Christian Art

While at Oxford this past semester, the topic of Christian art made a powerful resurgence into my thought via various conversations, studies, lectures, and yes, works of art I encountered.

Having grown up in a family of Christians that are very passionate about art, I've participated in many dinner-time conversations that revolved around the nature of art and whether or not "Christian" is a helpful or necessary descriptor for various pieces of art, and whether or not the job of Christian artists is to create "Christian art."

Discussions of such a kind inevitably raise the question of what it means for something to be Christian at all. If Jesus himself is Truth, and "Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made" (John 1:2 TNIV), are not all things that are profoundly and deeply true automatically Christian in nature? And if that's the case, and all great art fundamentally tries to get at something true about humanity, the human experience, or the universe we live in [a sentiment you can find among any number of the greatest artists, whatever religion (or lack thereof) they claim, whether Christianity, atheism, or anything in between], then is not all art that is qualitatively great Christian at its heart?

To a large extent I think so. But I'm warned by C. S. Lewis that if we continue down that vein of thinking we will start to lose the meaningfulness of words. If we start to speak of something being really Christian because it somehow captures Christian values despite not claiming Christ in any explicit fashion, yet disregard works that explicitly proclaim Christ because we think that at the end of the day they stray from Christian values, we will eventually lose the usefulness of the word Christian in its entirety (Lewis discusses this in his essay "The Death of Words," and might touch on it in Mere Christianity--I can't quite remember and don't have my copy with me. I think it's well worth the read, though I do think there are some weak points in the argument).

I've found that the idea of Christian art (or Christian artists) has become a very touchy subject with many artists of various kinds who are Christians (especially of my generation). One of my Oxonian friends mentioned at various points this past semester that anytime someone talks about Christian art and particularly about using art for evangelistic purposes, he gets really riled up and genuinely upset. Sentiments and responses of this kind are quite common among my friends. (And I am sympathetic to it).

I think a lot of this arises from films and books of recent years which call themselves Christian art (or get labelled such by others) which many think are tacky and done poorly from a craft perspective (I don't think I need to state any titles for people to know by and large what I'm referring to). A lot of artists feel that the creators behind many of these works try to force a message up and above trying to create a powerful and well-crafted piece of art that simply communicates the message it communicates. And I think many artists would go so far to say that those behind these pieces of "art" are perhaps not even artists, but rather simply evangelists with an agenda and a propagandist message that distort art to their ends, often resulting in the destruction of the art itself.

Nonetheless, I think these films and books are in fact Christian art. And here is where we can argue over the legitimacy of tagging them as either Christian or art--which is where the worry of losing the meaning of words comes in. If we insist that they are not truly Christian, or they are not truly art, we will eventually lose the ability to dialogue in certain ways. For example, if the criteria for Christian shifts from "explicitly claims and proclaims Christ" to "upholding and setting forth the values of Christianity," we lose the most significant and unique thing of Christianity, and we will start to lose a whole category of distinction when dialoging with those who do not agree with us as to the values of Christianity, or who claim those values for themselves, despite not being Christian (I'm thinking here of the reality that many other religions have the same basic moral criteria and values as Christianity).

Don't get me wrong, I think it's fair to call most of these works that rile my friends bad Christian art. But I think letting them be both Christian and art helps retain more of the usefulness and integrity of the language than if we insist on saying that they simply aren't art to begin with. I think the conversation will prove more articulate (and include more people, honestly) if it keeps its focus on whether art is good or bad instead of on whether it is Christian or it is art (though I acknowledge that even if we agree on what I propose, conversations over what exactly is art will and should continue, but I want to keep a qualitative aspect in the conversation, not just say that bad art is simply not art).

But I've heard it said that we should just get rid of the distinction of Christian entirely--why do we need it? Good art is good art, bad art is bad art, the end. Well, yes, that's true. But it's also true that Hamlet is good art, and Mrs. Dalloway is good art, but you're unlikely to find them underneath the same label at the bookstore, and we find distinguishing them by genre helpful in terms of thinking about them and making sense of them.


