“Because of God’s tender mercy, the morning light from heaven is about to break upon us, to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, and to guide us to the path of peace.”
— Luke 1:78-79
There is more to mercy than forgiveness. It is a posture oriented toward true benevolence that comes from the heart. We have been offered mercy by God, and that mercy is transformative. Mercy moves us to see the world and our relationship with one another through a different lens, with condemnation division replaced with grace and abounding love. This transformation continues as we grow in our relationship with Christ until we are able to truly understand and give mercy in the way that Jesus taught us. The mercy of God overrides deserved punishment, not so that we might continue unchanged, but so that we might become more like our Creator.
As we seek to be more like Jesus, we must first seek to better know Jesus. In coming into the brokenness of this world, Jesus bears the reverberations of pain inflicted and responds with unconditional love. Mercy becomes an essential part of who we are as we embrace the mercy given by Jesus; when we act out of the compassion and care God has given us, rather than reacting out of anger or fear.
Mercy shows us the reflection of our own brokenness and challenges us to extend the same grace to others around us. It is the ability to connect to one another in humility and understanding, acknowledging that each of us carries the burdens that weigh us down in this world.
In his book Just Mercy, Bryan Stevenson said, “We all share the condition of brokenness even if our brokenness is not equivalent.” When we embrace mercy, we are reminded that our brokenness should not be divisive, but is the very thing that interconnects us and brings us closer to the way things should be—just, good, and united. The actions of Jesus bring us back together, and when we recognize that everyone bears the image of God, we too must be merciful and humble.
In the words of Micah 6:8, “He has shown you, O mortal, what is good. And what does the Lord require of you? To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God.” Mercy isn't just something we should gratefully accept; it should also propel us to action. It serves as a constant reminder that suffering will not prevail in this world and that we too are participants in the goodness and justice of God by extension of the mercy we have received. When the world is plagued by division and violence, we must act against injustice. We must be merciful, and we must be humble in our walk with God toward the ultimate promise that all will be restored, "on earth as it is in heaven."
Words: Mary Taylor
Images: Dmitry Osipenko
“To all who mourn in Israel, he will give a crown of beauty for ashes, a joyous blessing instead of mourning, festive praise instead of despair.” — Isaiah 61:3
Most people when embarking on a journey spend at least a little bit of time preparing for what they expect to encounter. They pull down the dusty suitcases, empty out forgotten fragments from the last trip, and pack the proper items for the coming trip. Within the season of Lent, Ash Wednesday acts as this packing and preparation stage in the journey towards Easter.
Ash Wednesday is the beginning of Lent, the forty-day period leading up to Easter Sunday. As a whole, the Lenten season symbolizes a journey. During this time, it is common to fast or give up something of value in one’s life. This practice mimics not only the forty days Christ spent fasting in the wilderness at the beginning of his ministry but also the journey of the Israelite wanderings in the desert recounted in the Old Testament. Lent becomes a way of engaging with the journey of Christ by placing God at the center of our daily rhythms, the forefront of our thoughts. In his poetic musings on the Lenten season, Malcolm Guite explains the journey this way: “Wherever we are in our wilderness journey, we are not alone; [God] walks with us even as, in keeping Lent, Holy Week and Easter, we walk with him.” And so as we are reminded of the sacrifices of Christ during Easter, we prepare ourselves with Ash Wednesday.
In many traditions, Ash Wednesday is commemorated by a cross of ashes displayed on the forehead. Think of it as a passport stamp for the journey of Lent. Within the “stamp” are the twofold symbolism of the ashes - repentance and death. What an uplifting way to begin a journey! But in looking a little deeper, they are the symbolic and hopeful preparations for the coming of Easter. Traditionally for the Israelites, ashes played a significant role in atonement practices to right one’s wrongs. It was part of their confessional route to forgiveness. The second nature of the ashes represents the inevitability of death as laid out in Genesis 3:19, which says “for you were made from dust, and to dust you will return.” In the shadow of an imperfect world, death is a painful reality. Yet in the physical reminder of ashes, we are reminded of the hope that became our redemption as Christ sacrificed himself as a final victory over death at the cross on Easter.
There is sorrow and pain in ashes, but the purpose of Ash Wednesday is to remind us that beauty too can come through ashes as the prophet Isaiah foretold. Acknowledging our shortcomings, and remembering the suffering that Christ endured on behalf of humanity are hard and uncomfortable aspects of this journey. But the point of the season of Lent, is that we might better prepare our hearts for the reality of the beauty and hope that Christ offers us through sacrificial salvation. God is with us on the journey, ready with a spiritually equipped suitcase filled with all the items we may have forgotten in our preparations so that nothing hinders the journey to the hope of Easter through our own wildernesses. Ash Wednesday is just the revenant preparation of unloading the old weight and filling our suitcase with what is good for the journey to come.
Words: Sabrina Dawson
Images: Jocelyn Morales, Augustine Wong
The room is pleasantly warm, the fire crackling in the fireplace as the snow falls softly outside. We sit together on the couch, each of us lost in our own thoughts as we reflect on the past season. We remember the highs and the lows, the joys and sorrows. We talk about the goals we've achieved and the plans we've made, and we share our hopes and dreams for the future. As the night wears on, we feel a sense of peace and contentment wash over us. We're grateful for the time that has passed, and we're ready to embrace what comes next with open arms.
The beginning of a new season is a time for reflection and renewal. As we look back on the past, we can't help but feel grateful for the many gifts and experiences we've shared. We remember the moments of joy and laughter, the people who have enriched our lives, and the goals we've accomplished.
At the same time, we can't help but notice the things that didn't go as planned. The missed opportunities, the moments of doubt and fear, and the things we wish we could have done differently all capture our attention. In retrospect, it could have gone better. But it didn’t.
Beginnings and ends abound in the Bible. We look to the story of how God created the world in Genesis 1 & 2. The scene is one of chaos and confusion. This moment, this before, is full of potential and possibility. The earth is still formless and empty, the darkness covering the surface of the deep. But then, God speaks, and light fills the void. God separates the light from the darkness and names the light "day" and the darkness "night." God continues to create, forming the land and the sea, the plants and the animals. And finally, God creates humans in God’s own image. The humans are filled with wonder and awe as they look upon the world God has made for them. They are grateful for the gifts of life and creativity that God has given them, and they are eager to explore the world and all that it has to offer. It was good.
This act of creation was an expression of God's creativity, and it gave meaning and purpose to the world that God had made. As we reflect on the past season of our lives and enter a new one, we can find inspiration in this story. Made in God’s image, we carry a spark of that same spirit of creativity. By tapping into our creativity, we can make sense of the past. And in doing so, we can be content in the present and look ahead to the future with excitement and anticipation.
In taking time to pause during this time of transition, we can partner with God in a future filled with wonder. Creativity is an important aspect of this process, as it allows us to tap into our imagination and explore new ideas. This is setting goals, making plans, or simply finding joy today. Making space for this process can make the most of the path ahead.
There is no doubt that creativity is deeply linked to the life of faith. Faith is a powerful creative force. It gives us the courage to pursue our dreams and the strength to overcome obstacles. It is the spark that ignites our creativity and fuels our enthusiasm. Faith is what allows us to turn our ideas into reality. By connecting with these qualities, we can be inspired and motivated by something greater than ourselves. This can be especially important when we are feeling stuck or uninspired, as faith can bring to light new possibilities we haven't seen before.
Consider the following ideas to embrace creativity and faith in the season that lies ahead of you:
Words: Tyler Zak
Images: Anne Nygard, Alexander Sinn, and Cecilie Johnsen
“And so we know and rely on the love God has for us. God is love. Whoever lives in love lives in God, and God in them. This is how love is made complete among us so that we will have confidence on the day of judgment: In this world we are like Jesus. There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love.” — 1 John 4:16-18
Everything we do can be boiled down to being motivated by fear or love. Our actions are guided by either the desire to avoid the discomfort or pain of rejection or to experience the joy and fulfillment of being embraced. Living by fear can often appear the easier, safer choice than choosing the risk, the vulnerability of living out of love.
This is especially true when our impulse to love and be loved becomes shrouded by uncertainty. We worry the affection we express will go unrequited. We grow anxious that any intimacy and tenderness we find will inevitably result in something we lose. We are haunted by any mistakes we make, of failing to live up to expectations, as becoming the possible grounds for a relationship to end.
Love like this—love driven by fear—is love based on stipulations. It is love given in order to gain—to gain a sense of security or wholeness. It is devotion bound by the caveats of performance. It is adoration that soon proves to be fickle as it is offered or withheld based on comparison and competition—of being “good enough” or “better than.” It is a passion that flickers and eventually dims as feelings change or needs aren’t being met. It is a commitment only as strong as the strings by which it is attached—explicitly or implicitly. This kind of love, ultimately defined by our self-interest, is the love we talk of falling in and out of without rhyme or reason.
But this is not true love. The love we need, the love that is perfect and drives out fear, is love without conditions. It is affection lavishly poured out, not according to percentages or the reconciliation of a balance sheet. It is love that reaches beyond comparison or competition—embracing all of us without discrimination or condemnation of our weaknesses and flaws. Love like this does not ever fade or burn out but endures even when expectations aren’t met, even when trust is broken, and even in our moments of failure, defeat, and shame.
The possibility of such ardent fidelity comes not from within but from above—from our Creator. It derives from the character of the Author of Life, who brings humankind into existence not based on any divine need or reciprocal benefit but purely out of loving-kindness. Even though it is freely given, we often test the limits of God’s endearment toward us—even going so far as to insist we can exist, we can endure by our own devices. But even as we act like rebellious children, our Creator remains steadfastly committed to us. Despite our continually misplaced affections and repeatedly renewed and yet still broken promises of adoration, God does not respond as a jilted and vengeful lover.
Instead, God does the unthinkable, the unimaginable, to reinforce the unchangeable nature of God’s fondness and dedication to humanity. Refusing to remain at a safe distance, our Creator pursues us in the flesh. Coming down in the person of Jesus Christ, God does not repay the infliction of many wounds by striking back in kind but rather turns the other cheek. With open hands willing to be stretched seemingly to their breaking point on a Cross, God tenderly forgives us for always breaking God’s heart. But this divine passion, ultimately expressed through the service and sacrifice of Christ, proves to be even stronger than death itself. And thus, this love is revealed to be a love that can absorb anything thrown at it, a love from which “nothing will be able to separate us” (Romans 8:39).
This love that “keeps no record of wrongs” (1 Corinthians 13:5) also asserts no basis in terms of rights. The power of such dedication rests in it being freely pledged rather than forced by guilt or obligation. Such unconquerable fidelity cannot be earned or gained. Love like this can only be given by our Creator and received by us as God’s creation. But such unqualified and lavish affection is not for us to hoard for ourselves. Divine love is intended, given to us, to flow outward, from God through us to each other.
To deny such tenderness and compassion to a fellow human being is to reject our Creator’s abiding affection for us. This is not a condition for being embraced by God; it is the natural, inevitable consequence of living out of our Creator's abiding affection for us. “We love because he first loved us. Whoever claims to love God yet hates a brother or sister is a liar” (1 John 4:19-20).
