A friend once remarked me that grace is blue. After my initial surprise at this slightly odd statement, I pondered upon why he said this.
What is to follow is a window into my ponderings, for I think that the rabbit trail they follow leads to a valuable conclusion. But ye warned, this is my rabbit’s trail and they do not always follow the railroad tracks. Some might object to the impending verbosity, to which I say what good is a destination if you don’t know how you got there? However, if your concern lies solely with the end, there is nothing but good sense to stop you from just scrolling down to the last paragraph.
My first response to my friend’s rather abrupt statement was “Can an attribute of God have color? Isn’t He spirit which, by all definitions I have ever encountered outside of fantasy literature, has no color?” But I do not think my friend was talking literally. Therefore, let us journey into the wonderful land that is metaphor where much can be made clearer which cannot be fleshed in the land of science.
What is color? Aside from the definition of light waves reflecting in various patterns, color is how we express ourselves. For example, Goths have claimed the color black. Why? Sadness, evil, rebellion, angst…all of these emotions which are the foundation of the Goth mindset connect with that color. (Now I have nothing against the color black, or Goths, for that matter; this is simply an observation on the use of color by people with certain tendencies. Back to the scheduled rabbit trail…) The Goth affinity to this color makes sense given that black for the Western world is the color of mourning. As an interesting side note, in Asia mourning’s color is white, though I dare not make any conjecture as to why, being wholly unqualified.
My point, as it may have gotten lost, is that our minds connect certain colors to certain emotions or states of being. Personages more schooled and scholarly than I am have undoubtedly spent hours as well as forests speculating why, so I will not do so here. Except to say that I do not think it is as strange as some might like to think.
After all, the same thing is done with words. We have all played the word association game in which one person says a word and another says the first thing that word makes them think of. How could one word draw up such colorful responses if there was no emotion, whatever it may be, connected in the responder’s mind to that otherwise meaningless string of sounds? We connect our emotions to things, be they words or colors, sights or sounds.
Here we reach a difficult ledge. As with all connections our minds make, there are always exceptions and caveats, because concepts are too unwieldy to be contained by single words and words are too useful to be restricted to single ideas. Going back to our example of black is an example of the latter for black is also the color for classy. See “little black dress.”
But, with God, it is the former. Because He is the Creator. And because He created everything, He is above everything. And because He is above everything, no one thing below Him or even conglomeration of things can fully describe Him. However, they can partially reveal Who He is because He created them and therefore left a mark on them.
When Moses asked for a name to take back to Pharaoh, he received a statement of being, which became the most sacred name for God in the Old Testament. But it still does not encompass completely Who He is. Throughout the rest of the Scriptures, God continually gives His people names for Himself.
If God can have names why not colors?
Now that we have that established, why is grace blue? Not any color of blue, the shade of blue the sky is when there is no storm on the horizon, the sun is shining, and all that is ahead is the promise of a good day. It makes sense, for that is what grace is…God has taken my sin and guilt away; He has given His Son; He has made me new. Perhaps that is why going to the park on a Saturday and lying on the grass, looking up at the sky is so relaxing.
I think the problem I often have with grace is that I begin to go about my life in this new day and forget to look up at the sky. I leave my house, go to work and come back home, forgetting that all the while the sky is blue. I remember that Christ has taken the punishment for my sin, but I forget that guilt has been washed away as well. If guilt were to remain, the sky would be grey. I think that I must work off my guilt. But that is not the color of grace; it is a gift, just like a good park day, and I can no more earn it than I can a day of pleasant weather with clear skies. But I can enjoy it to its fullest, and that is exactly what I must do with grace, to praise God for it in every way I can and to encourage others to do the same.
Yes, grace is blue.
And love is green.
That one, dear reader, I shall leave to you to ponder that one down your own rabbit trails.
14 November 2006
04 November 2006
Portrait of the Soul
If there were anyone ever living that I could have a picture of, it would be Jesus. Not so I could make a golden calf of it, though the probably blasphemous—please forgive me, Lord—mental image of a calf statue with Jesus’ face tied to its face is slightly humorous. And not just any picture, since this is wishes, a portrait. Whether black and white or color, I have not yet decided, probably the former. But, as one wiser than I has said, “If wishes were horses, we’d all be eating steak.”
Why would I want a portrait of Jesus? Not to put Him in the church directory (what a coup that would be!). I would want to study it, His face that is. Would it be as I imagine…His skin weathered from years outdoors, His eyes full of love and sorrow, His shoulders stout as a Man who is confident in Who He is? Would He have the beginnings of crow’s feet from laughter?
