Sometimes even we— / pierced with arrow-words, with brassy / cacophonies of slurs—stand in calm.
Marking the centennial of pacifist poet William Stafford
Recently, I presented this piece at the Christianity 21 Conference in Denver, and then at South Broadway Christian Church later that same week, also in Denver. I’ve been asked by several in attendance to post what I offered, so here’s the text below. The talk was accompanied by a slide show that depicted a combination of Hubble telescope images, electron microscope images and artists/musicians. I considered making that into a video, with me narrating the text underneath, but it takes a lot of time. So let me know if this is something you have particular interest in and I’ll try to make it happen.
In the Beginning
Art Saves lives because art is at the source of all life.
It is the taproot to the dormant breath of God,
Dwelling within all of creation, waiting for invitation.
What we think of today as art is not art.
It has become another product to be consumed,
Rather than a phenomenon to be engaged,
And experience to we have to submit ourselves to,
Allow ourselves to be changed,
And in doing so, catch a fleeting glimpse of
The author, the wellspring,
The essence of what it means to be a soul draped in skin and bone.
[Poem continues after the jump.]
If my belief were a hickory nut / I'd keep it safe in my pocket
Hasidic poet, Yehoshua November, on the mystery of God.
The voices are singing, “All will be well, All will be well.”
If Advent is a time / of waiting, of joyful anticipation, why are we / so often troubled?