Lent Week Five: From the Artist (Seeking: Can these bones live?)

 

read Ezekiel 37:1-14

from the artist | Carmelle Beaugelin (Rubble, conte crayon, charcoal, acrylic, paprika paste, cinnamon paste on paper)

It has been over a decade since my family in Haiti experienced the most traumatic earthquake in the nation’s history. If you were to Google, “Haiti” and “earthquake,” images of collapsed concrete and rubble would emerge. The most disturbing images are those of survivors, covered in white and gray ash and rubble, reaching out for rescuers to salvage them from collapsed buildings. Endless images are found on the internet of arms stretched out, identity-less faces of horror covered in soot, and faces frozen into expressions of despair by the spectating photographer’s lens.

When I think of Ezekiel and the story of the dry bones, I think of those images. I’ve often heard sermons where pastors position God’s people as the prophet to call the world into life, but what about God’s people who are, as the bones, facing the despair of death? Their suffering is theologized away by those who consider themselves the righteous “Ezekiels” of the world, whose privilege weighs heavy on the bones of the suffering, like the concrete rubble in Haiti.

Rubble speaks to the realities of being made alive and yet not being allowed to live—a nameless multitude of God’s people resurrected yet still bearing the scent of burial spices on their bodies.

Who are we in this story? Are we the bones seeking life? Do we perceive ourselves as spectators of suffering? Or will we choose to be participants in healing as active agents of God’s resurrecting power out of the rubble?

*reprinted with permission from A Sanctified Art

Lent Week Five: (Seeking: Can these bones live?)

read John 11:1-45

from the artist | Hannah Garrity (Unbind Him, paper lace over oil paint on linen)

As I met with this text, I was drawn to Jesus’ call for Lazarus to be unbound. To represent the fabrics used in preparation for burial, I wrapped a canvas in linen. You’re not really supposed to do that. The canvas was already stretched and gessoed. It was ready to resist the oil paint medium I was applying. However, the texture of the binding cloth matters for this tactile text. I began to scrape the paint onto the woven strands. The linen fabric absorbed the paint as I scraped it on with a palette knife. In the final image, the linen shows through the paint and the paper lace design, representing the bindings.

Jesus' call for unbinding also includes the community. The foreshortened hands of the community, tasked with unbinding his body, reach in toward Lazarus. They reach through the concentric binding lines so that he can go free. Can these bones live?

In the strength of community, they can. The community made up of Jews, Gentiles, Samaritans, and others all joined one another at the tomb to grieve for Lazarus that day. They came to support Mary and Martha. Jesus arrives as the community mourns together. Jesus cries in his grief. Their collective tears create the backdrop for this paper lace design. This diverse and neighborly community is who Jesus calls on to do the unbinding. Jesus makes sure that the community knows about this miracle so that they can share the news. Can these bones live? Lazarus lives, and Jesus’ miracle lives on in the telling.

*reprinted with permission from A Sanctified Art

Lent Week Five: Commentary (Seeking: Can these bones live?)

read John 11:1-45 | Ezekiel 37:1-14

commentary | Rev. Danielle Shroyer

To be quite honest, very few things feel more ridiculous than hope these days. We’re facing a world of climate emergency, war, a growing immigration crisis, a terrifying surge in hate groups, rising global fascism, technological overload, and, in case we forget, an ongoing pandemic. If fear were an energy source, we could all power our homes and cars for a year. What kind of particular insanity is a Christian, who stands before all of this and says: “God is love. Peace is the way. Justice will arrive.”

If God personally came to my door and asked me if this world was going to make it, most days I’d probably say no. I’m not even sure our country is going to make it. How will we not fracture under all of this pressure, all of this collective anxiety wreaking havoc on every institution and system we have?

The good news for us is that God doesn’t seem as interested in that question. The question God has for Ezekiel is something else entirely: “Can these bones live?” God doesn’t ask if it’s likely, or if the forecast looks promising. God doesn’t ask for pie charts and percentages. And, perhaps best of all, God doesn’t say, “Do you know how you’re going to get out of this?” Because God knows, Ezekiel feels just as overwhelmed by that question as we would.

