“Art & Faith:  A Language of Holiness”

First Congregational United Church of Christ

August 1, 2010      

The Rev. Sharyl B. Peterson

Scripture Readings:  Exodus 31: 1-11; Psalm 96

Today, we begin a new series, in which we will consider some of the relationships between various forms of art, and our faith (spiritual) life.  For the past month know that we’ve been considering some of the different ways God is made known to us – through Scripture, through our faith tradition, through reason, and through experience.  And when we think about “experience” as a way of perceiving God, as a way of knowing God, that general category includes many (if not all) dimensions of our lives.  And so, it’s not surprising that people – as long as there have been people writing these things down – have believed that we may meet – find – experience – deepen our relationship with the Holy – with that which most of us call “God” – through our experience of the arts as well – whether we create that art ourselves, or enjoy the artistic works that others have made.

            Of the many things that surround us in our world, most of us know – at least instinctively – that art has a particular kind of power – power to move our emotions, power to touch us in the deepest core of our spirits, power, I believe, to connect us at a fundamental level with the sacred, with that which we call “God.”  Small children seem to know this almost instinctively.  They certainly know the power of drawing with bright colors on the wall of their room – and the response it elicits from parents!  And they know the utterly enjoyable squishy feel of playing with finger-paints, the feeling of embodied power of building towers out of blocks (then knocking them over), of having an idea, a feeling, an inspiration, and making it into reality with wads of clay.  And we’ve certainly all seen little ones, often so small they are barely walking yet, sway and rock to the beat of music that they hear.  Children know the spiritual power of art.

Although, like most little kids, I was an avid color-er and draw-er and writer when I was little, my first conscious experience of this power came when I was a young teenager, and we made a family trip to see relatives in New York, and to visit the 1964 New York World’s Fair.  My general impression and memory of the Fair was that it was very big, very exciting, very colorful, and filled with interesting things to see.  But my one crystal-clear memory of the Fair is that of seeing a piece of sculpture that had been loaned for the occasion by the Vatican Museum.

            A special building had been built to hold this piece of sculpture, to display and protect it.  You entered the building through a light-proof door-lock arrangement, then stepped onto a moving conveyor-belt which took you into the room, and past the statue at a slow enough pace you could thoroughly take it in.  This particular piece of sculpture was created by a man named Michelangelo (whom I (vaguely)remembered  learning about sometime in school), and it was called “The Pièta.”  It is a somewhat larger-than-life-size statue of Mary, the mother of Jesus, sitting, and holding her dead, crucified, broken son sprawled in her arms.  It is made of pure, white, flawless, highly-polished marble, that looks like it shines with its own light, and that makes the statue appear to actually pulse with life.

            All these years later, I remember that you could physically (as well as spiritually) feel the agony of that mother, as she held her murdered son.  And I remember that tears came to my eyes, even though I didn’t know why.  And I remember that I suddenly had a shock of insight, a whole new understanding of that “idea” I had learned in Sunday School about how much God loved the world, about how much Christ loved humanity, to have given himself up this way.  I had a profound sense of God’s presence there in that space, surrounding that sculpture, surrounding and holding each of us bystanders.

            A decade or so later, I was visiting Washington, D.C. as a consultant for the National Science Foundation, and I had a surprising experience of art that somehow took me back spiritually to that experience with “The Pièta.”  We were given a rare afternoon break from reading scientific proposals, and I decided to head to the National Gallery of Art down on the Mall.  I paid my entry-fee, and started through the National Gallery on the basic “cook’s tour,” and in the first few galleries, I saw some very fine paintings, which I enjoyed very much.  And then I walked through a doorway into a small side-gallery where they were hosting a special showing of works by an artist named Mark Rothko.

            I had never heard of Rothko before, and I was absolutely stunned – blown away – my breath knocked out of me – by Rothko’s work (some of which you can see up here in our slides today).  Most of his paintings are large – some five feet by eight feet, and some larger – and they are completely abstract works that rely on an exquisite balance between the use of color, and shape, and proportion.  Admittedly, to some people, they just look like giants globs of color on a big canvas; to me, they were (and still are) some of the most extraordinary paintings I had ever seen.  And again, as with the Pièta, I had that experience of something profoundly “more” than me – of something utterly sacred – that permeated the paintings themselves, and that held me in awe as I looked at them.