While it may seem counterintuitive, loving unconditionally is demanding. More than a feeling, more than simply a choice, unconditional love is a commitment to will the good of another no matter the circumstances. It is an unflinching promise for the future that begins in the present. It is the willingness to be present, to walk alongside, and if necessary, to carry each another amid what remains yet unknown.
The costly nature of such unadulterated love can often seem beyond our grasp. On our own, try as we may, it is. But thanks to the grace of God, who not only loves but is love itself, who imparts such unrivaled delight upon us as a gift, we can both experience and share true love with each other—love without conditions.
撰寫: Chris Tweitmann
攝影: Laura Barry
“Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.”
— Isaiah 43:18-19
We are well into the new year, and as time so cunningly passes by, so much has already unfolded. Winter break has come to a sweet close, work has resumed, new jobs and projects have begun, and resolutions have kicked into gear. January is a symbolic month representing fresh starts in the thick of winter, and while the new year never fails to inspire change, it can be difficult to let go of things that have happened in the previous year to move forward and see a more promising forecast for the future. The wisdom of Isaiah 43:18-19 spring to mind: “Forget the former things; do not dwell on the past. See, I am doing a new thing! Now it springs up; do you not perceive it? I am making a way in the wilderness and streams in the wasteland.” These timely words from scripture invite us to say goodbye to what has happened so that we might welcome what he is presently doing in our lives. To release the impulse to hold on and instead allow ourselves the permission to let go of things we can no longer hold.
To fix our eyes upon the future is not to say that we leave the lessons and insights of the past behind. Rather, it allows us to lean into the growth engendered by those lessons as new opportunities spring forth. Sometimes, it seems easier to bottle up the "hard" things that make us feel weak and present only the stronger, more stabler sides of ourselves to the world. Instead, we should be more compassionate in allowing ourselves to process what needs to be released so that we can heal. And in doing so, we can make room for new experiences and chapters of life to start.
A life of faith is one of constant renewal. The Bible repeatedly reminds us of our restored nature and 2 Corinthians 5:17 says, “Therefore, if anyone is in Christ, he is a new creation. The old has passed away; behold, the new has come.” This notion of newness is an active and pervading presence, a daily invitation for us to step into a reinvented self. It is something we should expect to see in ourselves and others. Jesus urges us to look at the “new thing” he is doing instead of ruminating on what was so that we do not miss what God is showing us in the “here and now”. Sometimes, we get so tied up in trying to understand what lies behind us that we forget to look forward with expectancy to what lies ahead. Letting go is a choice. And when we do, a beautiful breakthrough unfolds. It is as if we sprout wings, prepared to fly without the weight of our inner world, too heavy to carry, ready to embrace what awaits. In this state, we can begin to look ahead with firm footing and a sort of freedom, like the birds of the air, ready to go to new places where God freshly leads.
Whatever is holding us down from last year, may we permit ourselves to lay it down at the feet of Jesus. We can rest assured that by taking this risk, we won’t be losing anything we need to become who we are meant to be. With a new year at hand, the time is now for us to step into a clean slate, one that says hello to new beginnings that spur a renaissance within and throughout our ever-changing lives. What lies in front of us is more exhilarating than we can ask or imagine. May we let go, and be free. Amen.
Words: Alexis Ragan
Images: Hans Veth
Nestled in the lush forests of Eureka Springs, Arkansas, Thorncrown Chapel is a soaring structure of glass and wood that blends seamlessly with its natural surroundings. Designed by renowned architect Fay Jones, the chapel is a testament to the beauty of nature, and the ways it can inspire creativity, faith, and art.
Approaching the chapel, the sunlight filters through the trees, casting soft dappled light on the chapel's wood-clad exterior. The chapel windows seem to disappear into the forest, creating an ethereal, otherworldly atmosphere. Inside, the space is light and airy, with a high ceiling and walls of glass that invite the outside in. The natural light illuminates the simple, elegant furnishings, creating a sense of peace and tranquility. Everything feels still—sacred.
The beauty of the natural world is a reflection of the divine, and yet we so often feel disconnected from its splendors. Amidst the hustle and bustle of everyday life, it is easy to forget the beauty and serenity of the earth. As a renowned architect, Fay Jones knew this well. Life is busy and loud. It is easy to miss the melodies of nature. This is, in part, a matter of perception. It is, as artist Makoto Fujimura describes, “that we fail to see the divine in the earth, already active and working, pouring forth grace and spilling glory into our lives.”
The Thorncrown Chapel’s first inception sprouted in a quiet place. As Fay Jones sat in the forest, surrounded by the beauty of the Ozark Mountains, he soaked it all in. The trees stood tall and proud, their branches reaching toward the sky. The air was filled with the sweet scent of wildflowers and pine. He knew he had found the perfect location for his next project. Jones carefully selected natural materials like wood and stone to craft the chapel, using traditional techniques to create intricate woodwork that evoked a sense of warmth and tranquility. The result was a building that invited the outdoors in and created a sense of harmony between man-made and natural environments. The “divine in the earth” was “spilling glory into our lives”.
“Consider the lilies, how they grow: they neither toil nor spin; but I tell you, not even Solomon in all his glory clothed himself like one of these.” — Luke 12:27
Scripture is rich with celebrations of the majesty of the earth and all those who live on it. From the lush green forests and clear flowing rivers to the delicate petals of a flower and the soaring flight of a bird, the natural world is a constant reminder of the power and creativity of God.
The Thorncrown Chapel celebrates this beauty. Its organic design and use of natural materials evoked a sense of serenity and connection to the environment. Its discerning details bring a sense of calm and peacefulness.
In the pews of its interior, there is a gentle, unspoken invitation for its visitors. To pause and appreciate the beauty of the earth, to seek out moments of connection, and to cultivate peace wherever we go.
Words—Tyler Zak
Photos— Ryan Jones, Connor Wilkins
Explore more sacred places with our look at Grundtvig's Church in Copenhagen, or The Los Angeles Cathedral.
“So when Mary and Joseph came to present the baby Jesus to the Lord as the law required, Simeon was there. He took the child in his arms and praised God, saying,
‘Sovereign Lord, now let your servant die in peace, as you have promised.
I have seen your salvation, which you have prepared for all people.
He is a light to reveal God to the nations, and he is the glory of your people Israel!’” — Luke 2:27-32
We are approaching the culmination of Advent, this season of anticipation and preparation. We have been waiting for Christmas, imagining what gifts we might find under the tree. But what happens on the other side of Christmas? When Christ has come, when the presents are all unwrapped, and our dreams and longings have become reality. We’re left to wonder what comes next.
Chronologically, the biblical song we reflect upon here—the Song of Simeon— was first sung well after the events of Christmas Eve. This melody comes 40 days after Jesus’ birth as his parents bring him to be presented in the Temple. It may seem odd to consider such a passage in the lead-up to Christmas; most of us will have called it quits with the holiday carols long before February. And yet, there are few people whose stories are more in line with this season of waiting and anticipation than Simeon's.
A man of great faith and devotion, we are told that Simeon had been assured by the Holy Spirit that he would not die before he had seen the promised Savior. Luke writes that Simeon “was eagerly waiting” for Jesus. We have seen this kind of eager anticipation reflected in the three other biblical Christmas songs we’ve considered throughout the season. Mary, Zechariah, and the heavenly angels all celebrate what God has done and look ahead with hope to what the birth of Jesus will mean. Simeon’s song echoes Mary’s declarations of God’s faithfulness. He joins Zecharaiah’s refrain of gratitude for God’s preparation. He harmonizes with the angels in proclaiming hope for all the world.
But Simeon’s song is not entirely reprisal. His alone of the four Advent hymns addresses God in the second person—“I have seen your salvation, which you have prepared for all people.” A simple detail on the surface, yet it denotes that for Simeon the emphasis is not just on what we sing, but also on who we sing to. Christmas comes and goes each year, but the miracle it celebrates is everlasting. We carry the song of Christmas in our hearts all through the year; Emmanuel is not confined to 25 days each December. God is with us always.
The hope—the joy of Christmas is not vague or unknowable. It is the personal unveiling of God’s love for all the world, a redemptive and transformative action that sets the world back into tune. Wrongs will be righted, darkness will be illuminated. Promises will come to pass.
It is hard to ignore our culture’s predilection for consumption, particularly during this time of year. We are a people constantly on the move—always looking for more, always onto the next thing. Christmas sales bleed into New Year's blowouts as our societal narrative directs our attention to the gifts we didn’t receive, to the things we still yearn for. We chastise ourselves continually, wishing we were better—more impressive. We worry we are not enough.
In the midst of this, Simeon’s song is one of satisfaction and contentment. The desires of his heart have been fulfilled and he is at peace. To join our voices with Simeon’s is to see ourselves—our lives—not through the lens of what we may lack, but as reflections of God’s goodness and mercy. Time spent waiting is not wasted, but a posture of patience, allowing the gift of God’s promises to unfold. Our weaknesses and struggles are not failings but reminders that our Creator is forever refining and strengthening us. Simeon’s song is but a verse in the cosmic symphony the earth has been singing since its creation. It is an age-old chorus we were made to sing.
1 Shout joyful praises to God, all the earth!
2 Sing about the glory of his name!
Tell the world how glorious he is.
3 Say to God, “How awesome are your deeds!
Your enemies cringe before your mighty power.
4 Everything on earth will worship you;
they will sing your praises,
shouting your name in glorious songs.” — Psalm 66:1-4
As we reflect on Simeon and the wonder of Christmas, we rediscover this ancient melody. The song that places our Creator at the center of all things and gratefully anticipates—celebrates—the promises of redemption. God’s promises are always kept. The gift of Christmas is not conditional; withheld from the naughty and bestowed upon the nice. It is a comfort, a reassurance, an invitation to stop, give thanks, and share out of the blessings we have been given. May we be at peace.
Words: Emma Tweitmann
Images: Annie Spratt
“Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace among those with whom he is pleased!” — Luke 2:14
Throughout the last year, the world has experienced the groanings of conflict. Peace is eroded by a culture of division, injustice, and destruction. We sing of peace on earth and goodwill once the holiday season approaches but seldom do we sing the same sentiments year round. Christmas is more than a temporary season of wonderment, peace, and festivities. Christmas is about the forever promise to this weary world that peace will be victorious and that darkness, the conflict of this world, is the true temporary season. Christ’s light prevails over the darkness every day, not just during Christmas.
The Angels filled the fields with a thunderous song, declaring Glory to God for such a momentous birth that would change the trajectory of all the world. That promise of peace is the praise song that the Angels proclaim to the shepherds on the night when Jesus was born. Shepherds—not royalty or high officials, but the shepherds, whom society deemed lowly and unclean. Shepherds, though rebuffed and uncouth, were met in the field, where they made their livelihood, where they spent their lives. An ordinary field, not a lavish court or concert hall. An open space that held no boundaries, no fencing of private property. The promise fulfilled by Jesus’ birth would not be withheld from anyone, anywhere.
