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“The voice of the Lord is over the waters;

the God of glory thunders,

the Lord, over many waters.

The voice of the Lord is powerful;

the voice of the Lord is full of majesty.” Psalm 29:3-4

Last fall at the Art Institute of Chicago, I stood in front of an awe inspiring painting by Raqib Shaw called Paradise Lost. I say I stood in front of it. In actual fact, the painting stood in front of me. Spread over at least a hundred feet, the twenty-one panels of canvas jutted against each other give the effect of a single painting. My eyes could never take the whole thing in at once, and yet standing before it, I nonetheless had a sense of its wholeness, of its integrity.

The painting’s physical scale matches the scope of its thematic vision. The painting contains within itself a whole symbolic world, its own bestiary, its own mythology, its own sense of fall and of restoration. Replete with personal symbolism, the painting is nonetheless an overflow of Shaw’s cultural heritage, indebted to the flora, fauna, mythology, and symbolism of his native land of Kashmir. The painting portrays an exile, the personal loss of paradise nested within a sense of universal loss. Shaw bears witness to a lost world, which may at first be a world within himself, but is nonetheless the world as a whole.

Shaw himself describes the painting in this way—

“Above all, Paradise Lost is an offering to beauty. And not beauty as ornament, but as necessity. I believe deeply that art has the power to transform sorrow into meaning, and it has this wonderful quality to alchemize personal pain into something luminous and enduring. In a time where attention is fleeting and meaning often feels fractured, I do hope that this work invites the viewer to slow down and to look carefully and to feel without haste.” —Raqib Shaw, artist, painter of Paradise Lost

As an offering to beauty, the painting is an act of love. ¹ It is an effusive overflow, an abundant response to the abundance of the world. Abundance begets abundance, and this is the grace upon grace of great art.

What we consider truly great, what we come to see as masterpieces, have this quality of abundance. A classic or masterpiece, Hans Georg Gadamer observes in Truth and Method, is that which always has more to give. One can encounter a masterpiece again and again and yet there always more to receive. Those who follow in Gadamer’s wake extend this concept and speak of an abundance of meaning. Paul Ricouer calls it excès de sens (excess of sense), while David Tracy, in a theological context, calls it the surplus of meaning. No matter how many times you return to the classic, no matter how many times you sit with a masterpiece, there is always more there there.

The VOICE of the Lord has this quality as well. This abundance is the effusive quality of God’s VOICE.

While Psalm 19 is the psalm of allusion, Psalm 29 is the psalm of effusion. Represented as a raucous thunder storm, the effusive voice of the Lord thunders, breaks, bends, blows, shakes, strips, and makes the deer give birth.

In response to the thunderous VOICE, in Psalm 29 all those in the temple can simply cry “Glory!” There is something childlike in simply saying, “Glory!” in the face of such abundance. Those assembled are not dumbstruck, they do not keep silence, but they are reduced to a seemingly limited vocabulary. And in this way we and the angels and all of creation are always and ever children, for the glory of God is ever more, and we all exclaim, “Again! Again! More! More!”

Though it is only a single word, the cry of glory is theologically and doxologically profound. The logic of glory, the glory of the Lord, calls forth worship, an acknowledgement of glory. It is the glory of glory to be praised, and so we with the angles call out “Glory!”

Glory is our depth crying out to his depth, deep calling to deep, so glory as a word all its own names something of the effusive nature of God, and certainly the abundance of divine revelation. Doxology is literally the logic of glory, and the logic of glory, is the ever-more of God. Glory is the splendid and brilliant weightiness of God, the ever more and beauty of his being. To say “Glory!” is to not simply acknowledge this effusive excess, but to praise God for it. And what theologians as diverse as Augustine, Anselm, Jonathan Edwards, Hans Urs von Balthasar, and Karl Barth have understood is that to call God glorious is to call God beautiful.