            I have been incredibly fortunate to have that kind of experience often in my life since then.  Bob and I both love art of all kinds and we spend a fair amount of our time enjoying it in friends’ homes, at art galleries and shows, at concerts and operas and plays, and sometimes immersed in creating our own art.  Somehow, through art, whether it is watching a group of Tibetan monks dropping sand, grain by grain, to create an exquisite sacred mandala, or listening to a cellist make audible what prayer feels like, or making our own art-work – our weaving and spinning, Bob’s pottery, my writing – we connect with that part of the universe that is bigger, broader, and far deeper than anything else that exists – with that which we both know as “God.”

But this is not just a matter of my experience, or Bob’s and my experience.  This is a matter of human experience.  Your experience.  Our friends’ and neighbors’ experience.  The experience of men and women across history.

            The Bible itself gives us glimpses of what this was like for our early ancestors in the faith.  The Bible tells us that those ancestors, the Israelites, were generally more concerned with the applied arts – things like metal-working, spinning and weaving, and pottery-making – than they were with the decorative arts.

And one reason for that focus was purely practical.  In ancient times, it took most of a person’s time and energy and resources just to do the things required to survive, and to care for one’s family.  For most people, there simply was not enough time – or resources – or energy – to produce purely decorative works of art.

            But the other, and more important, reason for their focus on the practical was Scriptural, coming directly from the way they understood God’s commandments.  In that special list that we call “The 10 Commandments, the second commandment is this:   “You shall not make for yourself an idol – any graven image – in the form of anything that is in heaven above, or that is on the earth beneath, or that is in the water under the earth” (Ex. 20:4).  In the understanding of our ancient foremothers and forefathers in faith, as a general rule, that commandment prohibited the making of sculpture – or painting – or any other form of representational art.

            With one exception – and that was art fabricated to honor and give glory to God.  Specifically, art made to enhance God’s “house” (first, the tabernacle made in Moses’ time, and later, the Temple at Jerusalem).  In fact, the passage we heard today from the book of Exodus lets us listen in on a profoundly sacred moment, in which God tells Moses about two particular people – Bezalel and Oholiab – whom God has “filled with the divine spirit” and whom God has “called” specifically to create beautiful art to furnish the tabernacle.  God seems to know that art – that beautiful things, made with care – could help faithful people connect more deeply with holiness, because God provides detailed instructions about the kinds of textiles, vessels, architectural details, and woodwork that are to be made and used to adorn God’s house.

            In many other places in the Hebrew Bible, we hear about other craftspeople – stonemasons, potters, jewelers, weavers, and metal-workers, and about how they honor God through the work of their hands.  We hear about royal people like King David, “dancing with all his might before the Lord” as an act of thanksgiving and praise.  And over and over again in the Psalms, just like the Psalm we heard a few minutes ago, we see and hear God’s people praising God – honoring God – worshipping God – especially through the art of music.

            And in the New Testament, we know something profoundly important about the work that Jesus did, before he became a travelling teacher and healer.  We know that he was a carpenter – a craftsman – perhaps an artisan – a man who knew the joy of working with his hands to create implements made from wood that helped sustain and enhance people’s lives.

            And perhaps it was that deeply-grounded joy, that sense of connectedness to God through the work of His hands, that also inspired the beautiful poetry that Jesus spoke … and that Jesus lived.  Perhaps it was, in some way, the creative energy that had moved through His hands in other ways that became the creative energy He could use for healing all those people who were broken in body, and in spirit.  And perhaps it is not ironic, but rather fitting, that he left this life for an eternal life with God, from the arms of a carved wooden cross, the work of another humble craftsman.

            So, in our sermon-series this month, we are going to explore some of the direct – and some of the symbolic – connections between various kinds of art and our faith understandings and experience.  But before we plunge in, I should point out that there are several things are not going to do in this process.

