Lord as Lion

James Turrell, a contemporary artist, currently has an exhibit at Los Angeles Museum of Contemporary Art (LACMA). The exhibit consists of a room that Turrell created to experiment with the nature of light; an observer steps into this white-walled room and approaches what looks like a colored screen at the far end of it. After standing in the space for a moment, the light begins reflecting differently on the walls and it appears to be changing the colors of the room. You experience these colors changing, but you don’t really understand how or why they are changing.

After experiencing this exhibit and discussing it with others, I was thinking about my experience of God’s will and His character. How my understanding and perspective on His work in my life is dependent on where I am and the light that He is shedding on my heart and circumstances. When thinking on the vastness of His character, I came across the Book of Amos in the Old Testament, and it got me thinking about some characteristics of God that I don’t often dwell on. 

At the beginning the book, Amos proclaims, “The Lord roars from Zion and utters his voice from Jerusalem” (Amos 1:2). From here, he boldly speaks of the Lord’s judgment on Israel, Judah, and all of the surrounding nations. Amos’ proclamation of the Lord roaring from Zion communicates a couple of details about God’s character— namely that He is Protector and Corrector of His chosen people. 

The image of the Lord as a lion encourages us to consider His character as Protector. When a lion roars, he does so in an effort to protect his young, who are unable to protect themselves. Roaring is a defense mechanism to deflect danger and promote safety. The Bible tells us, “The Lord is compassionate and gracious, slow to anger, abounding in love” (Psalm 103:8). God carries all of these characteristics while also being our fiercest Protector. His roar is a warning to us when we are in sin; in alerting us to our own sinfulness, He offers a form of protection that is ultimately flowing from His love and compassion for us.   

Amos also introduces us to God the Corrector. Most of the passages in Amos consist of the Lord proclaiming judgment upon them as they persist in their sinful behavior. He explains to them the severe consequences of their disobedience. He makes known the reality of their sinful condition. The rebukes that God gives are clear evidence of his relentless advocacy for his disobedient children. In Amos 3:2, He speaks again to Israel, saying “You only have I known of all the families on the earth; therefore I will punish you for all your iniquities.” Israel is God’s chosen nation – they are known and adopted as God’s children. Out of this close intimacy comes the need for severe discipline for the sake of correction.

Through Amos’ prophesy, God confronts Israel with their sin and gives them many opportunities to turn away from it. When they do not take these opportunities, He uses His absence as a means of reminding them of their overwhelming need for His presence. After proclaiming the turmoil and tragedy that will unravel when God leaves His people, He assures them “I will restore the fortunes of my people Israel” (9:14). He is infinitely aware of our inability to follow Him without His guiding presence and yet has chosen to move away in what would seem to be hopeless abandonment. Thankfully, God does not threaten to leave us without ever returning. He will welcome and receive them when they turn back to Him. 

So, the God who created us is also protecting us by correcting us. His compassion and grace are made known through His rebuke. Unlike the disorienting light in James Turrell’s art exhibit, God’s light serves as a source of direction and peace. His will and character are infinitely complex, and it is only by His light that we can view them with clear eyes. 

Whatever is True

About four years ago, I watched the movie Blue Valentine. It was easily one of the saddest movies I had ever seen.  The bleak message of the movie is that love won’t last and people won’t live up to your expectations. The movie juxtaposes the story of two young and hopeful lovers with the disappointment and cynicism of their older selves later in life. I walked away from it feeling deeply unsettled by the world that it was trying to convince me of.  

Great movies reveal something true to their audience. They won’t make you feel sadness for the sheer sake of it, and the same goes for happiness. While some movies explore realities that are more complex than others, I believe that every movie should uphold a sense of purpose – it should demand that questions be asked even when definite answers seem unattainable.

Blue Valentine was trying to convince me of something that I still don’t believe: namely, that love ends in disappointment. Even though I don’t believe in this message, encountering the movie’s world made me deeply unsettled and filled me with anxiety. So here’s my question: was it worth it? Did the return of insight that I gained from watching this movie trump the peace of mind that I paid to encounter it?

Earlier this week, my answer was “No way!” After conversing on this topic with an art professor from my alma mater and some thoughtful fellow graduates, my answer has changed to “I really don’t know, but probably.”

Based on these conversations, it seems like the answer boils down to three main considerations. First, we must consider the importance of the artist’s intention in the audience’s experience of the piece. Ultimately, the viewer is the arbiter of meaning while interacting with a piece; if I don’t know anything about how, why, or for whom a movie is made, I will attach my own interpretations and impressions to the piece and I will react accordingly. In the case of my Blue Valentine experience, I didn’t know going into the movie that the director had created the film as a means of working through challenges he faced as a child in a broken home. Does this new understanding of the artist’s backstory shade my understanding of the movie?  Probably somewhat

Second, we must be attentive to the cause of our uneasiness. Is uneasiness the appropriate reaction to what you are seeing? For example, when watching Schindler’s List, I am rightly unsettled by the evils committed against Jews during World War II.  When watching 12 Years a Slave, I am rightly unsettled by its visceral portrayal of the slave trade. In these cases, the initial reaction of uneasiness is ultimately purposeful when it becomes sympathy for human pain.