If Beauty is indeed a name for God, then Beauty does in effect not only demand but deserve an offering. We speak glory back to the Glorious one. Which takes us back to Psalm 19. Creation leads the way once again. The creation which speaks glory back to the glory of the Lord, so that “day after day pours out speech.” Here the speech flows like a spring, a spring sourced from the deep, that flows and flows and does not cease to flow, that pours and pours and does not cease to pour. Though in one sense the speech is silent, it is nonetheless abundant, overflowing, unrestrained, effusive. So abundant as to be almost embarrassing. And what is this speech saying? Glory, glory, glory.

If there is more and ever more to hear, then one cannot seek total comprehension. The goal can never be mastery. Rather it is to be mastered, to be swept up in the child-like wonder that there is more and ever more, both within and without. The effusiveness of the voice of the Lord offers a parallel to the experience of truly great art. There is the subjective sense of being deepened by what is deeper than us, the sublime sense of being overawed. Some may find such experiences paralyzing, and they can certainly be overwhelming, but such experiences can lead to a desire to grow, can open up a desire within to in a sense become capacious enough to receive more of the depths. When one stands in front of a truly great piece of art, it is often not a question if deep calls to deep, but whether or not, when the deep calls there is any depth within than can answer back.

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1. There is a way to read those words in idolatrous terms, and that is a dimension of this approach that I will need to address in a post of its own.

“Exposure to the freely given and immeasurable outpouring of divine light relaxes the mind’s self-defeating grip on its own small certainties” Mark McIntosh, Discernment and Truth: The Spirituality and Theology of Knowledge

“He is not unwilling known, but only (if so) unwilling that, knowing him, we should attribute the achievement to ourselves.” Austin Farrer, The Glass of Vision

I was once talking about the voice of God with a podcast host, and he made an observation that didn’t make it onto the recording. After I had shared my story, he said, “You are very hesitant to say, ‘God told me…’ Instead you say things like ‘I felt like God said’, or ‘I had the sense that God was leading me.’”

He is right. I have always been reticent to say in any unqualified way, “God told me X.” Part of this has to do with my temperament. I am by nature a cautious person and speaking on behalf of the Divine makes me, and I think rightly so, a bit nervous. But part of this has to do with my upbringing. I grew up in a charismatic church where people were all too happy to say, “Thus saith the Lord.” They spoke, it seemed to me then, with the authority and cadence of the King James without any trace of blush on their cheeks.

It was the idea of a VOICE that tripped me up. In all likelihood, my mind was too literal (my parents have certainly said this was the case). I thought that VOICE meant voice, meant audible sound. If voice meant voice in this way, and I never heard a voice, then I never heard God. By extension I doubted that others did too.

Beyond that, I do know that I was overly scrupulous, terrified of getting anything wrong, so how might I dare to speak on behalf of God? Which makes my being a priest deeply ironic. As a preacher, I have confidence, whether it’s justified or not, to say “This is what God’s word says.” Speaking for God in this way has always felt different because there was a basis of agreement that the Bible was God’s word. In the context of corporate worship, I am always trusting that the Spirit is at work through the reading and preaching of the word, despite my best or my worst efforts. Even though I am preaching, the Scriptures themselves and the Spirit who not only inspired the Scriptures, but who illuminates them to the people of God, do the heavy lifting together. At least this is what I tell myself. I try to bear my contradictions lightly.

But what I’ve come to realize—it wasn’t just that my understanding of VOICE was too literal. My understanding of listening was too. Before I could have any chance of hearing God, I had to learn how to listen. If voice didn’t mean VOICE, then maybe listening meant something else too. I had to learn how to listen, and in my life, it was learning about and encountering art that taught me how to listen.

The teacher who first exposed me to art and to the art of listening was a grump, a curmudgeon by any standard, and almost impossible to please. He was also available to his students in a way I had yet to experience in school. So while he tore apart our writing with a potent mix of disgust and glee, he always made himself available to read our drafts line by line.