God asks: “Can these bones live?”

This is a question not of probability, but possibility.

What God wants to know is: “Can you see past the rubbish, the damage, the crisis, the violence, the signs of decay… and can you imagine that life still lingers there? Do you dare to believe—and even trust—that the power of life does not ever go underground in such a way that God cannot revive it in glory?”

Many years later, Mary and Martha must answer this question in the face of two contradictory realities: their belief in Jesus, and a brother who has been dead for three days. They understand enough to know that Jesus brings life. But now this question asks more of them: “Do you have faith that life is possible, always?”

Jesus resurrects Lazarus for many reasons. But I want to believe that a good part of his purpose was to answer that question for all of us who will exist on this side of Easter. Can we trust that life is always possible in God? Can we find hope, and even faith, when we are sitting in a valley of dry bones and literal death?

God doesn’t ask us to believe the situation will get better. God asks us to believe that life itself will not, in the end, cower under the pressure of human destruction. Abundant life persists. This is what makes it eternal.

Even when we have that trust, God asks for more. God commands Ezekiel to prophesy to the bones. Jesus told those gathered to unbind Lazarus and let him go. This ridiculous, radical hope is ours not only to hold, but to proclaim.

Where is fear or cynicism holding you back from seeing life right now? Can you find glimmers of God’s abundance even in this valley of the shadow of death?

Reflect: Where is fear or cynicism holding you back from seeing life? Do you have faith that life is possible, always?

*reprinted with permission from A Sanctified Art

Lent Week Five: Can These Bones Live? (Seeking Can these bones live?)

 

*reprinted with permission from A Sanctified Art

Lent Week Five: Poem (Seeking: Can these bones live?)

the answer is yes

It’s the question we ask at the end of our rope,

when the storm is raging,

when the monsters under the bed have

introduced themselves.

When everything around us seems to be on fire.

It’s the question we ask when hope slips through like

sand in a bottle,

when the mockingbirds stop singing,

when the news reporter leads with another mass shooting.

It’s the question we ask when the depression moves in,

making herself at home, making a mess of it all.

It’s the question we ask

when we’re not sure if Easter will come.

Will it be Lent forever?

Will the sun ever rise?

Will this hope lead to something?

Can these bones ever live?

Poem by Rev. Sarah (Are) Speed

*reprinted with permission from A Sanctified Art

Lent Week Four: From the Artist (Seeking: Who sinned?)

 

read John 9:8-41

from the artist | Rev. Lisle Gwynn Garrity (Insight, silk painting with digital drawing and collage)

In seven verses, the gospel writer tells us that a man born blind is given sight. But after that, the narrator devotes thirty-three verses to the details of disagreement that swell after the healing takes place. I used to find this second part of the story tedious and exhausting. In a world with constant conflict, I’m tired of listening to endless bickering.

However, this second half of the story makes me realize that this encounter is hardly about physical healing or literal blindness. It’s about how harmful theology can prevent us from seeing people—truly seeing them. It’s about how our narrow imagination can harden into accusation and blame. It’s about how we can be threatened by new ideas or shifts in someone’s identity. It’s about how our doctrine can lead to exile. Ultimately, it’s a story about our resistance to change. Can this be a cautionary tale for us?

In this image, hands expressing denial and exclusion press in on the man. In the background, I wrote a barrage of questions I imagine emerging from the crowd: Why did God heal you? What did you do to cause this? Who sinned? Alongside those questions, I wove in contemporary statements I’ve heard spoken in situations when we think a tidy rationale will comfort us: Everything happens for a reason. God only gives you as much as you can handle. Pray harder.

I wonder what this story would look like had better questions been asked. What if his neighbors had instead asked the blind man, “How do you feel?” What if the man had asked the crowd, “What are you afraid of?” What if the Pharisees had asked one another, “What if it’s time to change?”

Surrounded by remnants of narrow vision, the man has new insight. He looks beyond the words, beyond the crowd, beyond the accusations driving him out of town. Can we seek understanding without denigrating or objectifying humans in the process?