The fact of the matter is, there's plenty of good art out there that is explicitly and unapologetically (and, at the end of the day, I think rather undeniably) Christian: Edmund Spenser's The Faerie Queene, John Milton's Paradise Lost, Handel's Messiah, Mel Gibson's The Passion, the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel--the list goes on, and spans mediums, and I believe that labeling them "Christian" is both legitimate and helpful just as labeling the Ramayana "Hindu," or Dracula "Gothic" is helpful.

Don't misunderstand me, simply having "Christian" as a category isn't necessarily easy: I think this gets tricky, just as putting works of art into any category gets tricky--some books more clearly portray what we consider to be defining elements of the Modern novel, or of Romantic fantasy, or whatever the case may be, than others. My argument here is simply that it is worthwhile to retain "Christian" as a valid label and category for art (I think it worth mentioning that while I do think that Christian music is a category of art, I also think that Worship music should be its own category entirely and should probably not be considered art, no matter how good the craft. And simply because I call it "worship" music, one should not take me to mean that other music is not worshipful, either in the creating or listening of it, but rather that Worship music as a category contains music meant to be played and sung in the context of Christians coming together corporately or privately or however to enter into an intentional and directed time of sung worship to God).

I think by and large Christian art goes wrong when it attempts to convert or manipulate or badger its viewer or participant or reader (or whatever the case may be) in some fashion. That is to say, it goes wrong at the same point that Christians themselves go wrong when interacting with others--when we cease to witness and proclaim and love, and move into these other realms that become deceitful and violent.

The question of Christian artists or simply artists who are Christians I think follows along the same lines, and I will not flush it out here.

Basically, let's make good Chrisitan art, and let's make good art that is not particularly Christian--we need both, and I really do think there's a useful distinction between the two. And if you're Christian and an artist, but don't want to make Christian art, by all means, don't make Christian art--but do strive to make good art.

I, for one, would like to see some more art of our day that's the caliber of the Commedia, Paradise Lost, the poems of Donne, Herbert, or Hopkins (sorry that most of my go-to's are literature--it's simply what I know best), the Pieta, etc., and in their general vein, for I think it would do something to stem this aversion to "Christian art" (and there's plenty already out there! Christian Wiman and Mary Karr, for starters?) We seem to encounter bad Christian artists who fail in their craft, the way they love, or whatever, and then want to throw out the label altogether, because we don't want those negative connotations to become ones we bear ourselves.




But there's a quality tradition behind us, and speaking as one who has an interest in making Christian art, why don't we bear the connotations despite the discomfort, and continue to try and redeem the label?

Leaving Oxford

Beauty that distracts and stuns

I don't know how to go about processing the time I spent at Oxford. There's simply too much there that needs it. I couldn't keep up with the experience while in its midst, because the time went too fast and it was too full--and now everything has piled up and I don't know what to do about it.

In many ways it would be easiest to just look forward--to turn my back on the time at Oxford and plow into the next thing: I've become pretty good at getting joy in the days I'm living in, in the days directly coming. I'm not worried that I'm going to experience some kind of depression or dissatisfaction with life upon leaving Oxford. But the ease with which I'm pretty sure I could transition actually scares part of me, the part of me that really wants the Oxford semester to matter in some tangible way: the part of me that can't stand the thought that Oxford was just a semester, a semester that was wonderful but must now be left behind.

One of my Oxonian friends voiced a similar worry. He likened the experience of our semester at Oxford to that of a first semester at college--it's wonderful, but when you go back home for Christmas it all seems like a dream. Returning in the Spring is what solidifies the experience and makes it real. The only problem is, for most of the SCIO Michaelmas 2015 cohort there will be no return in the Spring.

In Bath with great friends, who were not yet good friends

The Fall was all we had. Oh, it was enough. Enough, that is, to fall in love with all the beautiful particulars that make Oxford, Oxford. Enough to fall in love with all the beautiful particulars that make our SCIO friends who they are. But enough to make a mark? A visible mark? And I'm not even necessarily concerned with a visible mark to others--part of me worries about even having a visible mark I can see.

