlighted the beauty of the right. (It also reminded me of Ted Dekker’s Circle Trilogy, but that’s not the direction I want to go right now.)
The reason we find certain things beautiful and others ugly is because God made us to perceive the world that way, but what we find “beautiful” is a result of culture. I think the Greeks defined beauty for us Westerners. It happened about 3000 years ago (don’t quote me on that), and our understanding of beauty—especially when it comes to the human form—hasn’t changed since: young, slender, strong, well-proportioned. Other major cultural groups define it differently, but you can certainly see, in Western societies, that we pursue beauty. We lust after it. We fight for it…and sometimes fight over it. The beautiful princesses have knights fighting on their behalf in fairy tales. And the beautiful co-eds have college guys fighting over them in modern movies.
My soul-founded urge to create
something beautiful belies another
expression of my pursuit of God.
As I stood looking at that half-disintegrated sculpture in the museum, I questioned why we are drawn to beauty and why we ourselves long to be beautiful. Both the desire to be beautiful and the desire to create beauty are, in fact, the desire to be like God. God is beauty and the author of beauty. If I pick up a pencil and a sketchbook or start carving away at a piece of wood, if I focus my camera lens just so or place my fingers on the keyboard in front of a blank word-processing document, if I take a deep breath and begin to sing or hold the last diminishing note of an instrumental jazz solo, my soul-founded urge to create something beautiful belies another expression of my pursuit of God.
Is all creativity essentially
an imitation of God?
I wonder about the atheist. Why does he create beauty? Is it something within himself that even he does not understand…perhaps some innate desire to be God-like? Certainly for those of us who follow Jesus, the connection is easy to see: We want to be like Jesus, to be close to the Creator, Who made all things good. Thus, the pursuit of beauty, even in its most profane form (as some “art” is these days), may be essentially the pursuit of God.
There have been those throughout Christian history who indiscriminately rejected all art. They feared people might pervert beauty into idolatry (a justifiable fear, by the way) much like love can be perverted into lust. Were they not, out of a fear of sinning, rejecting the intrinsic beauty of God? If we first grasp God’s love by our experience of love in relation to other people, then our experience of His beauty may also come first from our experience of it in the world. Beauty is not something to be feared and restricted but something to be understood, received, and enjoyed.
There is something in me that compels me toward creativity. I need to be creative…to fashion something with my mind and hands, then hold the completed project in these same hands. Without such an outlet, I feel stifled, sometimes straight-jacketed. In the past, I ‘chalked it up’ to my personality, and even as I discuss these thoughts with others, I see that my experience is not ubiquitous. As the Father has led me to ponder these things, however, I now understand that my artistic/creative ‘bent’ is often the fuel for my pursuit of God. As I create, I understand more of the Creator. As I produce something beautiful that begins within my mind, I gain insight into God, who not only creates beautiful things but is Himself beautiful. There is glory to be had through this creative process, and that glory is His.
Check the comments for quotes I’ve added to the discussion since I first wrote this essay.
What about you? Do you have that artistic ‘bent’? Do you think it leads you to God? I’d love to hear your thoughts in the comments below!