            First, we are not going to try to define what “art” is.  That is a matter of considerable debate, and if you’re really interested in that question, I urge you to go take a good art course at the Art Center or at Mesa State.  Second, we are not going to be able to consider every form of art.  For example, we do know that drama was an essential art developed in the early Western church as a way to tell the gospel stories to an audience that was largely illiterate.  Even so, we won’t have time to consider drama – or other written arts – or sculpture –or perhaps your favorite form of art – in our series – because there just isn’t enough time.  What we are going to do is to attend – with most of our varied senses – to how God – to how some of the deep teachings of our faith – may be present to us – through art – in new, and perhaps surprising, ways.

            And over the next four weeks, as we watch and listen to the visiting artists who will be with us, as we reflect more deeply on the arts and faith, as we perhaps even make some of our own art, we may notice several things happening in our hearts and minds and souls.

            One thing that I expectantly hope may happen is that we’ll develop a deepened understanding that, as theologian, author, and retreat leader Keri Wehlander puts it “beauty is a faith practice[1].”  In her wonderful book called Creating Change – the arts as catalyst for spiritual transformation (and which I highly recommend to you), Wehlander reflects on some of the ways that is true.

            As a deeply faithful Christian, she believes that it is through making art – and through experiencing art – that we can and do deepen our faith, just as we deepen it through Scripture reading, and through prayer, and through hospitality, and through our work for social justice.  Wehlander says,

“artists speak a language of holiness that (we) need to hear.  And when this speaking of holy things through the arts meets a context of faith, remarkable possibilities open up.  Spirits are nourished, new insights are embodied, communities are widened, our faith is deepened, and we are moved by glimpses of divine mystery[2].”

            A second thing I expectantly hope may happen is that we will discover new pathways to the Holy.  Art helps us shift from our usual intellect-oriented, thought-based form of perceiving and understanding to a whole different way of perceiving and understanding.  For example, one person described their experience of listening to a remarkable piece of music as being “suspended in God[3].”  Painter Andrei Rubelev painted his exquisite icons not as decorations for the church, but “as a holy place to enter and stay within[4].”  And writer Elizabeth Maxwell facilitates writing workshops for homeless people at the Soup Kitchen where she helps physically feed over 1,000 people a day.  In reflecting on her work there, and on the stories that the Soup Kitchen guests write about their lives, she connects the creative process of human beings with God’s creativity at the very beginning.  She says,

“By the time God gets around to creating humankind in God’s own image, we have a picture of the divine as a profligate, playful artist of the word.  Maybe one way human beings participate, not only in the community of creation but also in the divine mystery, is by creating as truly, skillfully, and passionately as we can[5].”

            Finally, a third thing I expectantly hope for is a growing recognition that art – in all its varied forms – is a very real sign of hope that God offers us in today’s world.  For example, at All Souls Episcopal Church, in Asheville, North Carolina, they support local homeless ministries through the sales of art-work, and through hosting arts performances in their church.  The people of the church “insist that theirs is an inclusive community where the arts are ‘not the luxury of a few, but the best hope of humanity to experience joy on this planet.’  Art points the way to joy, the joy of touching the divine[6]” (and the hope it brings).

            Art, then – music, paintings, pottery, buildings, textiles, and on and on – all those lovely things that are spirit-powered … all those things that convey a deep sense of mystery and of beauty to us … reminds us that God is still speaking in our world, that the Holy Spirit is still dancing, and that it is still possible for us to become the “new creations” God calls us to be through Christ.

            For today, we’ll close with some thoughts from worship-leader and concert artist Jim Strathdee, who describes an experience in which a group from his congregation went caroling with the homeless.  In reflecting on what happened that night, he says,

“It is God’s world, God’s realm… God’s Kin-dom is already here waiting for us to choose and affirm it with our acts of courage and understanding, compassion, and justice.  God’s Spirit is always with us, luring us and leading us into “Kin-dom moments.  Our challenge is to be open to see, hear, and sense God’s presence at every turn – then take the risk to trust the Spirit’s song, dance and journey for our lives.  In this time of great confusion over religious language, the Spirit is speaking loudly to us through the arts.  Music, dance, drama, prose, poetry, cinema, and all the visual arts can help us reconnect to our deepest selves, and to God’s intention for the entire human family and all of creation[7].”  May it be so.  Amen.