He called it Wendy Works. A week before our papers were due, he would post himself in a booth at the local Wendy’s and then proceed to read our essays line by line. And you had to sit there and watch him do it. As he read, he would sometimes wince at an unsupported claim. Every instance of the passive voice landed like a body blow. He would pour every ounce of his displeasure onto the page with furious swipes from his red pen. But our writing was better for it. We were learning how to take our own thoughts seriously because he took the right expression of our thoughts so seriously. He taught us in word and in deed that the translation of thought to page was a battle. We had to wrestle those thoughts to the page, which was itself an act of listening—listening first to our subject, but also listening to our writing, even in its nascent form, to learn what it might be trying to say.

In addition to teaching American Lit, he also taught a senior level Humanities course. And for me this was a world of wonders. We spent our class time pouring over the great works of Western culture—paintings, sculptures, buildings, symphonies, epics, novels. It was the study of painting in particular that opened my “ears” to listen. The lights would go out, and we would work through a carousel of slides, filled with pictures he had taken himself of the great masterpieces of the world. I especially remember the up close shots of Jan van Eyck’s “Adoration of the Mystic Lamb,” the impeccable, almost imperceptible brush strokes, the sorrow of Eve’s face as she held her pregnant stomach, her gaze directed somewhere else and then, next slide, in the grandeur of the full altar piece, we traced the downward angle of her gaze to behold what she beheld, the mystic lamb at the center of it all, slain from the foundation of the world.

And that was one lesson on one day. Day by day, slide by slide, I was initiated into the world of art and into the art of perception, of paying attention, of learning to see and to hear. This mode of perception, this slow, contemplative world, was what I had not yet learned about hearing the voice of God, that it too was as much an art as a science, and that growing in it required a master teacher too, someone skilled in discernment, someone who had learned to listen and look well, standing next to you, looking and listening along with you, helping you learn what to pay attention to, what to ignore.

When it comes to understanding the voice of the Lord, such instruction, I realize now, was available to me. I could have asked what those who spoke of hearing the voice of the Lord actually meant. I could have asked to be trained in the ways of spiritual listening. There were people who would have been not only been glad to guide me but equipped to do so. What I realize in retrospect, is that when you ask people about what they really mean by the voice of God, then you will quickly come to understand that impression, intuition, and instinct play enormous roles in this kind of listening. But these things—impression, intuition, instinct—were things I first learned by attending to beauty in art. I realize now that for most, the declaration of “Thus saith of the Lord” was not necessarily disingenuous or performative, but a phrase that summarized a dynamic process.

As it happened for me, my humanities teacher initiated me into this kind of listening. By first learning to listen to art, I came to understand three things about the VOICE of God. The VOICE of the Lord is allusive, effusive, and elusive. It is allusive because the voice of creation speaks of the glory of the creator, effusive because it is everywhere all at once all the time, and elusive because it can at times be hard to find and hard to hear. The three characteristics parallel three dimensions of learning to listen to art and to beauty more broadly. In the next few posts, I plan to take up these three characteristics in turn and to tease out what I came to understand about beauty and about the VOICE of the Lord.

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“Wherever you look, God’s symbol is there; wherever you read, there you will find His types. For by Him all creatures were created, and He stamped all His possessions with His symbols when He created the world.” Eprhem the Syrian, Hymns of Virginity (20.12) \

In part one of this series, I reflected on the role that learning to “listen” to art played in my life and how it helped me grow in my understanding of the voice of the Lord. And I wrote about the special role teachers play in helping us grow in our perception, spiritual or otherwise. I had such a teacher. He would stand next to us, as we looked at art together, and say, “Here is what I see. Here is what I hear.” His perception and guidance was an invitation for us to first see what he saw and to hear what he heard. At first I could not see it or hear it. At first all I could do was want to see it. And that desire was enough, a place to begin.