*reprinted with permission from A Sanctified Art

Lent Week Four: From the Artist (Seeking: Who sinned?)

read John 9:1-7

from the artist | Rev. T. Denise Anderson (Son, Rise, oil on canvas)

Jesus’ community saw this man’s blindness as a curse or a punishment for sin (either his parents’ sin or his own). While it is true that blindness comes with challenges in a world made for sightedness, it is important that we do not problematize blindness in preaching and teaching this story the way they did. What happened here was an apocalypse—a revelation of the nature of Jesus and the heart and mind of God. That revelation challenged the epistemologies of the community, and it is the ones in the story who’d been sighted all along who were ironically unable to perceive what God was doing.

Jesus said that he “must work the works of him who sent me while it is day” (John 9:4). Daybreak is also an apocalypse of sorts; it reveals what we couldn’t readily see at night and allows us to perceive the work in front of us. In my portrait, I’ve lit this man’s face as if the earth and the sun’s light are moving slowly across the surface, signaling the dawn of a new day. His eyes remain closed in my portrait because, for me, his newfound sightedness is not the miracle or the most important part of this story. What’s most important is the revelation of who Jesus is. Jesus has been revealed to this man in a way that even the witnesses around him could not comprehend. His encounter with Jesus raises him to a new life and offers the whole community a new understanding of God’s works. It’s a new day for everyone, though that proves to be a difficult gift to receive.

*reprinted with permission from A Sanctified Art

Lent Week Four: Commentary (Seeking: Who sinned?)

read John 9:1-41

commentary | Rev. Bruce Reyes-Chow

First let us name the ableist notion that “blindness” is an inherent deficiency. Metaphors using blindness are built on the idea that this physical state of being is somehow “less than” and, regardless of the cause, is in all cases a problem, malady, and affliction that must be solved, healed, and fixed. The culture of Jesus' time did not think any differently, thus the many examples of physical limitation being the stand-in for sin and brokenness.

The passage today uses physical affliction as a vehicle to point out how humanity always wants to be sure and secure about the world. The crowd is certain that there must be a cause (someone’s fault) and effect (God’s judgment) at play, and when the effect is made known, they refuse to believe the cause that has been given credit.

We want to believe, but only on our terms.

We want to believe that people should be held accountable for their actions; generally speaking this is not a terrible thing for society, but in this case, we are talking about a human’s personhood and the assumptions made about the person. The disciples' first reaction is to debate the blindness and not deal at all with the human. Intellectualizing and theologizing outside of seeing the created being right in front of them led them to ask the wrong questions. Rather than ask, “How can we heal and help?” they ask, “Whose fault is it?”

We do the same thing today when suffering, pain, and affliction are revealed right before us. Empathetic inquiry is set aside and we rush to diagnosis and treatment before we even know the nature and depth of the problem we are trying to address . . . or if it is a problem at all.

We too easily view one another through a one-dimensional lens so much so that all we can do is start down a path toward misplaced questions and actions based on mistaken assumptions:

• “They must be poor because of X, so let’s solve X by doing Y…”

• “She must be incarcerated because…”

• “The reason they are being deported must be because…”

• “He must be experiencing mental health issues because…”

• “He must be sick because…”

We turn genuine struggles of the human condition into solvable formulas of cause and effect, which then gets warped into the idea that if something bad is happening to us, it is because God has determined that we deserve it. And the need for security does not stop there. Rather than give God credit for the healing and new life—because it would lessen the perception of power and authority of the religious leaders—the rational cause-and-effect argument from the beginning is ignored and replaced with a position of, “We know what we know and nothing you do or say will change our minds.”

Again, it is not a difficult leap for today’s application:

• “We know people are poor because…”

• “We know people are incarcerated because…”

• “We know people are sick because…”

• “We know…We know…We know…”

The truth is, we don't know, but the hope is that we could know more if only we would take the time to ask better questions.

Reflect: What assumptions have you made about other people? What are examples of some of the bad questions you’ve asked? What are better questions you can ask?

*reprinted with permission from A Sanctified Art

Lent Week Four: We Come With Questions (Seeking: Who sinned?)