The promise of peace meets us where we are, with no criteria to be met, no status needed. The song of the Angels is our praise song every day as we give Glory to God for peace that is given freely, even on the days when we feel we do not deserve it. Moreover, peace is freely given to others even when we feel they do not deserve it. We do not need a season of practiced merriment, of displayed joy, of decorated peace. Even if the darkness of this world threatens to close all around us, Jesus’ birth reminds us that God’s plans never fail. That, even when everything around us seems consumed by chaos, the peace of Jesus tethers us to the ultimate plan to restore everything back to God. We can rejoice even when we are weary. We can rejoice even when the decorations come down because Jesus’ birth is the triumph that promises good for all corners of the earth.
The Angels' song is a melody of praise for a plan fulfilled, and it is our song too. Our very redemption was interwoven throughout the lives of God’s people from the beginning, the plan to restore us, humanity, back to God. Jesus’ birth is more than the sign of peace to come, it is the converging of these threads of prophecy, of promise, throughout the scriptures and our lives. The final tapestry, the fullness and wholeness of shalom, will be on earth as it is in heaven. Christmas, the birth of Jesus, is the thrill of hope that we need for this weary world to rejoice.
Words: Mary Taylor
Images: Annie Spratt
“But the angel said to him: “Do not be afraid, Zechariah; your prayer has been heard.
Your wife Elizabeth will bear you a son, and you are to call him John.
…Zechariah asked the angel, “How can I be sure of this? I am an old man and my wife is well along in years.” The angel said to him, “I am Gabriel. I stand in the presence of God, and I have been sent to speak to you and to tell you this good news. And now you will be silent and not able to speak until the day this happens, because you did not believe my words, which will come true at their appointed time.”
— Luke 1:11-13, 18-20
Christmas is known as a season for singing—a time when not only the public arena but also our homes and our hearts are filled with music. In anticipation of what’s ahead or out of nostalgia for the years gone by, even those who don’t like the sound of their own voice can find themselves, at this time of year, unconsciously mouthing the words to a familiar song.
But sometimes we lose our voice at Christmas. Not by our design but due to circumstance. The unexpected happens, and suddenly, our breath gets taken away. Life-altering news that we can hardly believe comes to us, and we are left silent. Muted. We can’t find any words.
So it was for a man named Zechariah, an aging but faithful priest who had been waiting all his life for something to happen. Ironically, all that waiting ended up leaving Zechariah completely unprepared for the news that everything he had been waiting for—for which he always had hoped—was about to take place at last. After all that time, he struggled to believe what he was hearing could possibly be true.
It can be easier to expect disappointment instead of fulfillment. As the days turn into weeks and weeks turn into months, and months turn into years, and nothing changes for the better, we can learn to settle for what we have rather than keep hoping for the best. And when the announcement of a turning point comes, it can be challenging to look beyond asking all the questions and holding onto the hesitations to which we’ve grown accustomed.
Keeping the faith is hard when skepticism has become common sense. This can be particularly acute at Christmastime. When life never seems to go the way we planned, the way we were promised, there is no flipping a switch just because the festive music starts to play. While everyone else is singing and making merry as they look to the future, we may grapple with letting go of past disappointments as well as lingering, present reservations.
Zechariah is left dumbstruck by his doubts. His reticence ends up turning into a pregnant pause as the soon-to-be father of a great prophet—of one who will be like “a voice crying in the wilderness” heralding humanity’s salvation—is hushed by divine decree. Zechariah emerges speechless—unable to say anything about what he has been told. Instead, for nine months and eight days, he gets to sit back and watch it all begin to unfold.
This heavenly imposed silence could be viewed as a rebuke. But it is better perceived as a gift, a blessing. For when we grow tired of waiting, we can talk ourselves into mindsets and postures that limit our reception to the possibilities breaking the horizon. Getting stuck in the noise of our own heads often leaves little room for catching the vision of something bigger taking shape before us. Losing our ability to speak better enables us to listen and observe what we don’t, what we can’t, normally hear and see.
Learning to be still, we come to know our Creator is God. Not some distant, aloof deity who arbitrarily makes their presence known now and then but the God who never stops laboring to heal and reshape all creation towards full, abundant, and everlasting life. As we enter rather than resist the stillness and the quiet that comes upon us in our fear and confusion, we are able to perceive the God who continues to work even in the midst of our disbelief.
Zechariah’s lull eventually results in his transformation. Something changes within him. Previous apprehensions are eclipsed by his comprehension of past blessings. Old arguments and uncertainties are lifted by a growing awareness and anticipation of what God is birthing before his eyes. Eventually, Zechariah’s mouth is opened. His tongue is loosened. Protest becomes praise as the first words out of his mouth are a blessing, a song.
What Zechariah sings is the song that remains the same. First authored by our Creator, it is the ancient melody we need to remember and learn to sing anew in what sometimes feels like the yawning gap between promise and fulfillment. It is the heavenly chorus of God’s longstanding history of deliverance and redemption. It is the heralding of the angels of a song that goes beyond mere words to become flesh—God with and for us in the person of Jesus Christ.
Finding our voice at Christmas isn’t about making ourselves feel better or trying to capture memories of former glories. Finding our voice is about discovering, sharing, and embodying the abiding presence and generous character of the One whose birth we celebrate. Proclaiming in word and deed the steadfast love and mercies of God that are new—not just at Christmas—but every morning.
Words: Chris Tweitmann
Images: Luke Hodde, Cassandra Ortiz, and Jasper Garratt
"My soul glorifies the Lord and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior." — Luke 1:46-47
The Advent season is a time for joyful remembering and retelling. Each year, as we await the coming of Christmas, we gather around and share all the best family stories, photos, and home videos. And while there is always space for new traditions, most of our focus is on what has come before us, remembering things that have made us smile in years past.
Music has a unique ability to connect different people and generations. As we walk through stores or sit in coffee shops during the holiday season, we often find ourselves humming along to familiar tunes with people in our proximity. Through music, we can share smiles and conversations with strangers. Well-known songs form a shared language between us, with common stories, feelings, and sentiments resounding among us.
This community, built over song, was also part of first-century Jewish culture as significant stories were retold and passed down through song. Our modern understanding of the significance of songs is not all that different—they are a way for us to express more emotions in fewer words with a depth of sound to convey what lyrics alone cannot. Songs remain a poetic way to share our stories. And as the holidays approach, we sing many of the same songs over and over, cherishing our favorite lyrics and voices in the comforting way that this season invites.
Within the first few verses of the Gospel of Luke, Mary gives voice to a song, also known as the Magnificat, that sets the tone for much of the story that is about to unfold. Pregnant and overjoyed, Mary’s song offers praise to God for the story being told through her life. There is a knowledge that as a result of what God is doing in Mary’s life, “from now on all generations will call me blessed, for the Mighty One has done great things for me” (Luke 1:48b-49, NIV). Another translation reads “all the people who ever shall be will call me the happiest of women!” (PHILLIPS). Mary is still just as unsure of how the story will develop as she is of the person the child growing in her will become, but her reflection in this moment rings true with the happiest of praise. She is a vessel for the fulfillment of promises to generations just as her song has continued to be a reminder for generations after her. Each Advent, her words ring more and more true as we tell of the powerful story God chose to do through this humble woman.
Much of what Mary sang continues to be comforting as we seek hope in our uncertainty. As God fulfilled so many promises through the birth of Christ, Mary got to witness and praise, singing this song over and over and treasuring these things in her heart. The appeal of Christmas is the same for us—we seek comfort and hope as we anticipate God to continue to fulfill promises.
What can we carry with us this Advent from a song so powerful that we join in the words of this young mother with us for 2,000 years, repeating it year after year as Advent approaches? Humility and joy—these are two of the main things Mary intertwined with her praise; together, they set the tone for much of the Advent season. Hundreds of our carols and songs mimic the same tone of a joyful young mother, humbled in awe at the story God is telling through her life. There is a wonder to Christmas that we seek to capture through music; a sense that in entering into this season we are bearing witness to something life-changing.
We rejoice as light breaks over a too-dark world and dare to hope that the transformation God intends for the world will extend to us too. Later, after Mary gives birth to Jesus, she “treasured up all these things and pondered them in her heart” (Luke 2:19). Like many mothers, perhaps she continued to sing these same words of praise over her son long after the lullaby was needed as she watched the refrain she vocalized become more and more true.
With that heart posture, may the words we sing and the stories we share ring more true to the characteristics of God this year and in all our years to come. Carrying an attitude of humility and joy, may we find hope and comfort as we watch and anticipate the actions of God.
Words: Sabrina Dawson
Images: Aaron Burden
Pausing in the midst of our busyness to ruminate on God's faithfulness.
We are quickly approaching the busiest time of the year. Our schedules, already so jam-packed, are becoming loaded with parties to attend, travel plans to finalize, shopping lists to complete. Continual reminders of what we lack—what we have yet to acquire or achieve—appear before us.
And yet, in the midst of all this hustle and bustle, we as a culture set aside time for thankfulness. If we approach Thanksgiving passively, as just another wave of holiday commotion, the intention of the day can feel hollow. We water down what it means to give thanks to sharing trite affirmations around a dinner table. But to reduce thankfulness in this way is to neglect an essential aspect of our lives of faith.
Thankfulness is an opportunity to pause and reflect. While the frenetic pace of our lives typically keeps our eyes fixed on what comes next, a posture of thanksgiving invites us to perceive and celebrate all of the ways we have been blessed and provided for. We take stock; we reflect on the highs and lows of the past season and acknowledge that in the face of all of it God has carried us through.
The importance of thankfulness is emphasized in the psalms, where psalms of thanksgiving make up an entire category of the poems and songs contained in the text. Scholars have described the psalms of thanksgiving as the natural counterpart of another category of psalms, the psalms of lament. Where the lament psalms call out to God for help and comfort in the midst of moments of struggle or grief, thanksgiving psalms celebrate God’s providence and care in answering our prayers.
Both lament and thanksgiving are a part of the natural rhythms of faith. We can bring our worries and our pains before our Creator and ask for guidance and help. And we can rejoice and cherish the gifts and answers the Spirit has provided. In thankfulness, we reap the harvest God has produced in our lives and root ourselves even more firmly in God’s love.
Psalms of thanksgiving typically contain three key elements:
I. A declaration of praise to God highlighting God’s response to a specific situation
II. An invitation for others to join in a posture of thankfulness
III. A reaffirmation of an individual or community’s commitment to God
In these three characteristics, we see a model for what it looks like to embrace thankfulness. As we look back, reflecting on how the Spirit has been at work in our lives, thankfulness moves us to a response. We shout for joy; we take stock for the future; we seek to reflect the generosity we have experienced within our communities.
Thankfulness is not static. Acknowledging and appreciating what we have been given reorients how we embrace what is yet to come. In the words of Psalm 118,
1 Give thanks to the Lord, for he is good!
His faithful love endures forever…
4 Let all who fear the Lord repeat:
“His faithful love endures forever.”
5 In my distress I prayed to the Lord,
and the Lord answered me and set me free.
