Friends

Tom and me, Big Hill Pond

"The more I think it over, the more I feel that there is nothing more truly artistic than to love people."

Vincent van Gogh

I've been walking in my room without walls, where the floor is earth and the ceiling is sky. Maxfield Parrish could paint skies but nobody rivals God's work. Last night I experienced a sunset over a used-car lot that would knock your eyes out. It was a gift. Like friends. And yet, friendship is a unique gift- a reciprocal gift, based on respect, trust and admiration. Often, friendships are based on something lacking in the one and possessed by the other, a place for want and plenty to meet. And then there is the element of maintenance. I have lost friends through neglect, by simply not paying attention. So for me, getting older means paying better attention.

Michael Card reminded a group of us teachers that there are levels of friends. Jesus had the 70, the 12 and the 3- Peter, James and John. Each level has its own dynamic and intimacy. One of my closest friends these days (and I hope 'these days' follow me to the graveyard) is Tom Sullivan, fellow educator and lover of the room without walls. I met Tom several years ago at a college in Memphis,TN. Tom was a Dean, I was an adjunct. I liked his laugh, and that he showed me where the coffee was hidden in the lounge. As time passed my family and I moved to the town of Bolivar, 65 miles away. Tom, and his beautiful wife Beverly, took me into their home the two nights a week I taught night classes. Words shared in the Sullivan den still come to mind. Now, Tom and I are separated geographically by 635.30 miles, according to Mapquest. Friendship is undaunted by geography.

On Gardening

"The scariest moment is always just before you start. After that, things can only get better."

Stephen King, On Writing

One day follows another. Sometimes, trying to find meaning is like a termite in a yo-yo...just when you get a grip, everything changes. I was staring at tomato plants in Wal-mart and a wave of sadness crashed into me. Now, the tomato plants were not at fault, they didn't insult me or throw anything. They were actually quite beautiful. I realised as I stood there that I would probably not have a garden this year. Being on my knees, my fingers in the dirt, just seems right.

Sometimes art is like gardening, you're not exactly certain of the final result. To paraphrase Dorothy Sayers, The Mind of the Maker, the creative process loosely applies to gardening- The Idea, the Image, the Interpretation. The idea begins in the mind of the maker, seeds. Next, the idea is realised in the image, a living thing(fleshed out as vegetables). Finally the image is interpreted, or in the case of garden vegetables, consumed. The result- many are blessed by the mind of the maker.

Neon Fish

Delight yourself also in the Lord, and He will give you the desires and secret petitions of your heart. Psalm 37:4

1974, senior year of high school, found me at a concert in Nashville, TN. The lineup was Gentle Giant, Black Oak Arkansas, and Black Sabbath. I was there to see Black Sabbath, but, I was curious about Black Oak. Gentle Giant was a pleasant surprise, especially the fellow on the electric fiddle. Black Oak was next, primo southern rock. The highlight was an acapella rendition of I Wish I Was In Dixie. A most excellent show! They left the stage and we waited for Black Sabbath. And waited, and waited... Finally, someone came to the microphone to announce that Ozzy was not feeling well and Black Oak was going to do another set. The crowd went wild! Black Oak had won the heart of the audience. I learned later that Ozzy had briefly 'disappeared'. Not long after that night I asked God if He would let me hear one of my songs on the radio. At that point in time I had never written a song.

So, twenty-something years passed. Tom Owen and I were driving around Memphis one night. We had just passed the fairgrounds on Parkway when Tom said, "We should open a coffee shop, a place families can come to, with an area for live music. We could put a giant icthus in neon on the outside wall and call it the Neon Fish." It was a catchy name. It seemed natural for a recording project we were working on together. We even played a couple of gigs. Literally, 2. My favorite was a Christian club called 704B on North Highland, Memphis, TN. There, in the basement of a church, I was on stage with some of the most amazing people I have had the privilege to know. On lead guitar was Greg Reding, formally of Black Oak Arkansas. The same Greg I saw on stage in Nashville, 1974. God is good. It gets better. We had given copies of the CD to a couple of radio stations. While driving around town one night, one of the songs from the CD began playing. A song I had written was being played on the radio, and that still, small voice said, "Do you remember the request you had in high school? Well, here it is."

Redemption

"A man has fallen into a pit. Do not speak to him of the good life. Throw him a rope. But when he has climbed out of the pit, and you discover that he is not happy, speak to him of the good life."

Leon Wieseltier

When I was a kid my mom saved Top Value stamps, not S&H Green stamps. They came, for the most part, from the gas station. My dad owned a tombstone company (still does), so he had a big truck. It had 2 gas tanks. I was fascinated with that. When one tank emptied you flipped a switch to change tanks (I always wondered why our car didn't have that feature). Whenever he filled both tanks there was a pile of stamps. Once, I thought I would help mom out, so I started sticking stamps in books. I didn't know some stamps carried more value than others, so I filled every square. Mom was a little miffed, which was pretty rare for her. My favorite 'stamp' days were on the visits to the redemption store. The store had a toy section. Sometimes my mom had extra stamps. Those were good days. Once we had enough stamps to purchase a model airplane kit. The best part- all the pieces were interchangeable. Three set of wings, three tail fins, three fuselages... possibilities were a mathematical delight. The power of redemption.