Growing in such perception is related by analogy to our perception of God, a point I learned from another one of my master teachers—Hans Urs von Balthasar. Balthasar, the great 20th century, Swiss Catholic theologian began what became a theological trilogy centered on beauty, goodness, and truth, with the question of beauty, which he framed in terms of theological aesthetics. The aesthetic has to do with perception, with what is sensible, so the perception of God is not the worst gloss on theological aesthetics. But how is such perception possible? How does one grow in it? Before answering how one grows in perception of God (as in listening to the voice of God), Balthasar asks a more basic but related question—how does one grow in perception generally. He turns to the example of perceiving art, and says it is through “the mediation of a great teacher” that one can “glimpse the uniqueness of a work of art” (Convergences, 52). One can learn to see through the eyes of another. One can learn to hear through the ears of another.

Throughout the multiple volumes of his great work The Glory of the Lord,Balthasar draws an analogy between the beauty of the world and the glory of the Lord. One implication of this analogy is that like the beauty of the world, God’s glory must be perceived. But in order to perceive it, we must be initiated into the reception and perception of divine revelation. God does speak, does have a voice, in other words, but one must become the kind of person who is able to hear it. I said at the end of the last essay that I wanted to draw out three aspects of the voice of the Lord that have analogical parallels to art. The voice of the Lord is allusive, effusive, and elusive. Let’s start with allusion.

Allusion may be most familiar to us from a literary context, which for me became entirely the point. The OED glosses allusion as “a symbolical reference or likening: a metaphor, parable, or allegory.” The literary application of allusion in particular helped me unlock something key about the voice of the Lord. The unfurling web of allusion unfolds as an ongoing, ever renewing conversation. One might begin, say, with Dante, only then to trace the simplest line of allusion from him back to Virgil and from Virgil back to Homer. The visual language of painting is also allusive. Again to trace a relatively simple example, Caravaggio is in conversation with Michelangelo, so that his visual language is in allusive conversation with his predecessor, and Michelangelo is in visual conversation with Giotto, whose own immersion in the world of Scripture establishes a basic visual vocabulary for the Italian Renaissance. Again this simple line of allusion does not even begin to deal with the sources of their paintings, the scriptures, the teachings of the church, the myths, which are themselves in constant allusive conversation with each other.

And the scriptures themselves are their own web of allusion, which endlessly fascinates and sometimes entangles us. Even that web is nested within another web of allusion—the creation—which speaks to itself and back to its creator, declaring the glory of the Lord. And this is what I mean when I say that the VOICE is allusive. If indeed “the heavens declare the glory of God, and the sky above declares his handiwork” (Psalm 19:1) then the voice of creation sings back to the VOICE that first spoke (sang) it into existence. This reciprocity, this dynamism of the gift giving praise back to the Giver, opens an entire environment of communication wherein the whole of creation becomes a medium for the praise of its Creator. Creation is an allusion to its Creator.

Creation is an allusion to its Creator.

But this singing back is paradoxical. What is the nature of the voice of creation? Here the same Psalm is ambiguous. Some translations have it that the voice of creation speaks without speaking; it is a voice that is voiceless. “There is no speech, nor are there words; their voice is not heard; yet their voice goes out through all the earth and their words to the end of the world.” (Psalm 193-4, NRSV). What is that message? The declaration of glory. How then do we understand this voiceless voice? They are voiceless in that they do not speak of themselves. They speak of the one who spoke them into existence. This is the deepest kind of voicelessness. It is not an oppressive silence, but the allusive abundance of creation speaking of and back to its creator.

There is another way to take this verse in Psalm 19, however. Alternatively, some manuscript traditions, and the LXX seems to follow this tradition, describes not the silence of the voice, but the superabundance of it—”There are no speeches or words, in which their voices are not heard.” Meaning, it seems, that all that is cannot help but declare the glory of its creator. Whether these are silent voices or superabundant ones, their sounding is a response, an allusion to their originator.