I have a theory that the soul of a person can be seen in their face. And a corollary to my little pet theory (of which this is only one) that the soul is most often and best seen in portraits. We are constantly on the move…hither, thither and yon. But a portrait stops us for that moment in time and, if the person is honest with the camera, we catch a glimpse of their soul. Don’t believe me? Go look at Steve McCurry’s “Afghan Girl.”
Faces tell us something about a person…what is in their eyes, how they hold their head, the lines in their face. A portrait captures that in a way other medias cannot. Granted, my theory may be influenced by the fact that we are an imaged based culture. But images have long been important in cultures across the globe and through the centuries. They made their appearance in different ways then they do today. For example, we pin up posters of our favorite actors instead of carving them out of marble. My point, however, is that the image is not something unique to American culture. How it is interpreted, perhaps, but the value of a picture to capture what is there before us is universal.
Since I cannot get a picture of Jesus, my next wish would be to have a picture of everyone He has changed. Christ living in us makes a mark on our soul, and if my soul can be seen in a portrait, it stands to reason the perhaps we may glimpse God in the faces of our fellow believers. Now stop right there. I am in no way leaning toward the belief that all of us are God or any other such nonsense. I am more speaking toward how God works in our lives. It is His love that I see shining out of the eyes of His disciples, His joy on their lips.
In January, I have a chance to try my theory out. I am going to join a research team in India as they glean the testimonies of women believers. My role will be that of the photographer. To which the answer to the next question of “Am I a professional photographer?” is no. But I love to take pictures. Why? See above discussion.
Why am I going on this team? First, I firmly believe that every believer has a story to tell about how God has worked in their life. Where God is, there is always a lesson to learn, both about Who He is and how we are live according to that truth. Testimonies open the door to those lessons, and pictures open that door even further. Second, at my church, we recently finished studying through the book of Acts. One reflection many of the congregation have observed is the significance Luke places on the unity of the church, especially demonstrated through loving care for fellow believers. I believe one way of living the love Luke was writing about is found in listening to and learning from the stories of God’s people. I want to love God better and love His people better, and this is a way He has given me to do so.
Please pray for me as I prepare to go.
Why would I want a portrait of Jesus? Not to put Him in the church directory (what a coup that would be!). I would want to study it, His face that is. Would it be as I imagine…His skin weathered from years outdoors, His eyes full of love and sorrow, His shoulders stout as a Man who is confident in Who He is? Would He have the beginnings of crow’s feet from laughter?
I have a theory that the soul of a person can be seen in their face. And a corollary to my little pet theory (of which this is only one) that the soul is most often and best seen in portraits. We are constantly on the move…hither, thither and yon. But a portrait stops us for that moment in time and, if the person is honest with the camera, we catch a glimpse of their soul. Don’t believe me? Go look at Steve McCurry’s “Afghan Girl.”
Faces tell us something about a person…what is in their eyes, how they hold their head, the lines in their face. A portrait captures that in a way other medias cannot. Granted, my theory may be influenced by the fact that we are an imaged based culture. But images have long been important in cultures across the globe and through the centuries. They made their appearance in different ways then they do today. For example, we pin up posters of our favorite actors instead of carving them out of marble. My point, however, is that the image is not something unique to American culture. How it is interpreted, perhaps, but the value of a picture to capture what is there before us is universal.
Since I cannot get a picture of Jesus, my next wish would be to have a picture of everyone He has changed. Christ living in us makes a mark on our soul, and if my soul can be seen in a portrait, it stands to reason the perhaps we may glimpse God in the faces of our fellow believers. Now stop right there. I am in no way leaning toward the belief that all of us are God or any other such nonsense. I am more speaking toward how God works in our lives. It is His love that I see shining out of the eyes of His disciples, His joy on their lips.
In January, I have a chance to try my theory out. I am going to join a research team in India as they glean the testimonies of women believers. My role will be that of the photographer. To which the answer to the next question of “Am I a professional photographer?” is no. But I love to take pictures. Why? See above discussion.
Why am I going on this team? First, I firmly believe that every believer has a story to tell about how God has worked in their life. Where God is, there is always a lesson to learn, both about Who He is and how we are live according to that truth. Testimonies open the door to those lessons, and pictures open that door even further. Second, at my church, we recently finished studying through the book of Acts. One reflection many of the congregation have observed is the significance Luke places on the unity of the church, especially demonstrated through loving care for fellow believers. I believe one way of living the love Luke was writing about is found in listening to and learning from the stories of God’s people. I want to love God better and love His people better, and this is a way He has given me to do so.
