Encouraging Creativity

Life is marked by milestones—rites of passage, life-changing events, moments of decision which punctuate the seasons of our lives. Our family just had one of these milestones recently, as our oldest son moved out of the house to begin a new chapter in his life—attending film school in southern California. He is a very gifted and aspiring filmmaker (in one Dad’s humble opinion), and I have high hopes for him as he throws himself into this adventure. Check out some of his films here.

I had a lot of time to reflect on this as I drove the U-Haul down to Ventura. My sons and daughters have all displayed flashes of artistic giftedness, something that my wife and I were purposeful never to push but always encourage. With my sons, encouragement included the telling of many interactive bedtime stories, teaching them how to draw super heroes, sitting with them for hours with their Legos or Kinex sets, purchasing guitars and drums and getting them lessons when they were older and showed an interest, watching and discussing the plots and cinematography of different movies with them, and even taking them to gigs to see Dad. There were spontaneous jam sessions at home, home movie experiments in the garage, lots of afternoons doing crafts with mom, and showing them how to use computer programs like Logic and iMovie.

There were hundreds of small acts where the value of the arts—and their value as artists, made in the image of God—was quietly encouraged.

It was in the spring of 1978, my first year at Cal Poly in San Luis Obispo, that my parents came to visit me. It was Poly Royal, an annual event where the campus threw an open house for the public. I was in my first year of engineering school, and I was quite proud to show my parents around the campus and SLO town.

During our campus tour, I had casually mentioned to them that I would typically spend time in the music building to play the student pianos in one of the practice rooms. It was the closest piano to my dorm, which didn’t have a piano. Later in the day, we were passing the local music store, and my parents asked me if I wanted to go and take a look.

That’s when it happened. An act of extreme extravagance.

I was playing a couple of the electric pianos in the showroom, and my dad began asking about the price. The salesman was quick to point out that an electric piano couldn’t play without an amp, and I would also need a drum throne to sit on. Before I realized what was happening, my dad and mom had arranged to purchase a brand new Yamaha CP-30 electric piano for me, with a good-sized Polytone amp and seat. I was still in shock as I helped the salesman carry the piano to the car. The cost was over $1500, which was no small amount in those days. And we certainly weren’t rich people. Which made it all the more incredible to me.

I ended up gigging with that electric piano all through college and into my first successful band. It kept me company through some lonely days in San Luis Obispo and especially when I was stationed at Edwards Air Force Base, where I had only my music to keep me company. I played it on my first important gig in college, opening for jazz flutist, Tim Weisberg. I played it regularly at the local coffee house, most notably one night when I headlined along with a very young Weird Al Yankovic on accordion. (By the way, he was great; my band sucked.)

Thirty years later, I am still grateful to my parents for understanding the importance of music to me, especially in that critical time in my life. Though my head was in engineering, my heart was in music. And I think my parents understood that in some way. Their act of extreme extravagance was their way of acknowledging and encouraging this part of me. They believed in me, and for that I will forever be grateful.

So I think about my oldest son and the challenging and difficult road he has decided to take. We pray for him, encourage him, believe in him. And I hope that he knows that his mom and I believe in him too.

Morning in Capella Sistina

This brisk early morning was already beginning to warm, as the hopeful Italian sun began to pour through the windows. Slowly, deliberately, I passed the thousands of iconic sculptures and paintings which caught my eye. So much so, that the beauty of each artwork was overshadowed by its context. This was, after all, Papal bling-bling, the center of the Roman Catholic universe: The Vatican.

We quietly shuffled along the corridors, murmurs of hushed conversations coming from the tourists, the pilgrims, the curious. I had one goal this morning—to see Capella Sistina, the Sistine Chapel. This was the one luxury I really wanted out of this missions trip, and I was not to be deterred. Following unobtrusive signage, we entered a non-descript hallway and climbed the short staircase.