Whether the voice is voiceless or superabundant, if creation articulates the glory of God, then the voice of the glorious God proclaimed must bear some relationship to the voice that speaks of Him. It wasn’t until I could think of God’s voice as a voice analogically, that I really began to understand what people might mean when they said they heard God’s voice.

What is allusive is also effusive, abundant.

Learning to catch an allusion here, an allusion there is the way any of us are initiated into a new language, a new vocabulary for a whole interconnected web of conversation and meaning. When I first saw those great masterpieces and read those great works in high school, what did I as a seventeen year old kid glean from these monumental works? What did I really see in those paintings? Or really hear in those symphonies? Or really understand from those books? Hard to say, but I was left then and am really left now with a set of indelible images—Ahab nailing the golden doubloon to the mast of the Pequod; a turtle lumbering across the highway in Grapes of Wrath; the downward gaze of a pregnant and bereft Eve; Dante emerging from the depths of hell to see the stars once again; the torsion in David’s body, the biting of his lip as he was just about to unleash the felling stone from his sling.

I was left with these indelible images and many more. I wanted more such images, more such encounters. This longing was intuitive, an instinct that this world has more and more and more to give. What is allusive is also effusive, abundant. Job, more than most, maybe more than almost any, knew such abundance can come at a cost—“Behold, these are but the outskirts of his ways, and how small a whisper do we hear of him! But the thunder of his power who can understand?” (Job 26:14) There is, then, a bridge between the allusive voice and the effusive voice, which we will turn to in the next essay.

Evangelical Anxiety, Charles Marsh –

Part memoir of growing up an anxious pastor’s kid in the evangelical and segregated south, part reflection on the role therapy played, especially Freudian analysis, in unwinding Marsh’s evangelical anxieties, and part theological reflection on the uneasy relationship between Jerusalem and Vienna, I found this book intensely readable, compelling, and challenging. That being said, many may find some of Marsh’s Freudian frankness off-putting, but some of that shock is by design. Marsh invites us into the path he walked towards seeing in himself as a creature who had real desires. His account names something important about the weight of being an evangelical subject, and he comes to recognize that there was “something profoundly solipsistic about the formation of my evangelical ego.” His experience with analysis in particular allowed him to be “released from the heavy weight of the Protestant evangelical subject.”

In one of the more theological sections, Marsh discusses possible Christian appropriations of Freud and points to Paul Ricouer’s reflections on Freud. As Marsh relates, Ricoeur argues in The Future of Illusion that “Freudian psychoanalysis prepares the mind for a faith cleansed of idolatry—to apprehend the God beyond god” What does this process involve but “disentangling the reality from the symbol, of freeing the transcendent mystery from the domesticated word.” However, “The question remains open for everyone whether the destruction of idols is without remainder.”

John and Paul: A Love Story in Songs, Ian Leslie – I listened to this one and enjoyed both the book and the narration. Though the book does outline the career of the Beatles, it is much more than a biography of the band. The centerpiece of the book is John and Paul’s relationship and the songs they made with each other, for each other, in response to each other, and at times even against each other. John and Paul’s relationship as Leslie presents it is more than a friendship, certainly in the anemic terms we tend to think of friendship these days, but less than a love affair. Even so, as Leslie I think shows, their creative relationship, at times cooperative and collaborative, at other times competitive, certainly has many of the markers of a kind of romance. This is what Leslie is trying to get at—their friendship seems strange to us not because it it is strange (though it had an outsized intensity and an impact) but because we have lost the category of this kind of friendship. In this way, the book was deeply Aristotelian without intending to be so in any conscious way. It’s about friendship and excellence and community and the generationally defining, alchemical ways all these things combined to give us the Beatles.

King, Warrior, Magician, and Love Robert Moore and Douglas Gillette – Yes, I am turning 45 this month, and yes, I am doing a fair amount of reading around questions related to the second half of life. But I didn’t really need that excuse to dive into some good old fashioned Jungian work around the male psyche. If you have a problem with that, you can take it up with my high school English teacher, Mrs. McFarland, who taught us about archetypes and the hero’s journey by showing us Star Wars.