6 The Lord is for me, so I will have no fear.
What can mere people do to me?
To give thanks is to refuse to adopt a posture of discontentment and insatiability. Instead, thankfulness enables us to live our lives out of an appreciation for the goodness and truth of God.
In the midst of our busyness, may we make space to truly pause and give thanks for the ways that God is continually moving us toward beauty and peace. Amen.
Writing: Emma Tweitmann
Photographer: Luca Bravo
A reflection on what it means to give thanks and to give back
“Give thanks to the Lord and proclaim his greatness.
Let the whole world know what he has done.” —Psalm 105:1
In this season of thanksgiving, many of us find ourselves with an abundance of blessings to give thanks for. As we gather around our tables, we thank God for the bounty of our meals, for the joys of family and community, for the chance to stop and celebrate.
It is good to give thanks, to express our gratitude for our Creator. But understood in the fullest sense, thankfulness should move us to a response—to generosity.
Generosity and gratitude go hand in hand. When we practice gratitude, we recognize and cherish all the ways in which we have been provided for. Generosity prompts us to reflect the love and care that we have been shown back to those around us. When we give thanks, we remember that God is generous—nurturing humanity not out of obligation, but out of unconditional compassion. To be generous ourselves is to live by the example God has set, to act justly, love mercy, and humbly acknowledge that we may bless others because God first blessed us.
Our generosity is also a reflection of our trust in our Creator. In Matthew 25, Jesus tells a story of three servants who were each entrusted with a portion of their master’s money while he was away. Two of the servants invested what they had been given, earning even more through their work. The third servant buried his bag of silver in the field. When the master returned, he praised the first two servants for their handling of what he gave them, using the resources to produce more. But the master chastised the third servant for squirreling his resources away and producing no fruit.
How are we using the gifts and resources we have been given? Are we sharing with our communities, with our world, out of love and care? Or are we keeping our resources stored away for ourselves alone? Through generosity, we use the gifts of God to further God’s vision of goodness and beauty. We act out of faith, confident that the Spirit will continue to provide for us. As Paul writes in his second letter to the church in Corinth,
“Yes, you will be enriched in every way so that you can always be generous. And when we take your gifts to those who need them, they will thank God.” —2 Corinthians 9:11
This Thanksgiving, may our gratitude lead us to live generously. May we seek to participate in God’s vision of Shalom—wholeness and peace—by sharing our blessings with all those whom God has placed in our paths. Amen.
Words: Emma Tweitmann
Photography: Olesia Bahrii, Priscilla Du Preez
“Peace I leave with you; my peace I give you. I do not give to you as the world gives. Do not let your hearts be troubled and do not be afraid.” —John 14:27
Words: Alexis Ragan
Images: Marek Piwnicki
What if we reimagined cooking's purpose? Our daily routines of food-making would not merely serve purposes of utility or quick-fixes, but involve an exploration of our creative and spiritual lives.
Picture the upper room—pregnant with the aroma of lamb simmering in saffron, the crack of unleavened bread in calloused hands, and the splash of wine trickling into cups. The evening before Jesus’ death is spent here, around a meal with his disciples. In mystery and truth, Jesus chooses bread and wine to convey his body and blood to his followers. And this ‘last supper’ becomes the bedrock of Christian tradition throughout history.
Food, cooking, and the sharing of meals involve a mystical power. They are remarkably fit for articulating the things of God. In Proverbs 16:24, gracious words are compared to a honeycomb, “sweet to the soul and healing to the bones.” The early church is encouraged to practice the ‘breaking of bread.’ In the earliest scriptures, we uncover the first mention of food.
“Then God said, ‘I give you every seed-bearing plant on the face of the whole earth and every tree that has fruit with seed in it. They will be yours for food.’” (Genesis 1:29)
Since our collective beginning, humanity has always had a relationship with food. Food is the greatest equalizer; it captures memory, it creates entry points, it constructs bridges, and it serves a purpose. Cooking is necessary, traditional, and delicious—and helps us become creative.
Everyone cannot always draw, sculpt, paint, or practice the traditional means of creativity—but everyone must eat. Cooking, or the practice of preparing food, is the most accessible, engaging, and understandable form of creativity. It is a practice born out of universal need, but infinitely diverse, meaningful, and personal in nature. When smelling your mother’s steaming curry, unwrapping your abuelita’s tamales, or biting into your uncle’s barbecued ribs, you can be instantly snatched back to a time, place, and feeling.
Cooking is commonplace. Besides entertainment shows and high-class restaurants, it often gets little credit as a creative form. But cooking artfully is not reserved purely for a Le Cordon Bleu Chef or a professional baker. Fine china, plastic plates, old newspapers, and banana leaves are all canvases for the commoner’s food.
What if we reimagined cooking's purpose? Our mothers and fathers would be our first artists, forming food that imprinted us with experiences of delight, satisfaction, and love. Our daily routines of food-making would not merely serve purposes of utility or quick-fixes, but involve an exploration of our creative and spiritual lives. Our relationship to produce, animal, and land would be rescued from misguided systems to meaningful connections.
In his book Cooked: A Natural History of Transformation, Michael Pollan asks, “For is there any practice less selfish, any labor less alienated, any time less wasted, than preparing something delicious and nourishing for people you love?” Strangled by the speed of industry and culture, cooking has lost much of its role in the world. But no matter their background, every person can point to the kitchen as a place where they received deep love.
Jesus, himself, cooked. In John 6, Jesus miraculously multiplies five loaves of bread and two fish into enough for 5,000 men and their families—effectively catering for a large gathering. He shares multiple meals with his disciples, including his last supper before death. And, in John 21, Jesus appears to his disciples on a seashore after his resurrection, tending a fire to cook fish and bread.
Cooking and the breaking of bread can form an outlet of creativity and care. In this very mundane and ordinary rhythm, we can access an ancient and meaningful expression of creativity. Perhaps you might consider preparing and sharing a meal with a new neighbor, prioritizing family meals together, or simply making cooking a more mindful, creative exercise.
Consider the heat and cut of meat you salt, spice and sear. Consider the colors and structures of produce you smell, slice and sauté. Make the mixing, kneading and baking into a meditative, devotional practice. Pay mind to the plating, the portions, and your palate’s response. Even as you eat, consider the tastes, textures, and appetite rumbling inside you.
The great reward of this creative practice, however, is the meal. Like Jesus often demonstrated, the breaking of bread is a space to enjoy the labor of cooking, extend love to one another, and experience the gift of community. As you eat, look at those around your table. Remember the people that planted, picked, and prepared the food. Clink glasses together, fill each other’s plates without hesitation, and relish the creative joy of cooking, serving, and feasting together.
Words: Daniel Sunkari
Images: Bryan Ye-Chung and Tyler Zak
Letting go of our need for control and allowing the Spirit to guide us.
For many of us, our daily lives are characterized by a deep desire for control. So much about the world—about our own lives—is out of our hands. We cling to our schedules, our organization methods, our outlines; these are all means for us to feel in control. And if we could just find the right strategy, surely that would guarantee that we succeed.
But the honest truth is that even our most curated and calculated plans are imperfect. We fall short of our goals; we are faced with failure and powerlessness. This can feel like a frightening space to inhabit, but in fact, relinquishing control is an opportunity to let go of our burdens and find comfort.
In Romans chapter 8, the apostle Paul invites us to let go of control, and instead find power and encouragement in the Holy Spirit: “So now there is no condemnation for those who belong to Christ Jesus. And because you belong to him, the power of the life-giving Spirit has freed you from the power of sin that leads to death.”
We have been set free by Jesus. The Holy Spirit is our guide to fully embracing new life—a life of peace. We on our own don’t have all the answers, but we don’t need to! In times of uncertainty or struggle, we can turn to the Spirit. Paul continues in Romans 8:26, “And the Holy Spirit helps us in our weakness. For example, we don’t know what God wants us to pray for. But the Holy Spirit prays for us with groanings that cannot be expressed in words.”
So often, our attempts to manage our lives—to control everything— are futile, or worse, they end up causing more stress and confusion. When we allow the Holy Spirit to work in our lives, we give control over to God. The metric of a well-lived life is no longer the world’s standard for success; our value is not determined by our accomplishments. Instead, we are defined by our relationship with the Lord—we are God's children and God is guiding our steps.
The Holy Spirit is with us always—constantly comforting, encouraging, and equipping us. And the presence of the Spirit in our lives is a literal manifestation of the promise of scripture. As Paul writes,
“And I am convinced that nothing can ever separate us from God’s love. Neither death nor life, neither angels nor demons, neither our fears for today nor our worries about tomorrow—not even the powers of hell can separate us from God’s love. No power in the sky above or in the earth below—indeed, nothing in all creation will ever be able to separate us from the love of God that is revealed in Christ Jesus our Lord.” (Romans 8:38-39)
We can let go of our need for control. Our good and loving Creator has given us the gift of His Spirit to direct us and uplift us.
Words: Emma Tweitmann
Photography: Ankush Minda and Greg Rosenke
Relying on God in the midst of the chaos of our world.
When we look out into our world, we can see uncertainty and chaos. Chaos can take many forms. A minute of scrolling through our feeds tells a dozen stories of the suffering of our friends, the pain in the world, or even the success of the undeserving. All of these voices whisper, “Maybe God doesn’t know what He’s doing.” If we let ourselves forget God’s sovereignty, the world becomes a much more terrifying place.
Jesus, however, invites us into a different reality.
Courage is living in God’s power despite the chaos of the world. Scripture’s narrative shows the pain and the injustice of the world, yet it points us to a greater hope. Even though countless reasons to fear swirl around us, God relentlessly seeks our thriving.
The story of Paul and Silas in prison (Acts 16:16-40) is one of the most powerful stories of courage and resilience in the scriptures. Two men, wrongfully imprisoned, choose to praise God rather than bemoan their unjust circumstances.
“About midnight Paul and Silas were praying and singing hymns to God, and the other prisoners were listening to them” (Acts 16:25).
How can we shape our minds in opposition to fear? Here’s one way. Like Paul and Silas, we can worship. As we sing (or draw or write or sculpt) we can oppose the many voices around us that say God is not in control. It takes courage to sing praise amidst suffering. We risk disappointment and rejection. But imagine for a moment, what could Paul and Silas have been singing about in that jail cell? Were they singing of how God freed Israel from slavery in Egypt? Were they singing of Jesus on the cross? Were they singing of something God had done in their own lives? As they sang, the reality of the jail became smaller and the reality of the Kingdom became greater.
What songs might we sing in the face of trial and opposition?
Closely tied to courage is resilience. Where courage stands in defiance of the chaos of the world, resilience sits at peace despite it. In the jail cell, a violent earthquake frees Paul and Silas.
“The jailer woke up, and when he saw the prison doors open, he drew his sword and was about to kill himself because he thought the prisoners had escaped. But Paul shouted, ‘Don’t harm yourself! We are all here!’” (Acts 16:27-28)
Paul and Silas do not leave their situation of suffering even though they have the full ability to do so. In staying put, they save the jailer’s life.