Please pray for me as I prepare to go.
24 October 2006
Plants and Purposes...
At my work, there is a fountain, made of little boulders plucked from those magical rock trees found at landscaping supply stores and placed together in a visually artistic manner so as to form precise, pleasant waterfall for city dwellers who wish to experience what my mother calls the outdoors. And, of course, our little piece of the wild comes with its own little sign that reads “Please stay off the rocks”—the unwritten sentiment being that this waterfall is fragile…or that we don’t want to be sued for anybody’s idiotic stunts.
The waterfall is flanked on either side by bushes. Now, I am not a botanist, so I cannot tell you their scientific name; and doubtless you could understand me if I did—such names generally employing dead languages. But to use a living language, these plants are the sort for which the word “rushes” springs to mind. As “rushes” their stalks fluff out and portray the appearance of covering more ground than is actually true. Quite a beautiful splattering of yellows, browns and greens with a hint of purple when the breeze flutters through. And herein lies my purpose for writing today.
Yesterday, it was decided by the “powers that be” that our lovely rushes has rushed too much. At lunch I went out to sit by the waterfall and its fluffy comrades to enjoy the glimmer of the wild they offered only to find that some mechanical machete had chopped all around them. They were as ladies in ball gowns whose hoopskirts had been cut off and their ankles scandalously exposed. My in-rage (I cannot call it out-rage because I said nothing except to the voices in my head) was slightly tempered by the humorous element of the picture. The tops had not been disgraced; the stalks growing vertically looked much like the ostrich feathers the rushes would have crowned their hairdos with had they truly been ladies at a ball.
But alack and alas, today I found even that proud dignity had been sheered from them. Our perfect waterfall scene is now surrounded by embarrassed nude nubs waiting to re-grow their finery. Surely, the bushes had not been hurting any one with their private gala. Why were they so savagely pruned?
As I was protesting on the state of the rushes to my co-worker, she remarked that this is the way that such bushes must be dealt with—that they are merely domesticated grasses and must be cut back severely or they would “get out of hand.” The way in which she phrased her comment made me pause. How would this situation have been handled elsewhere?
Had these rushes had the privilege of being born in an English garden, they would have been trimmed daily. Each day they would have looked their best, like a woman’s haircut after visiting “Dominic.” Their role in the garden would have been precise, suited to what they are and what the gardener desired. But they would have never been allowed the slightest hint of wild, for fear of it upsetting the balance in the rest of the garden.
Suppose our rushes were planted in the Philippines. They would have never experienced a blade. Natural rain would be their food and the open sky their home. Goliath contests would be their pastime. That is, until someone decided they were a danger and set fire to their field of dreams.
Instead, the rushes were used in a pseudo-landscape in these United States. Engorged with water, they responded as only they could—they grew. And their beauty was appreciated for a time. But one day, someone turned around and realized they had grown outside the invisible box they were supposed to stay in. And rather than trimming them back within the box, they were cruelly slapped back, half out of laziness, so that trimming would not have to happen again for some time, and half as a cutting punishment for not staying where they were wanted.
Now, I cannot draw any conclusions from the first two countries which our rushes might have grown because I have not lived there. I will leave that to those who have lived there. These comments are mere observations on the state of plants in both respective lands. However, for America, I feel as though I may, having lived here all but a few months of my life.
How often have the roles in my life been unspoken or their boundaries understood not verbally defined? I think that the concept of a box that Americans have may be a vestige from our English forefathers. But we hold individuality much higher. Therefore, we sometimes find it difficult to verbally or physically set forth the height, depth and width of whatever box is currently being dealt with. The result, at least for me, is when the wild crosses one step over too far is backlash, much like the chopping back of the rushes.
I like the wild; it’s one reason I visit the waterfall almost every lunch. It reminds me of how God created nature. He did start with a garden. And it was good. I wonder which approach to gardening He would have chosen in Eden—the British, the Philipino, the American? I kind of doubt He would have completely chosen any. While He would have allowed His rushes to grow as they pleased, “as they pleased” would have been within His will—they would have known their role and have been glad to stay within it because it was not a box, it was a gift.
Taking this little mental rabbit trail with disgraced rushes reminds me of how my response to the roles I have today should be. I do not wish to err toward any of the three gardening options. I doubt I will have much success convincing my geraniums with the above argument, but I am certain of victory with my heart, for I have the greatest Gardener pruning me.