On the topic of the hero’s journey, Moore and Gillette make the point that the hero’s quest is part of boy’s psychology and though necessary for the transition from boyhood to manhood, should not remain a point of fixation going forward.

For better or worse, I find the Jungian framework and the archetypes to be deeply compelling and to be a framework that does help me conceptualize different aspects of the psyche. And that in itself makes a kind of reflection, and dare I say, dialogue with oneself possible in a way that some other approaches just don’t.

That being said the authors too naively accept some of Jung’s more notorious criticisms of Christianity. I will have more to say about that once I finish a book in progress from John Sanford, who was an Episcopal priest and Jungian analyst. His commentary on John, Mystical Christianity: A Psychological Commentary on the Gospel of John provides a helpful (but certainly not the only possible) Christian reception of Jung.

The Way of the Disciple, Erasmo Leiva-Merikakas

Meikakas is to my mind one of the truly great practitioners of lectio divina. The magisterial fruit of his contemplative reading is his multivolume commentary on Matthew, The Fire of the Word. (If you want a sense of how he thinks about lectio divina, this essay outlines his approach.) The Way of the Disciple is more approachable, but no less deep than the commentaries, and offers rich reflections on different aspects of what it is to be a follower of Jesus. To follow him, we must be as clay in his hands, constantly made and remade in his image. Lectio divina, especially the way Merikakas practices and models it, is a means by which we place ourselves in the potter’s hands.

Dependent Rational Animals, Alasdair MacIntyre – If you ever thought that what was missing from discussions of virtue ethics was expansive reflection on the inner life of dolphins, then this the book for you. Not just dolphins mind you, but dolphins qua dolphins because this is philosophy, dammit.

Speaking of philosophy, this was the reading selection for a philosophy club I am part of. I had suggested this book to our club because we wanted to read something in the wake of MacIntyre’s death and had already engaged in a rousing discussion of After Virtue. Dependence, rationality, and animality, as the title suggests, are all entangled aspects of what it means to be human. At the heart of this book is a paradox that true human independence, which is necessary for human flourishing, is itself dependent upon interdependence. It is community that makes independence possible. And more than that MacIntyre’s wants those who would reduce the human to the rational to consider the reality of their animality, and the reality of their dependence on others.

Paul Nash, “The Division of Light from Darkness”

I recently read Karol Wojtyla’s (St. John Paul II) retreat text God is Beauty: A Retreat on the Gospel and Art. Delivered to a group of artists in Krakow during Holy Week in 1962, this set of talks invites the retreatants to reflect on the meaning of the beauty of God, the creative life and process, and the centrality of prayer in the creative life.

It is this last theme that I’d like to briefly reflect on in this post. Wojtyla’s point is not simply that it is important for these artists to pray, but also that prayer itself can be a creative act. He makes this connection around the theme of silence.

Before turning to silence, Wojtyla offers a simple thought about prayer so often forgotten—“The essence of prayer is conversation.” Conversation, of course, requires at least two participants for the requisite back and forth, but conversation also requires silence. Even if only for the smallest sliver of a moment, in a conversation one must, at some point, pause to listen. The lack of the pause, either because of ignorance, or more likely, the anticipated terror that the silence will last forever, often keeps prayer from being a conversation. While the first mistake of prayer is never to begin, the second mistake is to leave no room for a response, no space to listen.

Reflecting on the necessity of silence in prayer, I am reminded of a section in Anthony Bloom’s Beginning to Pray. When Bloom was a newly ordained priest, an elderly woman described a problem she was having with prayer. She told him that she had been practicing the Jesus Prayer for years and years but that she had never gotten anywhere with it. Boldly, Bloom simply asks her if she had ever paused to listen. Instead of only speaking, he suggested, she might try listening.