 

*reprinted with permission from A Sanctified Art

Lent Week Four Poem (Seeking: Who sinned?)

Jesus in the psych ward⁸

He’s in group therapy, plastic chairs in a circle.

Paper cups with weak coffee. Everyone in the room has

seeking eyes.

The Pharisees admitted him. They said things like,

He’s more than we can handle. They let the rumors fly.

The other patients like him. They say, He listens to me.

He calls them by name.

And when one of them asks,

Is this our fault? Are we here because we sinned?

Jesus does not wait for the facilitator to speak.

He crosses the circle. He kneels down. He grabs their hands

in his and says,

Child of the covenant, God loves you too much to ever

wish you pain.

Bodies and minds crumble sometimes, but God’s love

for you does not.

And after that

there were happy tears and the group was dismissed

to lunch,

where they broke bread and no one talked of sin.

Poem by

Rev. Sarah (Are) Speed 

8 Inspired by the poem, Jesus at the Gay Bar, by Jay Hulmes. Published in The Backwater Sermons. (Canterbury Press, 2021). A note from the author: "In Jay’s poem, Jesus offers words of grace in a modern-day setting. In a similar fashion, I placed Jesus in a psychiatric setting to continue dismantling unfair stigmas around mental health. For me, the image of Jesus in therapy with me offers immense comfort and validation. I hope you find the same to be true for you.”

*reprinted with permission from A Sanctified Art

Lent Week Three: From the Artist (Seeking: Will you give me a drink?)

 

 

read Exodus 17:1-7

from the artist | Carmelle Beaugelin (Wet Stones, conte crayon, charcoal, acrylic, gold gild on paper)

On a recent search to remedy dull kitchen knives, I found myself learning about wet stones. Sharpening a knife used to be called "whetting," so to sharpen a blade was to "whet" it. Stones used for sharpening were called “whetstones,” or a “wet rock." Natural whetstones are typically formed of quartz, but today can be formed into pumice stones from all kinds of materials. This interesting play on the words “wet” and “stone” led me to ask of this Exodus narrative, “In focusing on their perceived lack, how had the Hebrews' trust in God begun to dull?”

In Exodus 17 we find the first encounter involving the Hebrews where a perceived lack of water, a necessary resource for survival, is in question. When collective despair and the threat of abandoning the journey to God’s promised land is aroused, God aids Moses in providing water from rocks along the way. This fear of scarcity dulled the once sharpened faith of the community to the extent that they longed for their former life in Egypt where water was abundant but sipped under the oppression of slavery. How is it that seeking freedom could cost so much?

Like the Hebrews in the wilderness, our fear of scarcity may cause us to struggle in our confidence in God’s provision as we seek our own promises along our life’s journey. In seeking to quench our thirst, like the figures in this image, perhaps we may find the provision of God in the grace of relief and from unexpected places that sharpen our faith.

*reprinted with permission from A Sanctified Art

Lent Week Three: From the Artist (Seeking: Will you give me a drink?)

read John 4:5-42

from the artist | Rev. Lauren Wright Pittman (Living Water, digital painting)

The positioning of Jesus and the Samaritan woman is inspired by the work of Karoline M. Lewis in her commentary on John. She introduces a fresh way of looking at this text, with a focus on their “mutuality of need.”⁵ Jesus needs water to drink, and the woman needs living water. She writes: “Jesus needs her to be a witness, and she needs Jesus to invite her into this new identity.”⁶

In this image, their body positioning is mirrored, with their eyes on the same plane. Where their arms overlap becomes a vibrant blue, creating a water drop with a dove in it, representing the living water that springs forth from their mutual need and relationship. Each of their clothing is patterned with the other’s need. In Jesus’ clothing are simplified “springs of water gushing up to eternal life” (John 4:14). In the Samaritan woman’s clothes, her water jar is positioned upright and poured out, representing her wrestling with whether she will interact with this man—and further, whether he is the awaited Messiah.

