Surprised at “The Glen”
I stood and brought my hands together in prayer, “I can’t believe this is really happening.” Two hundred artists filed down the central aisle of the Great Hall at St. John’s College. These new comrades moving toward the alter on this last night of a very full week had found friendships forged in the common love of art and Christ and were now going forward to be anointed. When it was my turn, the young women facing me was enclosed in beautifully colored vestments and held a graceful bowl. She dipped her hand in the oil, looked into my eyes and ever so slowly made the sign of a cross on my forehead. In a sweet voice and with her hand gently on my head, “David, accept the grace of the Lord Jesus Christ, go forth into this world and show forth the love of our great God in your life and your art.”
I am still in shock. Even now, sitting on my peaceful porch in Colorado, the enormous and unexpected blessing of the last week spent at The Glen conference in Santa Fe, New Mexico, still inhabits my thoughts and soul. The conference promo brochure boldly suggested a week spent with fellow Christian artists would “Change a Whole Lifetime” and despite my cynical presuppositions to the contrary, I think this was one hype that might be true.
I have been an artist and a church member for a long time. While trying to be faithful to God in both these vocations, my efforts have been carried out in near solitude. Like two independent rivers flowing to the sea, both enterprises seemed to have little connection-and both struggled to keep it that way. I had not realized how the years of study, “dialogue,” and speaking for the “other side” had silently hardened my heart. Having feet in multiple “camps” had come to feel less like being a mediator and more akin to schizophrenia. While all the groups: artists, theologians, and my faith community listened politely, I had silently begun operating with a cynical attitude: each faction was fixed in righteous concrete, hoping the other groups would assent to the obvious truth of their individual positions. I struggled to deny the obvious; my loss of hope that the God of Creation could be the God of Reconciliation. I had, more or less, placed the “making whole” of this art and faith conundrum beyond God’s concern or power-my sin of despair.
But, God is gracious. Starting with the opening prayer spoken with a mysterious joy and conviction, the two hundred plus artists acknowledged they were gathered by God’s grace for the purpose of honoring Him. I awoke to the possibility that this just might be a “different” experience. As I bowed my head I confessed that I had never prayed with fellow artists about art nor even, it must be admitted, asked my faith community to pray for me. We were exhorted to honor God with the gifts He had given, to serve Him by honing and making excellent our artistic praise, and bear witness to our watching world of the strange beauty and mystery of our created life. It was to be a week of craft, new friends, expanded worship-and joy.
Make no mistake, getting better at any artistic craft is not for the thin-skinned or the lazy. Excellence is hard work, far slower than I want, and accompanied by an awful painful reality: my sins of pride and coveting. But to find so many people on the same page, sharing the desire to honor God with His gifts, is the “balm of the soul” promised by the Psalmist.
I was changed. To be sure, my writing has been made better by the critique of fourteen friends and fellow voyagers. This process, a small stop on a much longer journey, was at once a severe mercy and a profound gift. However, it was in my tears mingled with the scent of beauty and the touch of my redeemer’s cross on my forehead that signaled the greatest gift, God’s grace. My heart had been softened and I was not alone.