The Intersection of Art and Faith

        

     Nine years ago, ardor was birthed within me. It came out of the most unexpected times, from the most unexpected of circumstances. I was twelve years old, a child just entering the realm of rebellion, with a nature as free as the four winds, and an absolute contempt for writing. My parents went to all lengths, just short of tying me to a chair, to get me to sit still long enough to write a book report or an essay. I would have much rather run out into the fields with the boys or climbed my favorite walnut tree, book in hand- for I was very fond of reading. Anne of Green Gables, Mrs. Frisbee and the Rats of Nihm, Bridge to Terabithia, the Chronicles of Narnia; such were the titles that graced my shelves.

     On one particular evening, it was late autumn, my mother caught wind of a poetry contest being offered to my seventh grade class. Of such things, I had little, if any care, and so I endeavored to ignore her “subtle” hints about how she desired me to formulate some work to be entered into the contest. But, seeing as how she was very determined, my mother ordered me to my room until I had produced a poem. Well, after that I did what any logical, twelve year old might do. I threw myself upon the floor and cried and wailed and bemoaned my cruel circumstance. How was I, a free spirit to express myself through anything as structured as poetry? I was completely aghast. After a good while, my cries ceased, and something like an epiphany sprouted itself in my brain and began to grow at alarming rates. I picked up the pen and paper from where they had been thrown, and began to write furiously.

     I remember only bits and pieces of the poem, and to this day I sorely wish I could find it again. It spoke of a woman in white treading the floors of some great wood at twilight, with a song on her lips. I also remember writing then about a man coming after her, a man with nail scars on his palms and feet, a man who would spark both peace and war, love and hate, life and death. In those moments it was as though I had emerged from Plato’s cave, and was experiencing the sun for the first time. I did not know what to do with this newfound skill. It thrilled me and incited me to hyperventilating and strange mutterings (well not exactly). It did breathe an excitement and passion into my life that I had never before known. After that day writing came as naturally as breathing. I could not stop writing in fact. At age thirteen, I decided to write my first book. It was late at night and I had wild ideas pouring through my mind, ideas that needed to be strapped down to a sheet of paper. At those times, my best friend was Amy Craig, a tiny, Baptist girl with a big brain and an even bigger heart. At recess we used to play “girl games” stories that I would come up with that we would then act out on the playground. These were not just any stories though. These were epics, tales to be rivaled only by Lord of the Rings or Beowulf- true adventures. The play structure oft transformed itself into a pirate’s ship, and the bark beneath it became a frothy, raging sea. There were often spies there too; and wolves, and glaciers. Such were the times of my childhood, suspended somewhere in the realm between fantasy and reality.

It is through my past that I now look brightly at the future, with this talent adorned in ardor. It is through that night nine years ago that I now know fulfillment, and can begin to theorize what I believe to be the intersection of art and faith. Art is passion. Passion is art. These two are inexplicably connected, never to exist without the other. Art is turning the ordinary into something extraordinary. It is taking a concept or an idea and formulating it into something tangible; something expressive that everyone can see and maybe understand or maybe not understand. Art is objective, which is why it has been a lasting monument in society. There is no such thing as “black and white” art. Art covers such a broad range of topics and reaches an even broader range of people. One person may look at a paint splattered canvas and see just that- paint splatters, while another person may see a stunning scape of emotion. I once described art as a sort of creature that people grasp by the shoulders and lift high into the air, devising it into a kind of banner that they endeavor to wave before the world. Others grasp art by the neck and toss it to the wayside, deeming it frugal and petty- not useful in their busy lives. Little do these people know that art has legs and wings and will follow them all the days of their lives until they either accept it as value or die.

Faith is belief in the unseen. More specifically, it is the belief in God and in His son Jesus. Beyond belief, faith is also a call- a call to action. It is a belief that demands you to live a life according to God-holy and blameless. But as sinners in a fallen world, how do we endeavor to live holy lives? The answer is that we cannot. But that does not mean we should give up on the concept and live vicariously and lavishly in sin. We should still strive for perfection, just as we strive each day to know a God that we cannot see. Faith is beauty because it is a blind devotion. It calls for vulnerability and steadfastness.

Faith and art are two banks flanking a river. The river, which flows swift between them is called life. Some people tread on one bank, looking over at the opposite, wondering what it might be like to feel the ground over there, but never daring to make the swim. It is, after all, a vulnerable thing to do- to attempt the river crossing. These people are called dreamers. Others, instead of looking out across the water and wondering, choose to ignore the other side. They build up their houses, and walls- very tall walls- the sort meant to keep things out, and they live everyday beside the river, never so much as wondering what might lie across. Still others, the doers, go off in search of a way to get across. They are fed up with the “maybes” or the “might be’s” and take it into their own hands. They know the crossing is treacherous, but they are willing to take the risk. Luckily for these doers, there is a bridge, one that everyone is able to cross, but strangely enough, seldom few ever do. This bridge has a name, and that is called love. Love is a sturdy crossing, a point at which the two banks can meet. When first the people from art make the journey across the river, they are enamored by faith. There is something within their souls, we shall call it “The Longing,” that resonates so strongly here, and flows more swiftly than even the river. It is here, in faith, that they realize where art has come from, where “The Longing,” has come from. They find love in faith, love in the one who created faith, and in doing so, created their art. Likewise, when those from faith cross over into art, they are filled with inspiration, with a desire to paint or write or make music. There is such joy here, joy that can only come from a deep love. And so it is that faith and art are intersected by this concept of love. Love is the thing that creates faith. It is love for a God who created every living thing, and who- as a part of that love- sent to the cruel, unfeeling world, His pride and joy, His son. It is the love that nailed Him to the cross and the love that removed the iniquities of the heart from every human being from then until forever. This is where we get faith. Faith in God, who did all of those things, and who continues to do new and great things each day. Art is the outlet for the divine. As Steiner theorized, words carry their meaning only because they are underwritten by the presence of God. So it is, that art is underwritten by the presence of God- of the divine- author of “The Longing.”

The most clear picture I have of the point of intersection between art and faith is found in the sunrise. It is a beautiful display of art, painted by God’s own hand, and it offers to us faith in the unseen, all because of love. Love from a God who gave up everything to be our everything. And so I have discovered that it is through love that I write. The books I have written, the poems, the songs, they are all art, yes, but they are also acts of faith, and this faith I possess is only matched by God’s excessive love for me. It is amazing, that until reading the writings of Zagajeski and Steiner, I never would have thought to define art and faith, and I fear I never would have reached the defining pinnacle of enlightenment towards their relation with one another. I have lived most of my life with both art and faith, and have never realized until now how inseparable they are. Love is so crucial, in every part of the human experience. It does not matter your race, skin color, or gender. It is simply a reflection of God’s amazing love for us, and something we must strive to mirror all the days of our lives.

“To love at all is to be vulnerable. Love anything and your heart will be wrung and possibly broken. If you want to make sure of keeping it intact you must give it to no one, not even an animal. Wrap it carefully round with hobbies and little luxuries; avoid all entanglements. Lock it up safe in the casket or coffin of your selfishness. But in that casket, safe, dark, motionless, airless, it will change. It will not be broken; it will become unbreakable, impenetrable, irredeemable. To love is to be vulnerable.”

                                                                                                -C.S. Lewis