The image is subtly divided in half by slight shifts in color value. There is a chasm between them socially, culturally, religiously, etc. Referencing a primary dispute between the Jews and the Samaritans, their places of worship are in the background: on the left is the temple in Jerusalem, and on the right is Mount Gerizim.

In the center is the Samaritan woman’s vessel. Her need is not the water in the well; her need is for grounding in a new identity,7 and to be seen for who she really is. She needs to not be defined by social stigmas, but to be seen through the lens of mutual need. One of the first witnesses of the Messiah, she becomes a vessel of living water herself.

5 Lewis, Karoline M. John: Fortress Biblical Preaching Commentaries. (Minneapolis: Augsburg Fortress Publishers, 2014). 55.

6 Ibid. 56.

7 Ibid. 56.

*reprinted with permission from A Sanctified Art

Lent Week Three: Commentary (Seeking: Will you give me a drink?)

read John 4:5-42 | Exodus 17:1-7

commentary | Rev. Danielle Shroyer

“Give us a drink,” the Israelites ask. God hears them, readily responds, and calls Moses to bring forth water from a rock. But do the people know what they truly thirst for?

In the seasons of our lives, we all have felt frustrated and lost in the wilderness. During these times, our fear gets the better of us. Survival mode reigns. Sometimes our focus on survival is so loud we miss the cry underneath: “God, have you abandoned me?”

What would it have looked like, I wonder, if the Israelites had instead cried out for God’s assurance? “Show us you’re still with us, God,” they could have prayed with open hearts. “We feel alone and unmoored.” Where could the water have come from, if the question had come from a softer place than the rock of our human defenses?

This is the way Jesus himself taught us to pray. He gave us full permission to ask for what we needed, to request of God our daily bread. He knew, I think, that it’s also a prayer for God to walk with us. It’s an honest admission that none of us rely only on ourselves. We need God. We need each other.

Many years later, Jesus asks this same question of a Samaritan woman at a well. Everything he risks by speaking with her—crossing cultural, religious, and social lines—demonstrates his willingness to be vulnerable. When he asks for what he needs, he shows that even he cannot make it alone. What a risk for the Son of God to be so openly human. And yet, it is this question—and his willingness—that leads to this woman’s transformation. Despite a long list of good reasons why she shouldn’t be vulnerable to anyone, she boldly asks Jesus for living water instead. And she did so fully trusting he would give it.

 We often see this Gospel story as a bridge-building one. It’s a reminder to be brave enough to cross boundaries and offer a drink to those society may separate from us. And it is. And also, it reminds us that God designed this whole world to run on benevolent connection. And that requires us to not just be charitable, but vulnerable.

The question for us this Lent is not only whether we would extend a drink; it’s whether we will be brave enough to ask God for one when we need it.

Reflect: What are you truly thirsting for? Will you be brave enough to ask God for a drink when you need it?

*reprinted with permission from A Sanctified Art

Lent Week Three: We All Come Thirsty (Seeking: Will you give me a drink?)

 

Lent Week Three: Poem (Seeking: Will you give me a drink?)

Anything and everything

I’d give you a drink,

a warm cup of tea with lemon and mint,

a confetti cannon, roses from the garden,

my favorite sweatshirt, a bed to lay in,

homemade bread, a hand to hold.

I’d give you my full attention.

I’d give you my phone,

and say, put your number in.

I’d give you the melody line,

a standing ovation,

a sense of security.

I’d give you anything and everything

if it made you believe

that you were enough.

Poem by Rev. Sarah (Are) Speed

*reprinted with permission from A Sanctified Art

Lent Week Two: (Seeking: How do we begin again?)

 

read Genesis 12:1-4a

from the artist | Hannah Garrity (To Be a Blessing, paper lace and pencil over oil paint on paper)

“I will bless you and make your name great, so that you will be a blessing.” —Genesis 12:2 (NRSV)

As I began to study this text, the motion we are in as a human species came to mind. God calls Abram. She tasks him with relocating; she’s not really explicit as to why. Contemporary theologian Norman Wirzba speaks of our current ability to rely on global positioning systems, or GPS, to travel without needing to know where we are.4 What do people carry when they are forced to begin again? Medicine and technology, that’s what people are carrying across borders right now as they sustain and navigate life through the journey ahead.