We are often tempted to check out—to ignore or dismiss the pain of those around us. Our world teaches us to seek comfort at every opportunity. In fact, discomfort is almost a moral evil in our culture, something that we dedicate billions of dollars every year to combat.
Resilience is the ability to stay in the cell when it would be so much easier to leave. Jesus’ life and death assure Paul and Silas that they can be at peace in the jail cell. Jesus let himself be subject to the chaos of the world, and so would they. Their courage and resilience, built upon trust in God, lead not only to their own rescue but to rescue and renewal of those God placed in their path.
This is good news! We can both defy the chaos of our world and be at peace within it. As we meditate on this paradox, we step closer to the heart of Jesus on the cross, the ultimate act of courage and resilience.
Words: Matt Hayashida
Photography: Inés Álvarez Fdez, Annie Spratt
Practical steps for developing a creative practice and a Biblical framework for how to approach the process of making.
Making art is almost certainly an act of courage and bravery. To make something, and put a piece of yourself into that thing, is no small feat. We mimic our Creator and make things that reflect our lives. This is called love, but it is very hard to do.
When we talk about the barriers, the things that keep us from pursuing art, we are also talking about what it means to be brave. Alongside our bravery, we must also consider humility. Creating meaningful art requires a humility about our lives, our work, and our process. If we lack humility, the process of beginning again and again and again will overwhelm us, and we’ll walk away from our creative calling for something that doesn’t cost so much.
This may be why Jesus tells his disciples that, “unless a kernel of wheat falls to the ground and dies, it remains only a single seed. But if it dies, it produces many seeds.” We must have courage to face that kind of dying, and in that death, embrace a limitless kind of living. There are the seeds of many creative dreams inside of us, if only we have the humility to let them emerge.
As we consider the barriers that all creatives must face in some form or another, here are three that are valuable to name; and reflections on how they might be overcome.
I need to be perfect
There’s a lot to be said about the pressures that we put on ourselves as humans. We often think that we need to become God in order for anything good or worthwhile to happen in our lives.
For the artist, this looks like self-obsessed living and the kind of devotion to craft that destroys relationship. It is a fine thing to be dedicated to improving, but another thing to think that this dedication will save us from suffering.
We are imperfect people, brought forward by Christ into God’s loving presence. From this place we do our making, our creating and our innovating.
It needs to be perfect
Sometimes it’s just time to ship it, be done and move on. We are actually stifling creative flow when we forever come back to the same project over and over and over again. We cannot begin again and again and again if we never finish our projects, paintings, or poetry.
Nothing we make should happen in the pursuit of perfection. A bunch of honest, creative messes are better than the endless refinement of one thing that you never share with the world.
The message needs to be perfect
A significant barrier for emerging creatives is the tendency to try and force a message into the medium in which they find themselves working. To paraphrase poet Richard Hugo, a poem titled “Autumn Rain” better not be about autumn rain.
When we decide on a message and try to reverse engineer our art around that core message, we lose something important of the creative process. This is the opposite of a generative approach to our creativity.
God’s model is one of openness. When Adam is invited to name the animals, there is possibility. Real creative options exist. God doesn’t tell Adam to create around a core set of principles. Instead, the Lord, “brought them to the man to see what he would name them; and whatever the man called each living creature, that was its name.” In the Genesis 2 vision of creating there is opennesses. True things happen in the process, but truth is not coerced. Our art will almost certainly say true things, but when we try to force a message we cease to make art and end up with propaganda.
Our messaging will be messy because we are messy. It is a fine thing to say that “love of neighbor” is your launching point, but when we feel bound to always bring our creative project back to that topic we are stifling the possibility of new things within us. Let things unfold, and be what they become.
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Making art is an act of bravery. There are no guaranteed outcomes and we don’t know how any of this will actually shake out. We don’t get to control the barriers, only whether or not we will face them. Or, like Charles Bukowski wrote, “What matters most is how well you walk through the fire.”
When we consider the moment we choose to face our barriers, it may be good to remember the bravest thing that Bilbo Baggins ever did in J.R.R Tolkien’s novel, The Hobbit:
“A sound, too, began to throb in his ears, a sort of bubbling like the noise of a large pot galloping on the fire, mixed with a rumble as of a gigantic tom-cat purring. This grew to the unmistakable gurgling noise of some vast animal snoring in its sleep down there in the red glow in front of him.
It was at this point that Bilbo stopped. Going on from there was the bravest thing he ever did. The tremendous things that happened afterwards were as nothing compared to it. He fought the real battle in the tunnel alone, before he ever saw the vast danger that lay in wait.”
The hardest part is walking towards the things that will seemingly result in our death. It isn’t the struggle, it isn’t the battle, and it isn’t the making. It’s the moment when we clearly see all the ways we could be crushed by continuing and still take a step forward.
In our pursuit of art, we learn the courage to face death, failure, and fear. It is the bravery of walking toward the things that feel impossible. It is the knowing that to practice our art is to practice resurrection again and again and again. Amen.
Words: Geoff Gentry
Images: Bryan Ye-Chung
Exploring what it means to intentionally cultivate and grow our communities.
In our ever-connected world, humans have the opportunity to communicate with each other more than ever. But even though the average adult has hundreds of friends and connections on social media, we normally only communicate with four to six people directly on a weekly basis. With the growing concerns over the negative mental health consequences of social media consumption, we’re forced to ask ourselves, is this the kind of connection we were created for?
In the second creation poem found in Genesis, God comments that it is not good for the human he had created to be alone (Genesis 2:18). Immediately, a search is commenced to find a suitable companion.
But God didn’t just create human community for the sake of belonging and comfort. Genesis 1 shows us that the identity of humans is inextricably connected to their purpose as vice-regent stewards over creation. Our connection to each other is meant to propel us forward in our identity as image-bearers of God.
Dutch priest Henri Nouwen describes Christian community, not as a closed circle of people embracing each other, “but a forward-moving group of companions bound together by the same voice asking for their attention.” If community is an important aspect of our life of following Jesus, then shouldn’t it be treated with the same level of intentional action as any other spiritual discipline?
To ignore intentionally cultivating community with others is to cut ourselves off from each other—to waste away in solitude. We feel the hunger that is left by social distancing, remote work, and ever-increasingly smaller cliques on social media. Choosing to build community as a spiritual discipline helps us connect to and celebrate the image of God in every person we meet—no matter how we differ or disagree with them.
God’s very nature is one of fellowship in diversity, and seeking to practice forging communal bonds with all people God has created—even those the world has neglected or forgotten—is an act of worship.
Jesus himself often intentionally sought out those who were cut off from others and worked to restore them to community (Luke 5:12-16 and 8:43-48). Reconnecting them with their fellow humans was an essential component of the healing he brought about in their lives. We follow in Jesus’ footsteps when we choose to engage others intentionally, compassionately, and prayerfully. Cultivating community in this way creates space for ourselves and others to grow into the fullness of who God created us to be.
As British theologian N.T. Wright points out, we as humans were “designed to find our purpose and meaning not simply in ourselves…but in one another.” So as we continue to learn how to live in this ever-connected and ever-isolated society, one of the ways we grow in our worship of God is by cultivating community and deepening our connection to each other.
As we seek to engage the spiritual discipline of cultivating community as an act of worship, author Christine Pohl offers four practices that sustain community: gratitude, promise-keeping, truth-telling, and hospitality. These practices serve as guide rails as we endeavor to engage each other authentically and healthily. However, an essential starting point for every aspect of following Jesus is prayer and conversation. In prayer, we invite God to help us reflect and prompt questions about whether we are being called to invest in a new community in this season. Having a conversation with a close friend about these topics allows a diversity of feedback. One might even find that both parties desire to learn together how to create space for others to experience the glory and beauty of God.
As we continue to learn how to grow in our relationship with Jesus, let us not neglect to gather together in Christ-centered community (Hebrews 10:25). Rather may we commit to an intentional investment in community that moves beyond a safe shelter or cozy clique, but is gathered and formed by the divine call of the One who is love-in-community.
Words: Drew Williams
Photography: Andreas Wagner, Daniel J. Schwarz
“Now, you women, hear the word of the Lord; open your ears to the words of his mouth. Teach your daughters how to wail; teach one another a lament." (Jeremiah 9:20)
We live together in a beautiful yet broken world.
Life is fragile and finite. Sickness, disease, and ultimately death, affect us all. The bonds of love which bind us to people, places, and practices inevitably are severed. Therefore, try as we may, we cannot avoid grief and loss.
Creation, despite its many wonders, groans through weather events—heatwaves, floods, and wildfire wreaking havoc around the globe. The natural world longs for its redemption from humanity’s lack of care and worse, abuse of its resources.
And the more things change, the more it feels like they stay the same. Political divisions eclipse political solutions. Religious differences separate us rather than bring us together. Longheld prejudices based on variances in skin color, ethnicity, and gender prove hard to break or put aside. Corruption and injustice repeatedly mar humanity’s best ideas and efforts in the name of progress.
Before the polarization of communities, the isolation of individuals, and the untended wounds of creation, there is the temptation of disengagement. Perceiving the immensity and complexity of it all, we can choose to step back. And should we surrender to the rising sense of futility about the future, our apathy soon weaves itself into a self-protective cocoon of cynicism.
Before all the brokenness around and the festering questions within us - ones, we cannot answer—there is another way we can choose to respond. We can choose to lament. To lament is not to hold back but to openly express our grief and sorrow. It is to articulate the frustration. To vent the anger. To raise the questions. To confess our doubts even as we challenge the status quo.
Lament is an exercise of spiritual agency—an expression of an active, engaged faith rather than a passive, resigned one. It is to cry out in the conviction that this life is not the way it is supposed to be. It is to defiantly believe in a better world that is not only possible but promised to us. It is to look beyond the limit of ourselves and reach out to the God who takes the responsibility for setting things right. It is an articulation of hope—that loss, suffering, injustice, and death cannot and will not ultimately have the last word—hope in the God who beckons to look inside an empty tomb and view everything through the lens of resurrection.
Oftentimes the greatest threat borne out of suffering and loss is not only the physical pain it produces. It is the way grief and loss make us feel like powerless victims, destroying our sense of personal integrity and moral agency. Many work hard to deny, to hide from, to try to kill this deeper pain we experience within. But to do so is to sever one of the most sacred links of relationships to people and to place - that we are all in this together.
The practice of lament enables us to go beyond feeling sorry for ourselves and to recognize our solidarity with our brothers and sisters. Rather than grinning and bearing the toils and snares of this life alone, we choose to stand with each other. We seek to embrace the people before us who are hurting, frustrated, confusing, and questioning like we are and to protest and push back against the suffering, injustice, and brokenness in our lives and our world.
For lament isn’t cursing the darkness as much as facing the darkness with the Light that is greater—the Light that darkness cannot overcome. To lament is to begin to follow that Light in not condemning the world but choosing to redeem the beauty amid all the brokenness. To lament is to love—not to shy away from the fear and the hurt—but to enter into both honestly and hopefully. It is, in and through our vocations, offering a vision of a better world—of what might be, of what could be, of what someday will be.