The waterfall is flanked on either side by bushes. Now, I am not a botanist, so I cannot tell you their scientific name; and doubtless you could understand me if I did—such names generally employing dead languages. But to use a living language, these plants are the sort for which the word “rushes” springs to mind. As “rushes” their stalks fluff out and portray the appearance of covering more ground than is actually true. Quite a beautiful splattering of yellows, browns and greens with a hint of purple when the breeze flutters through. And herein lies my purpose for writing today.
Yesterday, it was decided by the “powers that be” that our lovely rushes has rushed too much. At lunch I went out to sit by the waterfall and its fluffy comrades to enjoy the glimmer of the wild they offered only to find that some mechanical machete had chopped all around them. They were as ladies in ball gowns whose hoopskirts had been cut off and their ankles scandalously exposed. My in-rage (I cannot call it out-rage because I said nothing except to the voices in my head) was slightly tempered by the humorous element of the picture. The tops had not been disgraced; the stalks growing vertically looked much like the ostrich feathers the rushes would have crowned their hairdos with had they truly been ladies at a ball.
But alack and alas, today I found even that proud dignity had been sheered from them. Our perfect waterfall scene is now surrounded by embarrassed nude nubs waiting to re-grow their finery. Surely, the bushes had not been hurting any one with their private gala. Why were they so savagely pruned?
As I was protesting on the state of the rushes to my co-worker, she remarked that this is the way that such bushes must be dealt with—that they are merely domesticated grasses and must be cut back severely or they would “get out of hand.” The way in which she phrased her comment made me pause. How would this situation have been handled elsewhere?
Had these rushes had the privilege of being born in an English garden, they would have been trimmed daily. Each day they would have looked their best, like a woman’s haircut after visiting “Dominic.” Their role in the garden would have been precise, suited to what they are and what the gardener desired. But they would have never been allowed the slightest hint of wild, for fear of it upsetting the balance in the rest of the garden.
Suppose our rushes were planted in the Philippines. They would have never experienced a blade. Natural rain would be their food and the open sky their home. Goliath contests would be their pastime. That is, until someone decided they were a danger and set fire to their field of dreams.
Instead, the rushes were used in a pseudo-landscape in these United States. Engorged with water, they responded as only they could—they grew. And their beauty was appreciated for a time. But one day, someone turned around and realized they had grown outside the invisible box they were supposed to stay in. And rather than trimming them back within the box, they were cruelly slapped back, half out of laziness, so that trimming would not have to happen again for some time, and half as a cutting punishment for not staying where they were wanted.
Now, I cannot draw any conclusions from the first two countries which our rushes might have grown because I have not lived there. I will leave that to those who have lived there. These comments are mere observations on the state of plants in both respective lands. However, for America, I feel as though I may, having lived here all but a few months of my life.
How often have the roles in my life been unspoken or their boundaries understood not verbally defined? I think that the concept of a box that Americans have may be a vestige from our English forefathers. But we hold individuality much higher. Therefore, we sometimes find it difficult to verbally or physically set forth the height, depth and width of whatever box is currently being dealt with. The result, at least for me, is when the wild crosses one step over too far is backlash, much like the chopping back of the rushes.
I like the wild; it’s one reason I visit the waterfall almost every lunch. It reminds me of how God created nature. He did start with a garden. And it was good. I wonder which approach to gardening He would have chosen in Eden—the British, the Philipino, the American? I kind of doubt He would have completely chosen any. While He would have allowed His rushes to grow as they pleased, “as they pleased” would have been within His will—they would have known their role and have been glad to stay within it because it was not a box, it was a gift.
Taking this little mental rabbit trail with disgraced rushes reminds me of how my response to the roles I have today should be. I do not wish to err toward any of the three gardening options. I doubt I will have much success convincing my geraniums with the above argument, but I am certain of victory with my heart, for I have the greatest Gardener pruning me.
13 October 2006
So I guess I am finally jumping on the band wagon that is blogs. Well not jumping...falling maybe, possibly being pushed. I couldnt post on Karisa's unless I had one, so I figured I have better get one, cause commenting there is non-negotiable.
Dont look for too many posts or consistant updating. If you know me, then I see you and talk to you and you shouldn't have to read about my life on the internet. Unless one of us is out of country...in which case I will make an exception. :) Any posts here will be musings of a sort...what sort I havent decided.
Brilliance and wittiness to come later...
the Walrus
Dont look for too many posts or consistant updating. If you know me, then I see you and talk to you and you shouldn't have to read about my life on the internet. Unless one of us is out of country...in which case I will make an exception. :) Any posts here will be musings of a sort...what sort I havent decided.
Brilliance and wittiness to come later...
the Walrus
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