What is Christian Art anyway?

One of the ideas I’ve grappled with over the years is, What is Christian art? I mean, what makes an artistic expression like music or drama or dance uniquely Christian?  What does that term mean anyway?  And I’ve come to the conclusion that it isn’t necessarily anything that has Christian symbolism or religious themes or doves and crosses.  More than anything, Christian art must begin to reflect the overarching story of God, the Meta-Narrative, that our Triune God is in the process of redeeming that which has fallen, that which He had created, that which He loves.

The story of all that is, is the story of God.  He takes His pen in hand to write this story: Creation, Fall, Redemption.  All of history, all of the Bible, all of what was and is and will be, reflects this three act play of Creation, Fall, and Redemption that God is writing in the universe.

But that’s not all.  He writes this story in our souls as well.  For all of us have our own stories, our own vignettes of how God’s grace has saved us, changes us.  And our stories enter into His larger story of the redemption of the universe.

And this distinction can be subtle or overt. It certainly need not be forced or made formulaic. But it must affect us as artists. It must affect our art. Hilary Brand and Adrienne Chaplin contend in their essential book, Art and Soul: Signposts for Christians in the Arts:

“In working through the most central plot of the Bible’s “grand story”—creation, fall and redemption—we have put in place the beginnings of a worldview. Through these spectacles we can begin to view and perhaps question the many assumptions that are tossed in our direction. Questioning assumptions is, of course, very much in the spirit of the post-modern age, but it is also the spirit of Christ.”

We stand in the shadows of differing worldviews—a mosaic of religions, philosophies, mindsets, and historical eras. And in one way or another, art has been an expression for all of these co-existing yet unaligned worldviews. And we also live in a broken world. Because of the fallen nature of this earthly existence, we are thrust into unintended complexity—the universe has been invaded by sin, and as a result, we have disorder, distortion, disease, dysfunction. The universe does not operate as it was intended. We as Christians share the worldview that God created the world and in spite of the world’s broken nature, He is in the business of rescuing it and redeeming it. And in one way or another, our art should be an expression of that. This is what Christian art should be, honest in the brutal and complex realities of this world but also revelatory in the redemption of it.

So when we compose songs or choreograph dance or edit film or write a book, God’s story is told in some small way.  Creation, Fall and Redemption.  When you can see your art in this way, then I think you can begin to frame what it is to make Christian art.

Father’s Day Blog: “Sand Volcanoes”

The following is excerpted from a memorable (and somewhat infamous) speech I gave 15 years ago.  Someone requested it recently, so I thought I would reprint here in honor of Father’s Day.  A special thanks to my wife and children for making me a Dad.  Reprinted with permission from Justin (now 19).

About 15 years ago, I found myself shoveling sand—about two tons of it—on the church property. I was moving the sand, one wheelbarrow at a time, as part of the process of preparing our property for our first building.  And to my delight, my four-year-old son, Justin, was sitting next to me, making little “vroom” sounds with a toy car on a small Justin-sized pile of sand next to me.

It was one of those special Kodak moments.  Justin wasn’t whining or getting into trouble.  He was just sitting there, next to the Dad he loved and adored, playing in the sand.  I could almost picture a little imaginary halo on his head.

Suddenly, Justin declared, “Daddy!  Look!  A volcano!”  And he pointed to what appeared to be a small mountain range of tiny sand volcanoes, each with a tiny hole on top, precisely the diameter of Justin’s index finger.  I smiled.  “Step on it!,” he dared.

Thinking that he wanted me to play Godzilla Attacks the Aleutian Islands, I quickly replied, “Okay!,”  and with all my Daddy superpowers, I jumped into the air and came down on the largest volcano.

That’s when I felt a stabbing pain coming from my left instep.  I doubled over, clutching my leg.  And as I brought the sole of my tennies toward me, I could see the top inch of a three-inch nail protruding from my shoe.

I couldn’t scream—I had suddenly forgot how to breath.  I couldn’t swear—there were, after all, about two dozen people within earshot of me…and I was a pastor.  And I couldn’t call for help—after all, I had just fallen for the old nail-in-the-sand-volcano trick.  So I did what any man would do.  I rolled on the ground and made little whimpering noises not unsimilar to the kind Lassie made when Timmy was stuck in the mine shaft.

And then I looked up at Justin.  He had this horrified look on his face, which quickly burst into hysterical tears.  Now, these weren’t oh-man-am-I-in-trouble tears.  These were tears of remorse.  Tears of woe.  Tears of unbridled, intense sorrow.  So I half-rolled, half-crawled to him and took him in my arms and just hugged him.  Actually, I think I pulled the nail out first—and then I half-rolled, half-crawled to him and hugged him.

And as he heaved and cried little tears in my arms, I found myself repeating over and over, “It’s okay.  It’ll be all right.  Don’t worry. I forgive you.”  Because in that moment, I knew he was sorry for what he had done.  And I knew he wasn’t trying to hurt me—He just wanted to see if Dad would fall for the old nail-in-the-sand-volcano trick.  But more than that, it was as if his remorse and his anguish were more than I could bear, more painful than the nail itself.  When I saw his pain and felt the true penitent spirit from which it came, all I wanted to do was to let him know how much I loved him.

