Tags
Anxiety, Art, C.S. Lewis, Christianity, Contentment, Future, Imagination
Dear Reader,
Allow me to briefly steal and tweak the crucial marketing slogan of every house realtor on the face of the earth, and to give a shout out to all my colleagues and fellow rookies of the Real World : VOCATION, VOCATION, VOCATION!
I’ve taken to mentally muttering this slogan to myself over and over like a mantra– especially when my mornings turn into evenings which turn into late nights and, once again, very early mornings. Woe is me. I have hardly any time for myself anymore. I can safely say that I’ve had all the “real world experience” I care to have as a teacher of a whopping two months.
I could end there. And, if I had no imagination, I would. To tell you the truth, I began writing the first two paragraphs of this entry an entire month ago. I stopped typing mid-sentence, somewhere between “Woe is me” and “real world experience,” and am now picking up my quill again to breathe new life into a seemingly hopeless introduction. The trench of white space that separates this paragraph from the previous holds more weight than the simple tapping of the “Enter” key twice. I hope you find the conceptual contents of the gap worth your while.
To the right of the doorway, as you enter my classroom, I have carefully command-stripped an inspirational quotation above the light switch. It reads:
The Christian is the one whose imagination should fly beyond the stars.
A man named Francis Schaeffer prefaced a favorite book of mine with that statement. When you directly apply the words to art, it makes perfect sense. Art, of course, requires an imagination. Schaeffer was combating a Christian culture that had trained itself to accept the lordship of Christ over the religious and spiritual, while overlooking the significance of the mind, body, and intellect. Meaning, without the form. Schaeffer reminded us that, in Christ, the “whole man” is redeemed.
A few weeks ago, I felt keenly that my life was a roughly-framed picture with a form that didn’t reflect the intended meaning. Without even realizing it, I had been living my life as if my actions defined me. The lead singer of Tenth Avenue North so aptly named this mindset the “Batman/Rocky Syndrome.” I’m constantly trying to be the perfect teacher, perfect daughter, perfect sister, perfect artist, perfect Southerner, perfect intellectual individual, perfect traveler, perfect church-goer, perfect friend… what an impossible plan for my life! No wonder I was bending under the weight of it. Even Christians can forget to live under grace when they let pride and sin creep in.
Dr. Melissa Hause once said, You’re not what you do; you are who you are and who God made you to be.
I’m beginning to realize that the reason that God brought me back to Laurel this year was to teach me how impossible my plans are. How insignificant and hideous they are in the grand scheme of His ultimate will for my life in light of His kingdom. Every time I stress out about things not going my way, I’m not trusting Him. But, there’s something deeper at play. My actions are founded upon pride when I fight inwardly for something that I think is best for me. I’m always looking forward to the next phase, instead of enjoying taking the next step. I’m demeaning His glory.
I was recently humbled when God gave me something more wonderful than what I had been working toward– and I hadn’t been doing anything but worrying. Suddenly, my plans needed reassessing. There is no healing like the healing that comes with repentance. No rest like the rest that comes when you truly decide that what you always thought was best for you is second-best to the providential chain of events.
Why do we try to live for ourselves?
People give the imagination too much credit. I’m often limited by mine. Surrealist art was celebrated for its unconventional way of distorting reality. I enjoy looking at Dali, but the more I observe, the more I see the limited scope in which he worked. Subconscious, fabricated dreams can only give you so much inspiration. It’s time to wake up and see yourself in light of eternity.
As a Christian, my future is as bright as the promises of God. – Adoniram Judson
I recently finished reading a book by C.S. Lewis called Till We Have Faces. He retells the Greek mythological story of Cupid and Psyche, reconstructing the backdrop of the setting to be in the barbaric realm of Glome. The story begins with two sisters. One is beautiful; the other is ugly. Psyche is loved by the gods; Orual feels cheated when her beautiful sister redirects her love to a god. When Orual denies the existence of the gods and fails at attempting to forcefully regain her sister’s entire affection, she guilts her sister into disobeying a god’s order to not look upon him. Psyche’s disobedience results in her banishment, and Orual becomes hardened when she discovers that Psyche’s lover was not a figment of her imagination. As years continue on, Orual becomes more hardened in her fatalistic mindset and hate for immortals, whom she claims delight in tormenting the emotions of mere humans.
Near the end of the book, she is gripped by a self-revelation through a vision, where she reflects upon her complaint to the gods:
The complaint was the answer. To have heard myself making it was to be answered. Lightly men talk of saying what they mean… When the time comes to you at which you will be forced at last to utter the speech which has lain at the center of your soul for years, which you have, all that time, idiot-like, been saying over and over, you’ll not talk about joy of words. I saw well why the gods do not speak to us openly, nor let us answer. Till that word can be dug out of us, why should they hear the babble that we think we mean? How can they meet us face to face till we have faces?
It’s my pride that makes me think I deserve for things to come easily. My pride that causes me to be anxious when my portrait doesn’t follow the blueprints of my own design. If we listen closely, like Orual, our complaint is the answer. Only a sincere assessment of the sin that prevents our imaginations from completely loving, trusting, and hoping can bring us the healing that is needed to provide us with a face– a face that can look back on a God whose love and faithfulness are forever (Psalm 100:5).
Fall is undoubtedly my favorite season. For the first time in four years, I get to rediscover it in Laurel. My new favorite hobby is running, which allows me to breathe in the crisp air with its scent of burning pine straw and magnolia for at least four mornings a week. On my early morning runs, I love to watch the gas lanterns on our street flicker silently just before the full break of dawn. They illuminate the old brick road that was laid just after the Great Depression (a job provision for Roosevelt’s New Deal). If you look closely, you can see fingerprints on each and every brick. Permanent reminders of the individuals who fired and laid them.
…you yourselves like living stones are being built up as a spiritual house, to be a holy priesthood, to offer spiritual sacrifices acceptable to God through Jesus Christ. -I Peter 2:5
It’s necessary that I remember that I’m a mere brick. But, I have a Creator who has left His mark on me. He’s uniquely fit me into His design, and His fingerprint has been transfixed through the firing process. The greater the darkness, the more the light has a distinct spotlight effect. The greater the darkness, the more the stone seems alive.
When I link my imagination to God’s promises, the possibilities are exciting, adventurous, restful, and endless. They fly beyond the stars.
This post is dedicated to my bosom friend, Rebekah Grafton.