Words:Chris Tweitmann
Photography: Daniela Paola Alchapar
At that time the disciples came to Jesus and asked, “Who, then, is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven?” He called a little child to him, and placed the child among them. And he said: “Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Therefore, whoever takes the lowly position of this child is the greatest in the kingdom of heaven. And whoever welcomes one such child in my name welcomes me.” — Matthew 18:1-5
Children are a constant wonder. They are drawn to simple things with great awe and yet speak honest words that most adults haven’t the courage to say. We often admire children for their unique insights and captivating ways of describing adult concepts. But rarely do we include them in adult conversations.
The books of Matthew, Mark, and Luke all write accounts about the value Jesus placed on children in an unexpected moment. One day, the disciples asked Jesus who the most important people in heaven would be. We might assume they were after praise and affirmation of their own status. After all, they were the people with whom Jesus chose to spend the most time. But, Jesus shocked them by gathering up one of the nearby children and presenting the child as the ideal heavenly citizen. Often socially overlooked because of naivety, a child suddenly became the chosen and valued example for entering heaven.
Reflecting on this story, we might ask ourselves as the disciples did, what child-like qualities contribute to a better understanding of the values of the kingdom of heaven?
The first thing Jesus points to is the dependence of children. Relying on adults for even the most basic needs, children are open to asking for help in their vulnerability. As a child grows, they need their parents less and less, yet it is at this early age that Jesus praises them. Why? Because it is the dependence on God’s mercy and grace that allows us access to the kingdom. Dependence requires faith that God will provide and help push us higher to our greatest joys. It is a recognition of our own limitations and a willingness to accept guidance.
The other quality that is so intuitive to children is their question-driven conversation. They ask questions to gain knowledge of how the world around them functions. In a similar way, they answer questions with complete honesty and rarely hold back out of concern for social convention or decorum. Unlike the disciples who asked questions with presumed answers in mind, children inquire to genuinely learn and will not ask a question if they already know the answer. Our relationship with God can function in a very similar way—if we are asking questions with an agenda, we are doing it wrong. But when we earnestly seek God for knowledge and wisdom, we gain a different perspective and understanding of the world.
As adults, our hearts are warmed by the trust children give us in their dependence as well as their thoughtful yet unique questions. The openness of children, with all their curiosities and vulnerabilities, brings insight and joy into even the most philosophical conversations regarding our lives of faith. It must have shocked the disciples when Jesus drew the children close and instructed his followers to take lessons of faith from lowly, naive positions. But from those places, we can continue to learn about the values of heaven. When next we encounter a child with a question, let us ponder what their curiosity and trust can teach us. May we marvel at the ways our faith can grow from asking God questions.
Words: Sabrina Dawson
Images: Michał Bożek, Nguyen Bui, Markus Spiske
"Journaling is a space where I can write it all down. I can get my thoughts out, unload my brain from the day and see what’s actually going on in my soul. It’s a practical way to unburden my mind and allow myself to rest."
In the age of noise, we need the art of journal-keeping more than ever as a place to keep your thoughts, faith and relationships grounded.
This is part of why we felt it was important to make Alabaster: The Notebook Beautiful. We need sacred spaces of quiet and reflection that allow us to breathe and be in the presence of God. We need free space for our works of making, to create - write poetry for example, dream, and hope.
Here’s how I personally use journaling to overcome the barriers, deepen my faith and creative life:
1. Journaling is a space where I can write it all down. I can get my thoughts out, unload my brain from the day and see what’s actually going on in my soul. It’s a practical way to unburden my mind and allow myself to rest.
2. Journaling is an opportunity for me to reflect and learn from my past. I ask questions about how I’ve lived my life: What would I do the same? What would I do differently? What lessons am I learning in this season? Asking questions leads to a more intentional way of living, and journaling helps me get there.
3. Journaling is a place for me to pray + write my thoughts to God. Sometimes my mind goes all over the place or gets distracted by the endless scroll of my phone. Notebooks are a beautiful analog tool, helping me to focus and pray.
Where do you see the value of journaling in your life? How has keeping a journal helped you push through the noise? Share a post, tag @alabaster_asia with the hashtag #madetocreate.
Words: Brian Chung (Alabaster Co. co-founder)
Readying ourselves for rest and reflecting on God's providence.
Our lives are full. Meetings, commitments, responsibilities pack our days to the brim. We work hard to optimize our schedules--to prioritize the right things; there are so many plates we have to keep spinning and we have anxious thoughts about what might happen if we let a single one drop.
After a busy day, it can be difficult to quiet our minds and truly rest at night. Many of us prepare ourselves for bed not by winding down, but by running through the goals and tasks that await us when we wake. Our rest times are often anything but restful.
What if we established a new rhythm for our nights. What if we readied ourselves for bed not by preemptively taking on the stresses of tomorrow, but instead by letting go of the stresses of today?
When we prepare ourselves for sleep, let us be reminded of God’s providence and care. The Lord is in control; He is guiding and protecting us as we go about our day and as we sleep through the night. He willingly bears our burdens--we need not be weighed down by them. 1 Peter 5:7 encourages us, “Give all your worries and cares to God, for he cares about you.”
Let us give our worries to God as we quiet ourselves for the night, reflecting on the words of Psalm 121 and internalizing its affirmation of God’s providence over us.
1 I look up to the mountains—
does my help come from there?
2 My help comes from the Lord,
who made heaven and earth!
3 He will not let you stumble;
the one who watches over you will not slumber.
4 Indeed, he who watches over Israel
never slumbers or sleeps.
5 The Lord himself watches over you!
The Lord stands beside you as your protective shade.
6 The sun will not harm you by day,
nor the moon at night.
7 The Lord keeps you from all harm
and watches over your life.
8 The Lord keeps watch over you as you come and go,
both now and forever.
As we read this passage this evening, we are comforted by the knowledge that we are in the palm of God’s hand. While we so often feel pressure and anxiety born out of a sense of responsibility to keep everything up and running, Psalm 121 reminds us that it is God and God alone who creates and sustains the universe.
This assurance helps us to reorient our evenings. We can rest easy; the Lord is watching over us. He will guide us through each coming day and preserve us throughout the night. As we prepare to go to sleep, let us give thanks for the ways in which God has helped us embrace the gift of today. Let us anticipate--not with stress, anxiety, or fear-- the opportunities He will place in front of us tomorrow. But most of all, let us breathe in the assurance that we are safe and loved; God is watching over us. We can fall asleep. Let us be at peace.
Words: Emma Tweitmann
Art: Jr Korpa
“9 So they rushed back from the tomb to tell his eleven disciples—and everyone else—what had happened. 10 It was Mary Magdalene, Joanna, Mary the mother of James, and several other women who told the apostles what had happened. 11 But the story sounded like nonsense to the men, so they didn’t believe it.
12 However, Peter jumped up and ran to the tomb to look. Stooping, he peered in and saw the empty linen wrappings; then he went home again, wondering what had happened.
Luke 24:9-12
If we’re honest with ourselves, most of us do not put much stock in hope. It’s a nice idea, of course, in a fantastical daydreaming kind of way. But in truth, we often do not expect that our hopes—our visions of a better future—are attainable. Weighed down by an avalanche of bad news, broken systems, and bad-faith actors, it is easy to feel defeated. “What’s the point of resisting?” we wonder. A pitiful ending seems inevitable.
In such a worldview, hope is passe, infantile, cringeworthy. And anyone who can remain optimistic, we assume, is just not paying close enough attention. As we contemplate the Easter story, we might find ourselves agreeing with the apostles' initial assessment—that it sounds like nonsense. We might be tempted to shake our heads at the women for letting their imaginations run away with them—at Peter’s antics, running headlong into an apparent delusion.
There is an element of self-preservation in this outlook. Cynicism is often framed as an armor we don—making us strong and protecting us from being harmed. If we expect disappointment, the thinking goes, we’ll never truly be disappointed. In reality, our cynicism and nihilism are more akin to blinders. On the same day that the women found the stone at the tomb rolled away, two other of Jesus’ followers were walking along the road to Emmaus. These men were so consumed by their surety that all hope was lost that they did not recognize the living Jesus walking alongside them (Luke 24:13-21).
Easter invites us into God’s divine vision for all of creation. It urges us to dream big, to resist the narrative that doom and destruction are inevitable. Lulled into a kind of waking sleep by the knell of nihilism, the empty tomb jolts us back to awareness. Here—right now—the Holy Spirit is on the move, evoking beauty, speaking love, inspiring Shalom. Hope is not a flight of fancy or a pipe-dream. It is an acknowledgment of the wonder of our Creator. It is boldly and intentionally stepping into the growth and renewal of God and striving to partner in revitalization.
Jesus is walking alongside us. Why do we expect him to be in the tomb? To dismiss or deride hope is to close ourselves off to the good that God intends for us; it is to succumb to the lie that we are incapable of joining in that good. There is reason to rejoice! Not just on Easter Sunday, but every day of our lives. In the words of Romans 5:3-5,
“We can rejoice, too, when we run into problems and trials, for we know that they help us develop endurance. And endurance develops strength of character, and character strengthens our confident hope of salvation. And this hope will not lead to disappointment. For we know how dearly God loves us, because he has given us the Holy Spirit to fill our hearts with his love.”
Easter offers us the ability to envision a better, renewed, beautiful world. It encourages us to embrace hope, not as a figment of our imagination, but as a tangible goal we can strive for. Championing justice and demonstrating love and generosity for our communities and our world, we enter into the Good News.
This Easter, may we cast off the shackles of nihilism and step out anew in jubilation. Amen.
Words: Emma Tweitmann
Images: Andréas Brun, Subhasish Dutta
“1 My God, my God, why have you abandoned me?
Why are you so far away when I groan for help?
2 Every day I call to you, my God, but you do not answer.
Every night I lift my voice, but I find no relief.
3 Yet you are holy,
enthroned on the praises of Israel.
4 Our ancestors trusted in you,
and you rescued them.
5 They cried out to you and were saved.
They trusted in you and were never disgraced.”
—Psalm 22:1-5
It is a truth universally acknowledged that life on this earth is filled with a multitude of challenges and struggles. Even in our best seasons, when things are going our way, nothing is all sunshine and daisies; there are always trials to endure.
For all that we understand the reality of this, there are moments when our struggles seem too much. When our suffering feels so immense, so total, that we question whether we can endure. In these moments, it is not simply enough to shake our heads and chalk it up to a bad day. Sometimes, despite our best attempts at reasoning and justification, the pain and darkness seem senseless. Sometimes all we can do is ask, “Why?”
The events memorialized on Good Friday certainly epitomize this kind of devastation. If we picture ourselves among the disciples witnessing Jesus’ crucifixion, it is easy to imagine the fear and confusion they must have felt—their sense of grief and isolation.
That is one of the most terrible parts of grief—the sense of aloneness it engenders. It is a feeling expressed in the opening words of David’s Psalm 22: “My God, my God, why have you abandoned me? Why are you so far away when I groan for help?” We may feel forgotten and forsaken. In reality though, there is community and common understanding in suffering. We are not alone.