Finally, we must develop and abide by personal boundaries. I know that horror films cause me more anxiety than they’re worth, so I tend to stay away from them. Some people – police officers, doctors, lawyers – don’t like watching movies about their professions because they don’t want to think about work during leisure time. Others who have experienced certain trials in life – abandonment, cancer, loss of a family member – stay away from movies about such topics because they bring back unpleasant feelings from the past. As we grow in self-knowledge, we become more and more capable of identifying areas of sensitivity and creating personal boundaries.

I’ll admit that it is difficult to anticipate what category a movie will fall into before watching it. Trailers give us a snapshot, but some times they don’t quite hit the target on the actual issues in the movie. But we can get in the habit of asking ourselves these questions after watching movies.  Over time, this will help us parse out what it means to engage with art in a way that enables us to seek and discover truth.

“Finally, brothers, whatever is true, whatever is honorable, whatever is just, whatever is pure, whatever is lovely, whatever is commendable, if there is any excellence, if there is anything worthy of praise, think about these things” (Philippians 4:8). 

Think Like a Commuter

26.

This is approximately the number of DAYS each year that I spend commuting to work. Two and a half hours a day, five days a week, for fifty weeks. And the hard numbers don’t account for traffic jams, car accidents or other delays that inevitably come up when you really need to be somewhere on time.  

So roughly one month of my year is spent in bumper-to-bumper traffic. If I think too hard about that, I might cry, so I’m not going to.  Instead I’m going to think about something I heard on the radio last night… while driving home from work.

It was an interview on KPCC about the decline of Christianity among young adults in the U.S. NPR’s religion and belief correspondent, Tom Gjelten, shared some very telling stats and observations about the state of Christianity today.

He suggested many reasons for why our generation seems to be more resistant to Christianity than those before us. He mentioned that our culture of individuality and uniqueness is impacting people’s desire to associate with churches; in an effort to create a personal brand, some young adults end up rejecting religion completely because they feel that it confines or labels them in a way that they cannot control. They are less inclined to join groups in general because they ultimately desire to be set apart from the pack. With this growing religious disparity in this upcoming generation, he projected that this decline of Christianity will continue, as the number of parents raising children with Christian values will slowly decrease.            

After listening to this brief radio interview, I was left to consider the thought process behind this so-called imminent decline. I believe that individuality is important and that young professionals need to consider crafting a strong personal brand for themselves, as well as a strong sense of self. But I also believe that this sense of self is not something that should or can be shaped solely by introspection, emotion, personal experience or a resume.

Every person has been created by God, and therefore is uniquely and intimately known by Him. With this in mind, the notion that associating with Christianity will damage one’s individuality seems misguided. Jeremiah 10:23 reads, “I know, O LORD, that the way of man is not in himself, that it is not in man who walks to direct his steps.” Our creator knows us better than we know ourselves, so our self-understanding will always be incomplete without Him at the center of it.

There is much more to be said on this topic; these are just a few of my personal thoughts on it. Gjelten mentioned a handful of other hypothesis for the reason behind this decline. You can find his complete KPCC interview here. It got me thinking — maybe it will do the same for you.

Hitting the Clear Channel

When I hear the word “rest,” I immediately picture myself lying on the couch in my stretchy pants with a good book in one hand and a cup of warm coffee in the other. Usually, there’s chocolate involved. There’s always a blanket involved. If I had a dog, he would be in the picture too. I associate these many comforts with rest.

This past weekend was one of rest, but it wasn’t a weekend of stretchy pants and chocolate– at least, not entirely. It was a weekend of conversation, laughter, and adventure, but it was restful.

A group of close college friends and I had planned this weekend getaway, hoping for a chance to recharge and to catch up on each other’s lives. We shared news from our families, struggles from recent months, amusing YouTube videos, and goals for the coming year. We were all facing different circumstances, but we were able to lend encouragement where it was needed.

There is a certain kind of rest to be found in the support of those closest to you. Often times, being engaged and present in our friendships can feel like a form of rest because it allows for vulnerability, and vulnerability is refreshing. When I’m surrounded by people who truly know me, I am at ease. I am experiencing rest.

After this weekend, I felt challenged to consider the true meaning of rest. The idea of Sabbath in the Bible is helpful in shaping our understanding of it. Jesus rebuked the Jews who accused Him of sinning when He performed healings on the Sabbath. There is error in the notion of Sabbath rest as a passive disengaging from the surrounding world. Rest is active and intentional– it allows us to briefly step away from our daily grind, but in doing so, it sheds light on our priorities and can lead us to reevaluate them. At first, the idea of rest as being active may seem contradictory, but think about it: are there any instances in the Bible when rest is defined as total removal from absolutely everything? Even the act of meditation is one of attentiveness.

