Monday, November 20, 2017

God Doesn't Tilt at Windmills

(The following was published in the Sept/Oct issue of live magazine. Check them out at www.baptistwomen.com)



Sometimes God’s presence and attention for me feels as near as my next breath. Every thought is shared and each moment is experienced together as though I was holding onto His hand for whatever comes next. Whether it is to swing off His strong arm for fun like I did with my own dad when I saw small, or clinging tightly to make it through something painful or scary, I know deep down where you know things beyond a shadow of a doubt that He is with me. Sometimes this dynamic goes on for days or weeks on end and I feel as though I am living life the way that it was meant to be lived and sharing the sort of communion with Him that wets your eyes when you start to think about it too much.

But then, there are other times.  I  wander into them unaware and find myself overwhelmed by my own emotions and grasping around for God who suddenly seems extremely far away, if not non-existent. It happened to me the other day as a result of the silliest of stimuli—perusing a women’s magazine at the hair salon, of all things—when suddenly I was awash with an overwhelming sense of pathetic insignificance. A failure at everything I had put my hand to; at relationships; career. I had failed at building a lovely home. Failed at…fill in the blank. The list went on and on, rolling across my thoughts like a never ending news chyron of accusation and self-pity that left me silently caterwauling at God. I was still in the chair; after all (and tin foil crown aside) I didn’t want to fail at looking sane.

I’m learning to pay attention to moments like these when an unforeseen wave of spiritual turmoil knocks me off my feet and sends me gasping to God as I attempt to withstand an onslaught of feelings that seem to have sprouted from nowhere like mushrooms overnight.  I immediately start with God, begging Him to rescue me, change me, change something because I can’t bear to feel this way a moment longer. It has always struck me as so bizarre that in these most emotional of moments, God is silent and seems gone. It occurs to me that maybe God doesn’t appreciate being the recipient of such reactionary prayers. While I had been driven to pray; it wasn’t a conversation of faith, for faith had no part in it. It was more like a desperate whine. The kind of noise that elicits irritation rather than compassion. It was the type of praying to James is referring to when he talks about people who worry their prayers being like wind-whipped waves who shouldn’t imagine that they are going to get anything from God that way.  

 I was just jabbering to myself in my tin foil hat. God wasn’t ignoring me. He just won’t participate in a conversation whose primary premise is a lie—particularly one about Himself or one of His children. The trouble with feelings, though, is that they feel so real—so powerful— regardless of whether or not they have anything to do with the truth. The Holy Spirit speaks the language of faith and doubting God and His goodness toward you is a surefire way to wind up talking to yourself and not to Him. It occurs to me that those moments when I experience God the most fully—the most wholeheartedly— are when I believe Him; when I agree with His Word rather than trying to make Him agree with me. God is never going to agree with a lie regardless of who it is about. Neither will He feel the need to generate solutions for problems that don’t actually exist. God doesn’t tilt at windmills.









Wednesday, November 8, 2017

MOMA, mo' Problems

(This article was previously published in the July/August issue of live magazine. You can find them at baptistwomen.ca)


While in New York last week I wandered around the famed Museum of Modern Art with raised eyebrows. While MOMA is home to some truly beautiful and iconic works such as  Van Gogh’s Starry Night, one cannot help but think of the fabled emperor and his new clothes when staring at three gigantic blank white canvases that are probably insured for a gazillion dollars. Since this is my plebeian attitude, it seems a perverse accident that I have a solid foundation of knowledge when it comes to modern art thanks to poor academic planning that required me to know about everything from Picasso’s move toward cubism, to the Surrealists and the DADA movement, to Pop Art and so forth all the way to Marcel Duchamp and his urinal. And so there I was, recognizing more of this absurdity than I am truly comfortable admitting.





I tend to agree with G.K Chesteron’s statement that, “A good novel tells us the truth about its hero; but a bad novel tells us the truth about its author.” Art, whether in the form of paint on canvas or words on the page, in order to be powerful, in order to qualify as art, must reveal something true. When I found myself rolling my eyes in that History of Modern Art class years ago, I was exasperated by the foolishness of it, but I only half grasped the truth that it was telling. I disliked the way that the moderns took beautiful things and people and made them ugly. Andy Warhol’s Marilyn Diptych or Picasso’s representations of female beauty seemed like mockeries of femininity rather than creations that revealed something true about their subjects.  But that is where I got it wrong. These works weren’t revelatory about their subjects, they were revelatory about their creators. A creation cannot help but tell the truth about its creator. Warhol himself once mused that he wished that he were plastic. That being his desire, it seems almost inevitable that his creativity would produce a flattened, garish commodified version of a flesh and blood woman.

If this is the case for those made in the image of God--how much more so does Creation reveal the truth about our Creator. I am a child of the open country; of vast rolling plains of harvest gold where the impossibly blue sky stretches from horizon to horizon in an ever-shifting ocean of billowing clouds that stack up like skyscrapers before racing one another across the firmament of heaven.  Majesty, beauty, tranquility, and terrifying force are all on display on such a canvas.  

When I leave it, I long for the sky over my hometown because its beauty never fails to catch my breath and prompt me to exclaim over its passing glory to whomever happens to be around. The sky never fails to remind me how good God is to surround us with beauty because His thoughts are beautiful and His nature is abundant and generous. His impenetrable mind is revealed by what He has made and what He has made is beautiful.

The deeper that science delves, the more Creation reveals the truth about its Creator’s invisible attributes. From implausibly intricate beauty on an atomic scale to the wideness of a universe of which we cannot find the boundaries whose raw power obliterates all life. The glory of God is on display in the wisdom of our narrow habitable zone in this galaxy; on this pale blue dot planet that teems with improbable life; each of whose unique characteristics are written in the flowing script of DNA.

Creation is beautiful because the thoughts of its Creator are lovely. 

Thinking along these lines, I cannot help but feel a newfound compassion for the moderns and the post-modern artists; for their art does tell the truth.  You cannot give what you don’t have. You can’t create works of profound meaning or beauty if your thoughts are clouded with chaos and confusion. You can’t reveal the truth about flesh and blood if you’d rather be plastic. You can only reveal yourself.








I Wouldn’t Answer Me Either

“He does me double wrong that wounds me with the flatteries of his tongue.”   -William Shakespeare, Richard II,  (Act III, Scene II) I ...