David understood this, as Psalm 22 continues “Our ancestors trusted in you, and you rescued them. They cried out to you and were saved. They trusted in you and were never disgraced.” David called out to God, remembering the faithfulness God has displayed to the generations that came before. And on the cross, Jesus quoted David's words, invoking his lament as well as the assurance that God remains faithful and steadfast. Good Friday reminds us that we are none of us alone. We are joined in fellowship with all who have come before us—with David, Ruth, Paul, and Jesus himself. We empathize with their pain, and they are with us as we weather our own.
Even during his crucifixion, Jesus was not alone. Two other men suffered alongside him, one on either side. In the midst of terrible agony, Jesus offers a shared connection: “I assure you, today you will be with me in paradise” (Luke 23:43).
Good Friday can feel like a tumultuous day. The horrors and bloodiness crash over us. The jeering and wailing of the crowds are deafening. But parallel to the darkness and the cacophony is a quiet connection. Jesus sees us in our pain. He empathizes with our grief. His voice lifts with ours in declaring our lament before God.
The miracle of Easter is the triumph of peace over chaos, of life over death. The miracle of Good Friday is in God’s willingness to sit beside us in our pain with empathy. Jesus does not merely wipe away suffering; he reaches out to us within it. And we can reach out to one another in kind, offering acknowledgment, support, and compassion. “Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way, you will fulfill the law of Christ” (Galatians 6:2).
Darkness and grief will not have the final word. There is reason to cling to hope. But even in the dark, we are not alone. Amen.
Words: Emma Tweitmann
Images: Annie Spratt
Reflective anxious thoughts and study of Philippians 4:6-7 on how God is in control in the midst of anxiety.
Anxiety is unsettling. The moment we sense it, we look for a way out.
And in this vast, expansive, and creative world, our solve to anxiety is often the alluring illusion of control. Its promises—to offer certainty to the stress and worries of the human life. A life of success, security, and predictability. It woos us into soothing our sores of anxiety. We begin to trust in our 5-year plans, the credentials of our profession, and forecasts of the bright road ahead.
But, human life is messy; and somewhere along the way the illusion is removed. We return to the unpredictability of our complex world. Anxiety creeps back in, and we find ourselves unsure with how to move forward.
Anxiety and Control—Two sides of the same coin that lack the power in allowing us to live a full, and flourishing daily life.
As Christians, we’re invited into an alternative narrative for helping with the woes of the human experience. We reflect on the guidance of Paul from his letter to the anxious church of Philippi:
"Do not be anxious about anything, but in every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to dear God. 7 And the peace of God, which transcends all understanding, will guard your hearts and your minds in lord Jesus Christ." — Philippians 4:6-7
Paul gives us a natural response for coming to face with our anxieties: A spiritual petition to something greater. Instead of trying to establish control, we’re encouraged to offer our experiences to God. This is not an intuitive process; in many ways petitioning is the exact opposite of establishing control. But, in the process—even if our circumstances do not change—we are offered the gift of peace that “transcends all understanding”.
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Art and creativity can help serve as a metaphorical conduit for Paul’s understanding of petitioning in the face of anxiety. Pat Steir, critically acclaimed for her paint pouring mark-making, reflects on the relationship between artist, paint and canvas:
“The spiritual in my art is giving up control. My paintings are based on what I can do, and what I can do is not controlled. So I give up control, and that's the spirituality of the work - taking what comes and relinquishing control. Although they look very controlled, they're really not, because it's all poured paint.”
The beauty of art is that the artist is never fully in control of their work. Petitioning to God is not so different. When we petition and ask, we release control to God, and we are free to embrace an acceptance to things as they are.
Letting the paint pour down in our careers.
Letting the paint pour down in our health.
Letting the paint pour down in financial hardships.
Letting the paint pour down when we have social anxiety.
Letting the paint pour down in our lives without correction or direction.
This doesn’t mean we shouldn’t try our best in these areas of our lives, but it does mean there are certain things that are in God’s hands and not our own. When we feel it as all poured paint, a inner peace beyond all understanding begins to soothe our anxious wounds—we begin to feel a little more human, and a little closer to God. (For additional reflections on experiencing God in our creative practices, read: Morning, Afternoon, and Evening Practices to Cultivate Creativity)
God above, thank you that we can come to You always. Help us to come to you with our anxieties and release our desires for control. May the peace you offer, greater than our understanding, guard our anxious heart and our mind. Amen.
Words: Tyler Zak
Paintings: Pat Steir
For other ways to find solace from anxiety, consider reading a beautiful Bible.
Morning time can set the tone for our whole day. Take this morning space to be intentional, to be present.
A new day has dawned. It brings with it opportunity and possibility—today is a gift from God. We often feel the urge to rush headlong into our mornings. We jump out of bed, pour ourselves mugs of coffee to get us energized, and spring into action. It can feel frantic, waking to the urgent sound of our alarms and rushing out the door to work, or class, or some appointment.
Morning time can set the tone for our whole day. What if we slow down instead of ramping up? Take this morning space to be intentional, to be present. Let’s start our day ruminating over God’s Word and centering ourselves on the Lord. We invite you to begin the day by reflecting on two verses from Scripture.
“Don’t copy the behavior and customs of this world, but let God transform you into a new person by changing the way you think. Then you will learn to know God’s will for you, which is good and pleasing and perfect.” - Romans 12:2
God’s ways are not the world’s ways; His metrics for success and for happiness are frequently different from those of our culture. We may resist the paths God places before us, preferring to go our own way. The call to let go and trust sounds scarier than holding on tightly and attempting to shape our lives into what we want them to be. Paul’s words to the church of Rome remind us that God has a good and perfect plan for our lives—better than anything we could imagine for ourselves. What would it look like to let God transform us? As you go about your day, invite the Spirit to guide you; pay attention to the places where you might be called to set the world’s ways aside in favor of something new, something better.
Consider this second verse.
“Don’t worry about anything; instead, pray about everything. Tell God what you need, and thank him for all he has done.” - Philippians 4:6
To interrupt the flow of our hustle can feel unthinkable; we worry we’ll fall behind. The message so often preached by the world around us is to buckle down, to grind, to work even harder. But Scripture encourages us to instead turn to God.
God desires to be in relationship with us. His love is unconditional and unfailing. Instead of worrying, of berating ourselves to be more than what we are, we can lift our concerns up to Jesus and have faith that he will provide. Beginning our day with the practice of gratitude helps remind us of the blessings God has already given us. This practice invites us to live out of a posture of thanks, rather than a mindset of what we perceive we lack.
It’s a new day and we can proceed with the assurance that God is in control and that He will provide us with all we need. Let us root ourselves in peace, in gratitude, in faith, and ready ourselves to answer the call wherever the Spirit is leading us today.
Words: Emma Tweitmann
Photography: Mathilde Langevin
In the midst of a culture of speed and efficiency, we are invited to courageously advance creativity by reaching back to its simple origins.
Imagine this: a Garden. We see God design an experiential environment that engages all of our senses—an Eden full of pleasurable sights (plants and trees), sounds (streams flowing from the ground), and aromas (aromatic resin & onyx) designed to communicate a connection with the Creator through the creation itself. At every moment, His creation resonates with His glory and we are reminded of who we are and Whose we are—because He knew we would need reminding.
Imagine now: the Garden, deconstructed. It is plowed, with concrete and steel structures built on its ground. The connection has been severed. Spiritual amnesia sets in. The experience of the Garden is diminished.
We have entered the age of industry; and we have, in many ways, all gone along with it. If nature is a source of divine connection, we have wandered from it. And if art and beauty is a way that shows us who He is, we have siphoned its power in our hurry towards progress.
Humans are meant to engage with the world and with God, with our whole self—all of our senses, spirit, soul, and body. Our created works as artists should bring us back to that grand vista view of connection. That spaciousness. Our art has the power to create an embodied experience of original intent, creating a sense of awareness and remembering who we are and Whom we should be connected to.
Our culture tends to perpetuate fragmentation with its machine-like, utilitarian approach. A basic description of utilitarian: designed to be practical and useful, but not beautiful. Utility is not necessarily a bad thing; it’s advancements have helped humans thrive in many ways. However, practicality doesn’t woo us. Beauty will.
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Efficiency and economy suffocate the message by drowning out the experience. Is it more beneficial for us to work the garden or automate the process? Tools can get us from A to B, but we miss the experience in between, and perhaps lessons that are imperative to our flourishing that are learned in the process.
The Amish tend to filter their acceptance of technology and advancements with one question: will this bring me closer to my family and God, or will it drive us apart?
Our work and creative focus veers off balance when we focus on whether what we create functions or performs well, and accomplishes our goals quickly, rather than if it connects to our Spirits.
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We have experienced advancement through technology, and almost limitless knowledge is at our fingertips. Subsequently, the gap between imagining something and creating it has grown smaller and smaller. We can envision something and then create it before the day ends.
But possessing an ability does not always mean we know how to use it. We must be wise in how we steward these new things. To embody our art with the essence of the Creator means doing things differently than the world. It means infusing it with love, time, and care. Art that engages people in experience can’t be ignored. We can’t simply glance at the Sistine Chapel and move on—it requires us to stop, stand, and wonder.
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What does it look like for creatives to step out of the current of our culture and take a long look at what we create? Would it connect us back to God? What does it look like to create work that astonishes and jolts people out of a spiritual slumber? What if what we created was so infused with the fruit of God’s life-giving spirit that it creates life-changing experiences? What if the goal of the creative was to connect people in a meaningful way, that brings us into a place of collective remembering?
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There is an inherent duality in creating—form and function. Form is the expression, the essence, the message. Function is the purpose, the way it fulfills a need, and the way it might help people. We need both.
If ever there was a time to integrate these dualities, it is now. Tools on their own are lifeless, but in the hands of an artist, a tool can create divine work that is open-ended, with the potential for flourishing and multiplying. Consider the monuments of the past—there were extreme limitations, but vast experience in what was created:
Notre Dame (180 years to complete). Leonardo’s Mona Lisa (7 years to complete). Brahms' First Symphony (over 20 years to complete).
This is the kind of creating that echoes across time and leaves us in wonder.
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As faith-filled creatives, what we create can become monuments that point people to God. Our invitation is to courageously advance creativity by reaching back to its simple origins. To reveal who God is through what we create and how we create it. To focus not only on the utilitarian aspect of our artform, but the experience of the people that enter in to it, and how it can connect them with the God of the Garden.
The God of everything is a God of process, not quick fixes; of depth and not facades; of vast experiences and therefore, vastly expansive connection.
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“Culture will come when people touch things with love and see them with a penetrating eye.” – Max Weber
“The work of art is born of the artist in a mysterious and secret way. From the artist, it gains life & being. It has power to create spiritual atmosphere.” – Wassily Kandinsky
Words—Evie Shaffer
Images—Evie Shaffer & Bryan Ye-Chung
An invitation to know that as creatives we are not alone. We are part of a collective that has spanned thousands of years—and it is good. Amen.