How did Abram begin again? He was wealthy. He was called, not forced. He traveled with his entourage. In this image, the globe subtly depicts the route that Abram and his wives, his children, his servants, and his animals took. The lines of countries are suggested as they ripple outward. Tools for navigation used to read the stars and the shadows are echoed below the globe. Stars in the corners represent the twelve tribes of Israel.

How do we begin again? Through the paper lace, the book of Genesis overlays a canvas. The text is hard to read, clouded by oil paint. How do we begin again? Listen through the haze, through the clouded reality, for God’s call. God is calling as we begin again.

“In you all the families of the earth shall be blessed.”

—Genesis 12:3 (NRSV)

Dear God, it doesn’t feel like much of a blessing these days. We carry on in this journey, beginning yet again. We are called, like Abram—to navigate, to persevere, to be a blessing. 

4 Wirzba, Norman. This Sacred Life: Humanity’s Place in a Wounded World. (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press 2021). 50.

*reprinted with permission from A Sanctified Art

Lent Week Two: From the Artist (Seeking: How do we begin again?)

 

read John 3:1-17

from the artist | Carmelle Beaugelin (Renacimiento, conte crayon, charcoal, acrylic, gold gild on paper)

I was raised in a Spanish-speaking Pentecostal church in Miami called “Renacimiento.” A simple translation of renacimiento to English means “rebirth” or “renaissance.” For my small Pentecostal church, renacimiento meant far more than the symbolism of being “born-again” Christians. It was a perpetual reminder that each time the saints gather to encounter Jesus, the Spirit calls us to continuous transformation, calling dead things into new life and Holy Spirit-filled revival.

It is no wonder that Nicodemus seeks Jesus in the cover and darkness of night. It is in the quiet of night that our deepest fears startle us awake, that our anxieties of the day keep us from sound rest, and that the fear of the death of our dreams and bodies looms. As rapper Nas wrote in his debut album, Illmatic, “sleep is the cousin of death.”3

Yet Jesus challenges Nicodemus’ seeking in the night with a call to be born again, to renacimiento. Not just improvement, but transformation. Not simply resuscitation of what is and was, but a complete resurrection of what could and will be.

In this image, a metaphorically disrobed, aging, and vulnerable Nicodemus, surrounded by the milky gray swirls of water and spirit, wonders: How can this be? Haven’t I reached past my benchmarks? How is it that you are calling me to begin again?

We may see ourselves in Nicodemus today, holding the same questions in the sleeplessness of our darkest nights. Yet, what if we chose to hold fast to the faith that responds to our seeking? Jesus promises us that the winds and waters of the Spirit will lead us toward our own new beginning. Each of us will experience renacimiento if we dare to seek it.

3 Nas. “N.Y. State of Mind.” Track 2 on Illmatic. Columbia Records, 1994.

*reprinted with permission from A Sanctified Art

Lent Week Two: Commentary (Seeking: How do we begin again?)

read John 3:1-17 | Genesis 12:1-4a

commentary | Rev. Bruce Reyes-Chow

In December of 2021, our family, four generations strong, remotely surrounded my grandmother through our screens and said our goodbyes. There she lay, prone on a hospital bed, her family bathing her with words of love, gratitude, and permission to let go. Soon after our call, she was removed from life support and succumbed to complications from COVID. In the days and weeks to follow, my heart ached and broke over and over again, not only for our family, but for so many others whose future had one more empty chair.

Not a year later, I too found myself lying prone in a hospital bed suffering from complications from COVID. While I was able to avoid being placed on a ventilator, for days I was unable to walk on my own or complete sentences of more than a few words. Fully vaxxed, a breakthrough case of COVID had my family again terrified that heartbreak and sorrow would soon make their mark and that the empty chair would be mine.

My grandmother, friends, colleagues, and thousands of others did not make it back home, but I did. To this day, I give thanks for my life and hold dear the questions that it has forced upon me as I venture into a new life, a new beginning, and, in many ways, an experience of being born again.