I feel different. I feel like I've changed. My mind, at least, seems stretched in new ways. But will that last? When I go through intense times of intellectual thought, study, and work, my mind feels agile and like it sees so much more than I usually do. But I typically find that afterwards the feeling fades--once I hit break, whether Winter or Summer, my mind seems to quickly lose its agility and sharp observance. Will it be different this time? Even if the mind snaps most of the way back into place, does it retain at least some of its stretch?

And of course there are other ways I feel changed--anytime you enter into relationship, allow yourself to love and be loved, you change. But how hard the goodbyes hit me surprised me, immensely. As a TCK I've grown up very familiar with goodbyes, and I've never found them overly difficult. Sure, some hit you harder than others: the hardest I've had so far were my high school goodbyes--but with those the timing was so right, and the closure had all taken place.

With these ones, apparently it hadn't. Before the actual goodbyes, I never thought that they would be harder than any others I've had to say--usually I take great comfort in my belief in the reality of the New Heavens and the New Earth, and I make do. But strings of love had attached themselves somewhere in my heart, deeper than I had thought.

Sure, I knew I would miss the city--I already had missed the city after only visiting it for a week. Now? I knew leaving it would stink, but at the end of the day, it's a location. And people always trump location, at least for me. (Though gosh, what a location.)

The Dreaming Spires

But the people, the community...how to explain it? I've had plenty of experiences of close community--I already knew it was one of the things that most mattered to me. Admittedly, this was probably the closest and densest community I'd ever been a part of (if you look at the number of people per square feet I lived with, that is)--but still. I didn't (and don't) feel particularly more known by them than my friends in other places (I've been blessed with some incredible friendships). And feeling known is a pretty big deal for me.

I've been thinking about it a good bit and will continue to do so. For honestly I still don't really have a clue what the state of my feelings is regarding these people, or why it's that way. Understanding why any of us feel about others the way we do can often be hard, but how I apparently feel about these people has confused me regarding relationships on a whole new level (perhaps).

I walked group after group to the bus stop, hugged people one by one and watched them disappear up the steps, not knowing if I would ever see them again. Each one pulled on my heartstrings a little more, and what made it worse is that the last couple of goodbyes were to my closest friends. I lost it with a force I did not anticipate and which still utterly bewilders me despite that the memory still brings me close to tears. (As a side note: despite being in such a state, I could not miss the humor of all these young American students at a British bus stop, losing it while reserved Brits looked on in shock.)

One of the Best

The week after, I remained in Oxford. Everywhere I walked, memories from the semester played and replayed in my mind as I tried to make sense of it all. I've relived a lot of them intentionally and intensely, hoping that by doing so it in some way helps me process through and retain them. But who knows if it actually helps?

I feel different. I believe I am different. But I doubt anyone but the closest observers could pinpoint where and how.

I'm scared of going back (whether to school, or old relationships) and people saying "you're just the same!" or "Good old Thani!" and acting like I was never gone, like I never experienced something important that I did not experience with them--just as they experienced something important that they did not experience with me. Or of people asking me about Oxford, and being satisfied with a couple of sentences, or even an hour or two.

I'm always scared of it.

One of my wise brothers once said, "we're all always changing, and we're all always the same." And it's very true, and it's the combination of the two that I think brings the most comfort.

But when it's time for a transition like this one, there's a large part of me (probably the very egotistical, self-centered part) that screams "it mattered! I'm different! It mattered!"

And part of me can't help but wonder (even though I ultimately believe this doubt to be a lie) if it really did matter, other than for me, God, and a bunch of people I have no idea if I'll ever see again (at least in this life).

Thought of these people, of this city, still quickly makes me ache. I know that will lessen with time. A lot of me doesn't want it to. And yet the part that thinks a little more clearly knows it must, or my Oxford semester will never settle into its proper niche in my life and being.

But must it?