The Stirring, Teresa Carter

"Israel believed that the prophetic word pronounced, which came from God, was an event, a three-dimensional event, and not merely indifferent sounds issuing from the throat. Such an event set other events in motion, moving in a way they would not have moved without that word."

Jeremy Driscoll, A Monk's Alphabet

Artist's are an odd lot. I know because my wife and I are both artists. It's okay to be odd, sometimes. Besides, I don't want to be like everyone else. Here's a thought I've been chewing on for some years now- artists are bridges between the classes, drinking beer with a house framer one moment and having wine with a bank VP in an art gallery the next. Michelangelo is a good example. Of course, with this privilege comes responsibilty.

The language of art...a picture is worth a thousand words. Imagine the vocabulary required of the Louvre. So, here's another thought- if prophetic words set events in motion, what about prophetic art? What happens when a prophetic utterance occurs on canvas? Every generation is filled with those who impact culture with their words, music, paintings, sculpture. Those working within their time speak to their time. The prophetic transcends time.

"Creation is the language of God, time is His song, and things of space the consonants in the song. To sanctify time is to sing the vowels in unison with Him. This is the task of men, to conquer space and sanctify time." Abraham Joshua Heschel

Debunking Labels

Father Boniface, OSB

Father Stephen

"And there's a loyalty that's deeper Than mere sentiments

And a music higher than the songs That I can sing

The stuff of Earth competes For the allegiance I owe only to the Giver Of all good things

So if I stand let me stand on the promise That you will pull me through

And if I can't, let me fall on the grace That first brought me to You

And if I sing let me sing for the joy That has born in me these songs

And if I weep let it be as a man Who is longing for his home"

Rich Mullins, If I Stand

Labels. We all use them. We look for them. They help us make associations, a way to categorize. Especially when it comes to religion. I don't know how many times I have heard the question, "What are you? A Baptist? A Presbyterian?" I grew up in a Southern Baptist home. After graduate school I became involved with a non-denominational church, moving later to an Evangelical Presbyterian church. Now, my family and I attend...well, it doesn't matter because being called a Baptist or Presbyterian bothers me. I prefer Christian.

"Yes, but" you may ask, "what kind of Christian?"

"Well", I would have to say, "some days, not a very good one."

Because I was reared in a specific denomination, certain 'other' branches of the vine were viewed suspiciously. And, each branch has its own issues. Like the old joke-

Q: Why do Southern Baptists think premarital sex is wrong?

A: Because it leads to dancing!

Over the years some of my labels have been debunked. My brother-in-law is a Roman Catholic priest. He, along with his friends, have destroyed any preconceived notions I may have believed Catholics to be. In fact, he is one of the best examples of 'Christian' I have seen. He prays for people, on the spot. His generosity astounds me. Whenever we talk he tells me, "I pray for you every day." One day he introduced me to Brother Elijah, a Benedictine monk. I had never met a monk before. Being from Tennessee, I thought monks lived cloistered lives, praying and chanting 20 hours a day (and were all old!). Brother Elijah is young, charismatic, and has written a musical for stage that sounds like Emerson, Lake and Palmer. Then, Brother Elijah introduced me to Father Boniface, who, upon asking me for my phone number pulled an iPhone out of his robe. He is involved with information technology at the monastery.

I am leaving for church in a few moments. Maybe a few labels will be debunked.

Poiema

It is reported that St. Francis of Assisi once asked God to allow him to hear the music of heaven. The Lord told Francis he knew not what he asked, for the sheer glory of heaven's song would spell certain death. The persistent saint pleaded eagerly, "Can't I hear just one note?" God conceded. As the story goes, Francis awoke from his coma a few days later.

Christopher West, Heaven's Song

In November of 1994, Michael Card released Poiema, an album that is, to this day, one of my favorites. I am listening to it now as I type. The Irish flavour, complete with traditional instruments, captivates me. The marriage of lyric and melody is amazing. Music speaks to the soul and Michael's music continues to encourage and inspire me. He once asked me if I had ever considered painting the Hebrew word chesed. I had already been pondering the expression and seen imagery- the notion of everlasting mercy, the kindness of God. Unfortunately there exists a discrepancy between my imagination and my reality- between what I can 'see' in my minds-eye and the technical ability that limits what my hand can paint. Kathryn Manzo, a painter/teacher extraordinaire (one of my wife's instructors) once told a roomful of painters, "Do not be defined by your limitations and you will exceed your expectations!" So, reconciliation usually occurs and I paint what I can. But there have only been a few times when I was completely satisfied when the paint dried. I took Michael's question as a challenge. A few years have passed.

In 1749, Johann Sebastian Bach completed a missa tota that would come to be known as Mass in B minor. Christoph Wolff said that Bach considered the Mass as "the supreme opportunity to unite his creed as a Christian with his creed as a musician in a single statement." It is believed he never heard it performed in its entirety. John Hodges once told a roomful of teachers, a group I was blessed to be a part of, "everyone should own a copy."

I have several titles- husband, father, son... each depends on who is addressing me. One of my favorite titles is Poiema- one of God's poems, his workmanship.

We are living letters that doubt desecrates

we're the notes of the song of the chorus of faith

God shapes every second of our little lives

and minds every minute as the universe waits by.

Michael Card, Poiema