A quick caveat. Initially, I thought about simply bypassing the Vatican tour during my time in Italy, to avoid the Catholic-ness of the culture and those going on that pilgrimage. I remember my relatives going to the Vatican when I was a kid, and bringing back silly souvenirs of the Pope. But then I realized that I was, in a sense, on a pilgrimage of my own, to come face-to-face with what is arguably the most iconic symbol of Christian art. And so I went.

Suddenly I was there. I felt like I had walked into a painting. And in a very real way, I had. From floor to ceiling, 500 year old frescoes fill the room with motion and color and history. Of course, the highlight is the celiing, painted by Michelangelo in 1508-1511 and commissioned by Pope Julius II. I had always pictured the main painting to be the Creation of Adam, the famous image of Adam reaching out to God in the clouds. But this was only one of nine magnificent paintings on the ceiling depicting God’s creation (including the creation of Eve), God’s relationship with man, and man’s fall from grace.

The small room (apparently given the same dimensions as the Temple of Solomon) was thankfully not very full that morning, and I had a chance to sit at each of the benches located at the periphery, rest my head back, and take in the beauty of the ceiling for an extended time.

I imagined myself to be one of the illiterate laity, listening to the mass in Latin, not able to own a Bible much less read it. But here was the Bible illustrated, the story of God and man—glorious, passionate, vibrant—here for me to see. These walls was the Word of God for many, I surmised.

I know that the paintings are highly stylized, romanticized, Catholicized. I know that the artists of that day depicted their subjects in the culture of that day, with contemporary dress, mannerisms, and even furniture and architecture. But there was still this overwhelming power I felt in those moments, as if the story of God was bigger than I had imagined, that the story of God’s love for us, His pursuit of us, His relationship with us, was much too much to take in at once. I felt a bit overwhelmed by the experience of the art, as well as what it said to me. And I felt a bit small afterwards.

And I think, appropriately so.

Italy Missions Trip Day 7: Reflections

Note: For more photos, please hit this site: Italy Mission Photos.

It is the plane trip home. My itinerary says that the plane trip back, including a lay-over in DC, will be 18 hours. I asked for an aisle but am assigned the middle seat of a five-seat row. I suspect that the coffee I’m drinking will not make me popular with my neighbors.

I mentioned that after the concert, we had a late night (or maybe early morning) briefing at the apartment. Eleven of us sat and talked and marveled at the God Thing we were a part of. One thing I didn’t mention was that while my team was in Naples, the Rome team under Bob did a piazza outreach concert. There were an estimated 1000 people listening from their apartments as well as on the piazza itself, and at the end, maybe 200 people came forward for prayer. We don’t know what that means exactly, but it is pretty much unheard of here in Italy. What is even more amazing is that three of the city councilmen were present at the concert, and they came forward too. As we gathered together in the small dining room of the apartment, I felt a little like the disciples the night after Pentacost. “Hey Peter, did you see that guy with the beard who had tongues of fire on his head?”

One of the things we talked about was the idea that we were a catalyst for bringing these different Italian churches together.  I mentioned in an earlier blog that the local churches have a hard time working together, for theological, stylistic, and other reasons.  The fact that there were eleven Americans from eight different churches and denominations that flew to help them was a statement of unity far beyond the workshops and sermons we presented.  It was like a revelation to them, as if to say, “If they can come together, why can’t we?”

Everyone seemed to speak of coming back again next year, with the intention of being better prepared to meet the needs of the evangelical Italian community. We hope to help them with finances, resources, training, and encouragement. We hope to be a catalyst which brings all of these churches back again. We hope to come back again, and be used by God again.

I miss my Deb and the kids and look forward to rejoining them soon. I want to thank you all so very much for your generous support and prayers which allowed this to be possible. Grazie. Grazie tanto.

Food Scorecard: In the last week, I think I’ve eaten my weight in pasta and pizza. The Italians take at least two hours to have lunch, their main meal of the day, so I’ve been trying to fill up with salad the last few days, and skipping breakfast. Oh, but I will certainly miss the coffee.