Overload

Sometimes the experiences you have and the life you live are simply too big to thoroughly digest and make sense of. Too much happens too fast, and even your fastest sprint is not enough to keep you ahead of, or even alongside, everything. That's where I'm at now.

Goodness and Beauty onslaught me daily in copious amounts, akin to when someone else holds the goblet you drink from, and they keep it coming past your ability to actually swallow and drink how much they pour into your mouth. The Goodness and the Beauty come in so many shapes and forms, and the world just seems bigger and bigger and bigger. Old libraries; intellectual discoveries; social interactions; accents; skinny dipping in the ice-cold Thames at night; sweeping Welsh landscapes; castles; cathedrals; wild Welsh blackberries; leaping off Welsh waterfalls; Welsh lamb (generally lots of Welsh things); candle and fire light; pubs; coffee shops; plays; reading, reading, reading; writing, writing, writing. The list seems virtually inexhaustible.

At times it all seems surreal. And at others everything seems to be in perfect focus, with clear, hard, sharp edges that makes everything take on an almost super-real aspect. As if I'm living now for the first time. This is a sensation I've had many times before, but I do not know if I've ever had it this consistently for this long (we'll see if it lasts the whole semester). It's as if life is super-condensed right now, and more is packed into the time and space than normally fits there. It's a little like Lewis's concept of the Shadowlands, and how in The Great Divorce everything in heaven is harder, more substantial, and more vivid than anything the travelers have experienced before.

The whole experience is flying by. I do not so much feel that it will all suddenly be over and I'll find myself regretting that I didn't do as much or experience as much as I wanted to (it feels like it would be nearly impossible to be experiencing more than I am), but I do think it will suddenly be over, and I'll be wondering what it was that I just went through.

It's all rather wondrous, but it would be incorrect to say that every moment is a fairy tale moment. Of course there are moments of loneliness. Of course there are moments of wondering whether you're really connecting with anyone. There are moments of stress as you wonder if you can really handle the work load. There are moments when I wonder why God even has me here. What role is this semester playing and going to play in the purposes he has for my life?

It's really hard to spend the time in the word each day that I want. And I really hope that the experience is shaping me more and more into the image of Christ, being in the middle of it right now it's hard to say. And I really hope that ultimately I'm growing in wisdom. For I can gather all the knowledge and information in the world, read all the literature and theology I want, but if I'm not growing in wisdom, wisdom rooted in love, then it is all for naught. And if I'm not growing in relationship with the God of the universe, then it is all for naught.

Let me ever live a life of worship, a life spent walking close to the heart of the Father, a life spent in taking steps that always have the dove in mind.

An Urge to Write

     Recently, as the questions have continued to just pile up, and I seek to make sense of it all, and process through things and figure out things, I have felt the driving need to go back to writing. To processing through writing. In so many ways I'm a verbal processor: putting words out there helps me figure out what it is I'm actually trying to say, what it is I think (which means generally a lot of stupid words are going to come out of my mouth before I get anywhere). In many ways I prefer to do this through talking to people, but not always do they have the time to listen, and often it's hard to get in the right spot where you're both truly and openly dialoguing. Often someone simply ends up trying to explain to the other why what he or she believes is true.
     The problem is, I don't really have the time to actually sit down and write and process these things. I love being in college where so much food for thought gets thrown at us, but the downside is that we rarely get the time we need to process things deeply and stay on top of all that gets chucked at us, combined with the usual craziness of life--trying to make sense of relationships and how God seems to be working in the world, working in me, has worked through history...
     It's pretty easy to just choose something, go with your first instinct and run with it. But so much of what I've learned through being at college is it's exactly that which leads to an overload of faulty information, confusion, and all around mediocrity of belief, experience, and argument--what have you.
     Even this post, so hastily written, does a poor job of actually communicating what I'm trying to say. I lack the skill and/or the time to hone it to the precision of language necessary to communicate accurately, well, and rigorously what I mean, what I'm thinking, and what I'm feeling. And if I'm processing through the writing of these words, does that not simply make my processing half-baked and imprecise?