Since we’re on the topic of rest, think about your television set. Watching television is something that many people associate with rest, right? This might feel a little off topic, but stay with me for a minute.

The television at my house has way too many channels; finding the one I’m actually looking for is close to impossible. More often than not, I find myself clicking aimlessly through the in-between channels, holding firmly to the logic that the one I’m looking for is bound to pop up sooner or later. Wading through the noisy static of each passing channel, I’m relieved when I finally land on one that my eyes can rest on and my mind can engage with. 

I think this is a representation of how we are meant to experience rest. While going about our daily tasks and running from place to place, we are surrounded by noise. As we shuffle through the static of the many channels of life, it’s easy to shift onto autopilot, impatiently anticipating whatever upcoming weekend plans are on the calendar. Some times, our restful weekend plans really do consist of sitting on the couch with a good book and a cup of coffee; more often than not though, weekends are spent doing things that we enjoy, spending time with people we don’t see during the week and engaging in activities that refresh us—at least, that’s the dream.

When we finally hit that clear channel on the television, we are not just left with a blank, noiseless screen that demands nothing of us. Rather, we are left with a lucid and intentionally crafted moving image that we are meant to actively engage with. Ideally, we would walk away from whatever show we were watching with a new thought to consider— possibly a new perspective on an issue. Rest is hitting that clear channel and participating in the picture it presents – it’s not just watching it move.

Last weekend, we rested. We laughed, we prayed, we talked, we swam. We cooked, we ate, we explored, we wondered. We floated along the lazy river, wanting to play “bumper cars” with tired parents who just weren’t into it. We quipped about details of the weekend that reminded us that we still haven’t totally mastered this adulthood thing. We explored what looked like a post-apocalyptic ghost town in the middle of the desert. We bought way too much ice cream and left it for whoever stays in our room next. We did all of these things and called them rest, and the word felt fitting because it was. 

Countertop

We all have a unique story about how we identified our talents and realized our passions. This story may still be a work in progress for you — in many ways, it is for me too. But this week, I want to share a post about the simple but meaningful moment in which I first thought, “wow, maybe I’m a writer.” 

The following is a short non-fiction narration that I wrote about that moment. 

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Mrs. Gruber didn’t have favorites. She praised us when we did assignments well and critiqued us when we did them poorly. Even in sixth grade, this was the kind of teacher that I needed—a brutally honest one.

Once a week, Mrs. Gruber would select a random topic and ask us to write a sentence about it. She wouldn’t grade them, but simply used them as a tool to develop our imaginations. One time, she asked us to write a sentence about a monkey on a trampoline. Another time, the subject was a clown in an amusement park. We were told to include as much detail as possible without making the sentence a run-on.   

This exercise would rarely end with a single sentence for me. In no time at all, I would have an entire fictional scene surrounding this one image that the teacher had presented. I would write for as long as the exercise lasted, some times even writing more at home if my imagination prompted me.

One day, Mrs Gruber simply asked us to write a sentence about ourselves. This was a bit more difficult for me than our previous prompts, mainly because it was not fiction. It had to be about something real. After a while, she noticed me writing with what must have been particular enthusiasm. I suppose this made her curious.

“Lara, come here please. Bring your paper.”

I sat, bug-eyed and trembling. It wasn’t until the second “Lara...” that I finally arose and began walking toward her. She smiled at me as I approached.

“Looked like you were working pretty hard over there. Can I take a look at what you’ve written?” she asked.

I timidly handed my paper over to her and watched as she read over it. I can’t remember the exact sentence I had written, but I remember that it was about my height and I had alluded to needing a stool to reach the countertop. Before I could ask her not to, she was reading the sentence out loud to the class.

Then she turned to me and simply said, “You’re a very talented writer. Keep at it.” She handed my paper back to me and I went back to my seat, slightly embarrassed but mostly beaming.

As silly as this may seem, I identify this vivid moment of praise in my early childhood as the moment in which I acknowledged my interest in writing. Looking back on it now from my 20-something-college-grad perspective, I can identify the educational process that was at work that day.

The sentence itself was likely not very impressive by academic standards. I was no child prodigy and there is no doubt that my sixth grade teacher had read thousands upon thousands of sentences that were far more memorable than “I stepped on a stool to reach the countertop.” Even so, Mrs. Gruber’s reaction was so genuine that I, as a young student, was led to consider writing to be one of my true talents.

John Dewey, a 20th century American educational philosopher, wrote a book called How We Think, in which he considers the relationship between a teacher’s attitude and that of her student. He writes, “Everything the teacher does, as well as the manner in which he does it, incites the child to respond in some way or other, and each response tends to set the child’s attitude in some way or another.”

Mrs. Gruber’s authentic enthusiasm in this seemingly insignificant moment incited a response in me. It was only after this moment of affirmation that I began to acknowledge and appreciate writing as a skill of mine. I didn’t have the slightest idea what I was going to do with it, but I knew that I had it, and at that point, that was enough.