Though initially offended by his brashness, the woman decides to try it. Here is what she reported back to him. Initially, the silence gave her the chance to appreciate where she was and what she had. The silence gave her space in which to cultivate gratitude, even for what we would call her modest circumstances. Then something else happened, as she slipped deeper into silence:

“I perceived that this silence was not simply an absence of voices, but that the silence had substance. It was not absence of something but presence of something. The silence had a density, a richness, and it began to pervade me. The silence around began to come and meet the silence in me…All of a sudden I perceived the silence was a presence. At the heart of silence there was He who is all stillness, all peace, all poise.”

To connect this back to Wojtyla and the retreat, listening in the way she describes is a creative act, and risky too, like all creative acts, because it involves a kind of surrender of control. It is that fear of surrender that so often keeps us from allowing silence, let alone slipping into silence. If we consider the lack of silence in our lives at all, we are likely to blame those things we believe are unique to our time and place—distraction, technology, busyness—but the spiritual masters tell us that there has always been a deeply human aversion to silence. The fear of silence is the fear of absence, the fear that silence is nothing but void. The woman’s reflection on the power of silence, however, points beyond this fear. To trust in silence is to trust that what seems a void might become a womb.

Wojtyla’s point is that in prayer the spiritual life is birthed in silence and by analogy much art is birthed in silence too. Like Bloom, Wojtyla describes the necessity of listening in prayer:

“Yet prayer is a conversation. Perhaps we don’t have to say so much; perhaps we don’t have to tell God so many of our grievances, but simply listen. What does he want to tell me? Perhaps underneath all of my words, grievances, and regrets there is some issue that he wants to bring to the fore and point to! And that is the turning point! The moment that sometimes determines my entire life! Because if he speaks to me, he is doing so in order that I might become a better person, more similar to him. After all, I am—that is the assumption—similar to him, created in his image and likeness.”

A second observation is that when we treat prayer more like a conversation built on back and forth and on silence, it begins to conform to the shape of worship itself. As in prayer so in the liturgy. When it comes to worship, we don’t start the conversation. We join the conversation. The liturgy is built on this fundamental rhythm, the back and forth of God speaking and us listening and responding.

Worship, like prayer, depends upon the rhythm of conversation. Liturgy, the work of the people, only really works when there is a back and forth, a call and response. The call of the liturgy finds its source in the creative voice of God, in and through his saving acts. All worship, but liturgical worship in an explicit way, moves to the rhythm of back and forth, the call and response, a rhythm sourced by a more fundamental rhythm—God speaks/creates/redeems and his people respond. The praise of creation, and Wojtyla calls this the prayer of creation, is a response to the creative act of God, not simply the first set of “Let there be’s” but the ongoing, upholding, and loving word that sustains creation now.

The Song of the Sea recorded in Exodus 15 is the ecstatic response to what God had done in delivering them from Egypt and through the Red Sea. I mention that particular example because that song may be the oldest bit scripture there is and so by extension may be the oldest strain of liturgy that we have, the first recorded response to the saving act of God. The song was a creative act in itself, the very human desire to praise what is praiseworthy, to craft the language and the rhythm of music in a way that befits what the song sings of, which leads us to a the final observation—Wojtyla insists that work can be prayer too.

As he says, “There is no issue in our lives, there is no activity, there is no effort, which cannot be turned into a prayer.” His admonition to the artists is that they be people of prayer, who enter into the conversation, who practice silence, letting the seeming void become a creative womb, and this too applies to their work. If they will see it in this way, their work too might be prayer because their creativity can be a kind of conversation, wherein silence becomes the seed bed of creativity, and where the work itself is a response to the voice they hear in silence.

Images taken from https://publicdomainreview.org/collection/paul-nash-genesis/

Here’s a taste:

As we were planning the ministry year at St. Bartholomew’s, David+ Larlee and I believed that coming into 2024, we needed some kind of space where we could not only have conversation around important but controversial topics, but also where we could learn how to have those kinds of conversations. It was not enough to have difficult conversations; we wanted to provide people with the tools to have those conversations in distinctly Christian ways.