After my release, it became clear that long-COVID would have a grip on me for the long haul. With great trepidation, I made the decision to leave the church I was serving. During that discernment period, the battle in my mind raged. On one side, the voices of toxic productivity and misplaced martyrdom were causing me to doubt what I was feeling, and screaming at me to push through it. On the other side, persistent whispers reminded me that I need not progress to a physical or mental crisis before tending to my health, prodding me to choose to heal before my health made the choice for me. Contrary to so many cultural cues, I thought, “I choose me today, so we may all have a better tomorrow.”

The beauty of holding the question about being born again—raised by Nicodemus side-by-side with the promise of a thriving future made to Abraham—speaks to my soul and what it means to start again. I made the choice to start over or to be born again, not out of the immediate urgency of a crisis, but out of a yearning for what could be.

I grieve the loss of the ministry that would never be for that particular calling, but I know that it was the right act for me and for the community if either of us is to thrive in the future.

As you think through these two narratives: being born again and being promised an expansive future, ask yourself, “Do I believe in the possibility of new beginnings?” And, when the opportunities are revealed before you, “Will I be willing to step into the promise of what may be?”

Reflect: Do you believe in the possibility of new beginnings? Will you be willing to step into the promise of what may be?

*reprinted with permission from A Sanctified Art

Lent Week Two: Begin Again (Seeking: How do we begin again?)

 

*reprinted with permission from A Sanctified Art

Lent Week Two: Poem (Seeking: How do we begin again?)

Do we slide into something new?

Do we make a formal announcement? Dearest reader,

I have decided to begin again. Do we turn gradually,

a gentle yield in a new direction; or like a wave,

do we crash onto the shore of a new day?

Do we grieve the change? Are there breadcrumbs

on the path?

Will Nicodemus be there?

Will it ever be easy?

I’m not sure exactly how we begin again,

but I know that moths wrap themselves in silk,

and after quite some time,

after many long nights,

after days spent alone,

they break out of their shell.

They pull themselves out under open sky,

and they spend the rest of their days chasing the light.

Maybe it’s always that way with beginnings.

Maybe it feels like the protective layer falling away.

Maybe we have to go it alone at first.

Maybe it feels like pulling and dragging yourself

into something new.

Maybe there’s always open sky at the other end.

Poem by Rev. Sarah (Are) Speed

*reprinted with permission from A Sanctified Art

Lent Week One: From the Artist (Seeking: Who will you listen to?)

Read Genesis 2:15-17, 3:1-7

from the artist | Rev. Lauren Wright Pittman

As I was creating this piece, I was recovering from an unexpected postpartum surgery. I read the text, and then weeks of internal wrestling ensued. I felt angry, defiant, and it was all personal. Like a rebellious teenager, I poked holes in the text with hopes it would crumble; but why?

Reading Danielle Shroyer’s book, Original Blessing,2 truly helped me see why this text felt so burdensome, and I’m incredibly grateful for her work. She reminded me that this text has been forced to do things it was not written to do, and to say things it does not actually say.

In my youth, this narrative was taught as the origin story explaining human nature, sin, suffering, and death. It was the text I thought of when I had menstrual cramps. I would mutter, “Thanks, Eve,” under my breath, blaming her, but I realize I was also blaming myself for my own pain. It was the text that justified distrust in myself. While engaging with this text, the pain I was feeling in my body from childbirth complications felt like punishment. I raged against this text because I felt it raging against me.

Beware of the ways harmful theology bubbles up in your life. Ask yourself, “Who will I listen to?” In this case, I was giving power to a hermeneutic that isn’t in line with who God has revealed God’s self to be, or with the image of God in me.

In this piece, the cool tones represent the heaviness and confusion I felt with this familiar story, and the high contrast mimics the way this text has made me feel separated and isolated from God. The woman’s expression holds the weight and the pain caused by the ways this text has been used to subjugate women and to prop up destructive doctrines and a distorted gospel. In hindsight, I realize I was visualizing my emotional journey with the text.