Our faith is one composed both of traditions and constant renewal. We are rooted in a story tracing back centuries paired with an unchanging God, and yet we encounter new truths daily, adding notes to margins, even reflecting on the past in a way we never have before.
This is the beautiful push-and-pull of what it means to be Christian and what it means to be a creator for God. Our present does not make sense without our past, but we continue to move from it: aiming to see old tales in new lights and translating them in a way the next generation will understand. Yet a return to before is necessary for change to occur, and this return is one that is more mental than physical. It is a space held inside us for honoring and remembering that the creating in our DNA flows from God, but also the line of creatives we come from. (For further reading, dive into our series of posts, "On Becoming Creative''.)
In America’s individualist culture, we often find ourselves tempted to prove our uniqueness or set-apartness. A second temptation we meet is to feel overwhelmed by the pressure to create—to steward our talents well, lead the way, and prophesy. Artists are warriors on the forefront, bandaging wounds, and proclaiming truth. We are translators and leaders, gifted with more than gifts. We are given the responsibility to let our art point people to Jesus—an honor that by our human brokenness can be twisted into a source of pride or pressure.
We can fight these temptations with remembrance. To remember our participation in a larger song of worship that was sung over us—before we hummed a tune—is to recognize a reality where we are characters in a story before we are authors; we have been purposefully placed; we are not alone.
As simple as it is, we must remind ourselves that we are not the first to do this and we will not be the last. Perhaps we will write one good story, perhaps we will lead one person to faith, perhaps we will never see the fruit of our efforts—and yet, our efforts still glorify God.
To pursue a habit of remembrance, we can begin our days by acknowledging the foundation we are building off of, the history to creating, the songs of lament and adoration and confession that have been lifted up by our ancestors to our steadfast God. We can protect songs and prayers that have existed for ages, drawing on the power they continue to have, connecting us to those we didn’t know. And we can thank God that, as Eugene Peterson wrote, “We wake into a world we didn’t make, into a salvation we didn’t earn.”
Words: Alana Freitas
Images (in order): Christopher Burns, Jehyun Sung, Bryce Evans
"All throughout scripture this is what God is doing: inviting people to raise their voice and to act, to create, to do, to be people who speak out against injustice and then create and be and help others become love.”
When we think about our work of making (our art, our companies, our gardens, our mixtapes, our things in the earth), it is essential that we locate that creative energy deep in our life with God. The call of makers, of those of us who craft, cannot be seen as a separate vocation sprinkled over our knowing Christ but as our collective returning to the old things that were true at the foundation of the world.
Where does our creative spark come from? Why does it matter that we make? What is the purpose of our artistic endeavors? How is this relevant to a life with the Lord? These are fundamental and important questions to address when we consider the sacred task of making.
Here are two reflections from the books of Genesis and Exodus. They are meant to be an introduction, an exercise in looking at scripture through the lens of the creative. They are not exhaustive commentaries, but a first step in connecting our making to our life with God. These are launching points for developing a theology of making.
Our desire to create is an imprint of the divine
The oldest story is one of making. God created. God made. God formed.
God took the void and gave it context. And it was good. (Genesis 1:1)
It matters that the first action of God was a cosmic, community art project. A triune fellowship, ordering the skies and filling the earth. “In the beginning God created” opens possibility that opens possibility.
We must never forget that creatives are possibility makers.
God’s vocation as a generous Creator is the first thing before all of the other things in the book of Genesis. This is good news.
As an outflowing of the generous life of God, humans were made. (Genesis 1:27). Humanity is a divine design initiative.
If we take seriously that humans are created in God’s image, that we are formed as a reflection of our Creator, then the question of how we handle our own particular designing and making becomes vitally important.
God’s making fills the Earth with good things. What does this say about how our making ought to be?
Our desire to make finds its energy source from God’s divine design initiative. God was the first artist to put something of themself into their art, and we have all followed in that legacy. Can we, too, partner with God to fill the earth with good things? Can we too launch creative projects that heal, restore and hope?
The first commandment from God to humans is not found in Exodus, but here in the beginning. “Be fruitful and multiply,” the call to fill the earth and steward it. (Genesis 1:28)
Our creating is a part of the unfolding, generative process of God’s goodness filling the earth. Our desire to create, even something as simple as cooking, or writing in a journal, is an imprint of the divine, designed into the fabric of our existence. Artists and creatives feel this acutely.
We are not only invited to create new things (Genesis 2:19) but to partner with God to fill the Earth with the divine creative Spirit that humans received as a gift. Even in a fragmented world, this is still our primary task. It is one of the old things that were true at the foundation of the world, and we cannot afford to forget it.
This does not mean that all the things we make are good, but it does mean that it is good that we are making things. As humans and image reflectors, our invitation is to partner with God in the creative flourishing of creation. We are makers, because God is the First Maker.
Creative projects connect communities
In the book of Exodus, five chapters (35-40) are devoted to describing the scope of a public work of art, the implementation of its construction and the impact it has on a community. It is a process shot through with the presence of the Lord.
The story begins by describing the Israelites donating a vast array of resources for the public work of the Tabernacle — a moveable construction where the Spirit of the Lord was to dwell. (Exodus 35:4-9).
Gold, silver, bronze, various colors of yarn and fine linen, goat hair, ram skins dyed red, durable leather, acacia wood, olive oil, spices, onyx stones, and an assortment of gems are all collected as resources for the Tabernacle project. The things of creation are harvested for a new kind of creating, and everyone from the community is invited to participate in its funding as they are able.
Then comes the invitation to the makers to do their making: “All who are skilled among you are to come and make everything the Lord has commanded” (Exodus 35:10).
Come and make everything the Lord has commanded. Be fruitful and multiply. These are commands coming from the heart of God.
The community responds to the call of the Lord and collaborates to make something beautiful in worship to God (Exodus 35:20-29). Some fund the project, some give their creative skill, but to execute this kind of sacred public work requires the participation of all.
Exodus 35 stands at the intersection of generous donation, artisan skill, and divine commandment. The result of that creative labor is a connected community, and one of the singularly important sacred constructions of human history.
The place where the presence of God could dwell among the Israelites was made in a collaborative, sacrificial process (Exodus 40). Each giving what they could in a dynamic creative process that allowed the whole of the community to experience the Tabernacle presence of God.
Why does it matter that we make things? Why do we need to bother with creating? Because creative projects connect communities. People to people. People to the earth. And people to God.
The common creative spirit placed in all of humanity is a starting point for connection, and even a returning of things fragmented into things made whole again. We are Imago Dei, given the Creator’s image, and able to make with one another in the common service of human flourishing.
To rearrange the materials of the earth into something new is to extend possibility into the world. This is our stewardship. It is a part of our fruitfulness and multiplying.
And when we do our making, together, we are living out our life with God in a full and real way. Our making in community is a part of our returning to the old things that were true at the foundation of the world. And it is good. Amen.
Words—Geoff Gentry
Photos—Bryan Ye-Chung
“For this is how God loved the world: He gave his one and only Son, so that everyone who believes in him will not perish but have eternal life. God sent his Son into the world not to judge the world, but to save the world through him." — John 3:16-17
Perhaps the most famous of all Bible verses is John 3:16, which begins,
“For this is how God loved the world….”
Often however, when we invoke this verse we absently assume “the world” that God loves begins and ends with humankind. We fail to recognize our Creator’s devotion extends to all creation—from the big blue planet we call Earth to the farthest reaches of the cosmos.
From the beginning to the end of the story, the scriptural imperatives to care for the natural world are clear and strong. Imprinted into our genesis as human beings is not only the license for us to enjoy the beauty and majesty of nature but a mandate to steward the broader creation of which we are a part. Reminders that we are but trustees of God’s handiwork—the land, the seas, the air, and the animal kingdom—are conveyed through words like these: “The earth is the Lord’s, and everything in it, the world, and all who live in it " (Psalm 24:1).
Too often, we have collectively neglected our role as caretakers of creation. We have exploited and abused what is not ours to despoil. Our daily choices and attitudes, driven by human comfort and convenience, have accelerated species extinction and climate change much faster than normal. Different kinds of plants, animals, bacteria, and fungi essential to a balanced and healthy ecosystem have been prematurely lost. Weather patterns have become erratic, while seasonal weather conditions have become more severe in their impact, prolonged nature, or total absence.
Debating the reality and urgency of the crisis before us avoids reckoning with the larger problem. Our fatal flaw is our sense of entitlement in remaking this world according to our perceived needs rather than our Creator’s intentions. For we view and treat the beauty and diversity of all that surrounds us as property to be claimed, as resources to be consumed rather than as gifts we have been given to lovingly tend and equally share.
When we operate from a position of scarcity, we attempt to reshape creation according to our economic interests and concerns. Only when we see the world through our Creator’s eyes, do we come to recognize the abundance to which we have been entrusted. That if we honor and yield to the embedded rhythms and cycles of the world in which we live, we have more than enough—more than enough for everyone.
If all life is sacred, then we must not cheapen the inestimable riches of the land, the sea, and the sky through human exploitation. Rather we must conserve and respect the life that has been placed in our hands—the wonder of a forest, the majesty of the ocean, the canvas of the heavens above. For creation is not a commodity for us to exploit. Creation is something of which we are inseparably a part. The stewardship of creation is not valuing the planet more than people. The stewardship of creation is understanding that caring for the planet impacts how we care for each other. The effects of environmental degradation extend to human health. Bad problems become worse. Food scarcity leads to growing malnutrition. Unclean water results in higher rates of disease. Pollution increases respiratory and cardiac distress.
Of course, creation care is more than a cost-benefit analysis of human welfare. Creation care is respecting and celebrating the beauty and bounty of the world in which we share and, in so doing, rightly honoring and worshiping the Creator of all. Viewed in this way, lament and repentance are appropriate and necessary responses to the crisis before us, but we must not despair. We cannot resign ourselves to hopelessness.
For there is hope to be found in the divine, cruciform love that shapes our faith—a love that is always stronger than death. Hope borne of resurrection is forward looking and forward moving in the promise of a better tomorrow. The biblical story's final, crowing vision is redemption, reconciliation, and restoration. It is a picture of the positive transformation not only of humankind but the whole cosmos. It is the image of a river not contaminated with the excesses and wastes of human enterprise or empire but flowing with life-giving water for the healing of the nations and the nourishing of all creation.
But this eternal horizon is not one for which we must wait to arise in the future—simply wishing or praying for a positive change someday. No, the Bible’s final picture of the old order passing away and all things becoming new is a vision we are called to embody—to bring into focus now. The reduction of unnecessary waste and pollution. Mindfulness in the conservation of energy and natural resources. Practicing sustainability. Recycling and repurposing rather than discarding the products we use. These are all small but significant, hopeful acts we can take.
This creation of which we are a part longs for its redemption. Our commission as faithful stewards is to seek the betterment rather than contribute to the destruction of this earth, this universe, we call our home. Opportunities for the healing and transformation of our planet are available to us at this present moment. Walking by faith, may we reflect the love God indeed has for all the world through the care we demonstrate toward all that our Creator has made.
Words: Chris Tweitmann
Photography: Andreas Haslinger, Xavier Senente