So, we decided to stage five conversations over five months, using the book The Deeply Formed Life by Rich Villodas as the basis for our conversations. In the book, Villodas discusses what he calls five transformative values: contemplative rhythms, racial reconciliation, interior examination, sexual wholeness and missional presence. As we planned these evenings of conversation, our instinct was that the format of an Alpha evening would provide a structure for the kinds of conversations we imagined having around these important but sometimes difficult topics.

The first principle we took from Alpha: Begin with hospitality. We knew that every evening would begin with a shared meal. We wanted to model conversations where people were “quick to hear, slow to speak, slow to anger” (James 1:19).

The key word from James is “slow.” For things to be slow, we had to let conversation unfold over the pace of a meal.

The inherent slowness of a leisurely meal sets the pace for conversation about topics that cannot be understood at the speed of a tweet. In practical terms this meant that we reserved the patio of a local Italian restaurant so that our table groups could enjoy good food and drink as we engaged in conversation.

Check out the rest here!

Christianity Today published a reflection I wrote for Good Friday about the church as Christ’s wounded body. Here’s a taste:

On Good Friday especially, we turn our gaze to the man of sorrows who bears our affliction. The paradox of our faith is that in his wounding is our healing, so as important as it is for the church to acknowledge our own wounds, it is even more crucial to look at the one who bears our wounds in his wounding.

Christ’s wounds hold not only the promise of our healing but also the mystery of the church’s origin. As the early church meditated on the Crucifixion, they turned their attention to a particular verse, John 19:34, which records that “one of the soldiers pierced Jesus’ side with a spear, bringing a sudden flow of blood and water.”

In meditating on this verse, many in the early church insisted that from the wounded side of Christ, the church was born. Origen (A.D. 185–254) captures this conviction in a potent phrase: “From the wound in Christ’s side has come forth the church, and he has made her his bride.”

The church was born from a wound. The early church saw the last Adam hanging heavy on the cross in the sleep of death, but from his side, his wound, a new Eve was brought forth—the church. Born as we are from that wound, the church journeys with Christ through Good Friday, Holy Saturday, and Easter Sunday. In his passion is our own path and our own healing.

Check out the rest here.

I recently had the pleasure of having a story featured on The Unseen Story. You can listen to the podcast here. I talk about the role of beauty and art in my spiritual life, and I mention the experience of seeing these incredible sketches by Michelangelo in the Medici Palace.

Here is what I said about seeing those sketches while on trip to Europe with my high school humanities teacher: “There was one particular moment when we were in Florence, I was sitting with a friend. And my teacher, Mr. Biggers came up and said, “Hey, I have these extra tickets to this exhibition at the Medici Palace do you want to go?” I didn’t know what it was, but I just said, “Yes.” And then we go into the Medici Palace and we go down into this basement. There are these drawings on the wall, and I’m like, 12 inches away from these drawings on the wall. These were drawings that Michelangelo had done in preparation for the Sistine Chapel. And maybe it was just the proximity of it, maybe it was the surprise of it, but it was just a very overwhelming moment. And again, I would say that was probably the voice of God, just connecting to me with me through beauty. And that’s been a huge part of my story.”

Check out the rest!

A little late, but I still wanted to post this. In my Ash Wednesday sermon , I described the mash up of Ash Wednesday and Valentine’s as the Barbenheimer of days, an initially odd pairing that are somehow both about death. Here is a little poem I wrote, reflecting on some verses from Song of Songs, but refracted through the themes of Ash Wednesday.

Stronger than Death

The priest’s finger spells
an ashy cross upon my head.
That single letter speaks
and weaves a tale of dread,
tracing my beginning,
portending my dusty end.

But death is not its only word.
That cross speaks too of cure,
of death undone by death,
of our physician and lover pure,
who heals us by becoming
the disease we all endure.

Christ’s cross is Christ’s kiss
upon my brow that seals
a love stronger than death.