2 Shroyer, Danielle. Original Blessing: Putting Sin in Its Rightful Place. (Minneapolis: Fortress Press, 2016).

Who Will You Listen To? | Rev. Lauren Wright Pittman

Digital painting

*reprinted with permission from A Sanctified Art

Lent Week One: From the Artist (Seeking: Who will you listen to?)

Read Matthew 4:1-11

from the artist | Rev. Lisle Gwynn Garrity

In this image, the words of the Tempter hover in the background. The Tempter’s voice lingers like a ringing in Jesus’ ears, saying: “Take charge. Hoard your power. Dominate. Control.”

Somehow, Jesus has deciphered that these words are simply background noise. He closes his eyes and goes inward, wrapping himself in a posture of self-embrace. From this introspective perspective, Jesus essentially says, “Get behind me, Satan.”

The backdrop of this piece resembles the dust of the desert. Like sand washing along a beach, the sediment shifts into water in the top left, hinting at what bolsters Jesus in his ministry: his belonging to God. His belovedness washes over him, giving him the courage to defy the deception of the Tempter and tune into his inner wisdom. In this way, he is given a new song to carry with him, a lullaby from God that goes, “You, my child, in you, I am well-pleased.” This is a melody for singing, a song for dancing.

What are the voices that linger with you like a ringing in your ears? What are the messages that try to deceive or devour you? Let those voices buzz and fade into the background. Close your eyes, tune in, and embrace yourself. From your belovedness, what song will you sing?

Tune In | Rev. Lisle Gwynn Garrity

Silk painting with digital drawing and collage

*reprinted with permission from A Sanctified Art

Lent Week One: Commentary (Seeking: Who will you listen to?)

Read Matthew 4:1-11 | Genesis 2:15-17, 3:1-7

commentary | Rev. Danielle Shroyer

In the ancient world, snakes were a symbol of transformation. Their venom held the possibility of both poison and medicine. Our human story begins in the crux of this same paradox of possibility, as the first humans embark into the fertile field God had prepared for them.

“God knows that when you eat it, your eyes will be opened,” the serpent says. And while the serpent didn’t lie—indeed, their eyes did open—as it often goes with crafty tricksters, that isn’t the whole story. Because while the humans wouldn’t physically die as they imagined, God also told the truth. A death would happen.

It was the death of their innocence.

Before we can embark on a life of wisdom—one that requires us to choose, over and over again, between using our words and actions as poison or medicine—we must allow our naive innocence to die. This call to grow up and leave our Divine Parent’s house comes for all of us. It is painful, and yet it is necessary.

Many years later, this same choice comes to Jesus as he wanders the wilderness. Will he use his gifts as a parlor trick or a sacred balm? Will he use his glory for fame or for peace? Will he use his power for domination or for justice? Jesus shows us the way by choosing medicine, every time.

And as he does so, he teaches us what we all need to know as we fumble toward wisdom east of Eden. When he refuses to turn bread into stone, it’s because he knows his gifts and abilities are in service to something far greater than hunger. When he refuses to test God, it’s because he already trusts God. And when he refuses the kind of loyalty that leads to worldly authority, it’s because he knows power is meant for connection and not domination.

Jesus knows all of this because he has been listening. Day after day, he dwells with his Divine Parent. He embodies the teachings he has received in the Temple, on his mother’s lap, in his father’s shop. Jesus shows us what it looks like to walk in wisdom, to become adept at parsing out the many voices that call for our allegiance.

If we are to be like Jesus, we also must begin by first listening to the voice of God at our center. This voice tells us, above all and after it all, we are God’s Beloved. When we know this, we filter out so much of the silt and grit that traps us. We release ourselves into the arms of love. We make space for the work of transformation to be born in us.

As you begin this Lenten journey, consider what voices might be pulling you toward more poison than medicine. Carve out time for silence, that the still, small voice of God may come into fuller focus. Listen for God, who is always there, right at the center of your heart, inviting you into a life of belovedness, even as you travel east of Eden.

Reflect: What voices are pulling you toward poison, and what voices are pulling you toward medicine? As you listen for God’s still, small voice, what will enable you to hear?

*reprinted with permission from A Sanctified Art