“It’s okay.   It’ll be all right.  Don’t worry.  I forgive you.”

It was a quiet ride home from the emergency room, I remember.  Probably because I was trying to put behind me the awkward explanation I had to give the nurse of how it had happened.  And as I took a peek at the little boy sleeping beside me, I began to think about how much I really do love him.  With all my heart.  With all my soul.  And with all my life.

And it occurred to me.  God our Father loves us this way, only infinitely more.  He loves us with a perfect love.  He forgives us with a perfect forgiveness.  And there are times in our lives when He waits with open arms, waiting to hold us and tell us that everything will be okay.  That despite anything that we’ve done, he will forgive us.  He is our Heavenly Father, our Abba, our Daddy God, who is ready to take us into His arms, if we would only come to him with a repentant heart, and the sorrow that accompanies the regret of sin.

All I took was an inch of nail into my instep.  Jesus, the Father’s perfect Son, loved us so much that he took the nails in his feet and in his hands.  God the Son voluntarily put aside the privileges of deity to become human, to live among us, to experience heartache and loneliness and hunger and pain and ultimately death.  To prove that His love for us was real and certain and true.  With all His heart.  With all His soul. And with all His life.

He didn’t look down at us from the cross with anger or regret or self-pity.  He looked down at us and loved us.  He loved us.   “It’s okay.   It’ll be all right.  Don’t worry.  I forgive you.”

It was through that nail that I began to understand in much deeper ways a Father’s love.

“See what great love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God! And that is what we are!” 1 John 3:1 TNIV

The Artificiality of Celebrity

This book thing is starting to heat up. In the next few months, I’ll have some obligations, including radio interviews, speaking engagements, conferences, stuff like that. From a marketing standpoint, there will be website development, an email campaign, book give-away, and generally a certain amount of hype.   It will be my fifteen minutes of fame.

All of these things are, of course, created to make sure people know that I am all that and a bag of chips.

I met with my Senior Pastor, Kent Carlson, about this recently, and we had a pointed discussion about this weird thing called fame.  And his words have been gnawing at my brain ever since.

One of his main issues is what fame does to the soul.  We are all susceptible to the lies of fame, to believe things about ourselves that are inflated and unreal.  When we place ourselves around people who value our opinions—whether we deserve it or not—it is very human (i.e.,  sinful) to start liking the sound of one’s voice a little to much. We justify this in a variety of ways—by arguing that it is a necessary part of marketing, by attaching our identity to the success, or maybe by convincing ourselves that one’s fame is a part of furthering the cause of Christ.  We may even create elaborate internal mechanisms of false humility—in the name of God of course—to justify them.  There is a false artificiality to celebrity.

“Tell me,” Kent asked.  “How much have you been telling people about your book?  And when you tell them about it, how does it make you feel?”

Up until this point, I have been trying to get the word out to anyone who might benefit from the book.  I do feel passionate about the concepts that the book has, and it is my hope that they become thought viruses which infect the Christ-following artist.   It is the second question that Kent asked me that—upon later reflection—stung a little.

Truth be told, pride is my favorite sin (next to being an Oakland Raiders fan).  And when I say “pride” I don’t mean the puffing out one’s chest and singing my own praises pride, the Gaston from “Beauty and the Beast” pride.  I mean the quiet pride that attaches identity to achievement, the pride of false identity and image management, the pride that prowls in subterranean parts of your heart and refuses to give God control.  When you are nakedly honest with yourself, you must admit this to be true of yourself too.

Yes, it makes me feel good to tell people about the book.  Yes, I know there is a very healthy and God-given part to that, like Eric Liddell in “Chariots of Fire,” for I have felt God’s smile upon me in many ways through this writing journey.  But there is also the insidious part, the part I can’t even by definition measure, the part that is more like the sallow hand-wringing Gollum in “Lord of the Rings” who really does believe I am all that and a bag of chips.

The point is this.  Having a book published doesn’t make me suddenly more wise or more spiritual or more holy.  I am still the same quirky, fallible guy I have always been.  And God is ultimately more concerned about my spiritual formation, my growing in Christlikeness, than He is about the success or failure of the book.  Would it not be ironic if this artificiality of celebrity, the acclaim and the criticism—real or perceived—makes my heart smaller for God?

It would be more than ironic.  It would be wrong.

Now I know that there are readers to my blog that have achieved some modicum of celebrity in your own circles.  There are artists, musicians, writers, and painters among you.  I want to challenge you to ask yourself the very same questions my pastor asked of me.  And really be honest about it.  I can’t tell you how tired I am of seeing Facebook requests for prayer that are really just thinly-veiled bragging.  So I know that you all have these issues.

I can’t claim to have this figured out yet.  But ultimately I must learn how to promote the ideas of the book while not being concerned about the popularity or sales of the book.  Once again, I restate my spiritual formation mantra: To be passionate and committed to a thing, while not attaching my identity to the results of that thing. And make no mistake—I am very passionate and committed to the ideas and thoughts outlined in the book.  But ultimately I know that my identity is in Christ—the author of the book that is me—and ultimately it is He who I must please.