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You may recognize the name Julia Kasdorf. She’s an award-winning, published
poet who teaches at Penn State University. I first knew Julia as Julie
Spicher. She was in the Mennonite youth group at Scottdale in the 1970s
when Suzanne and I were adult sponsors there. Already then I knew there
was something special about Julie, that she would go far in life; she
was unusually gifted, particularly with words. But there was another
dimension to her. She could “
see things” that others couldn’t see—in nature, in human affairs, or in other persons.
Sometimes when she pointed something out, you’d scratch your head and ask yourself, Of course, why didn’t I see that? The just-give-me-the facts people might say, Well, Julie has an overactive imagination. Who could argue with that? But that’s the gift of artists and poets to the rest of us. They are imaginative folk who see the familiar in the new, and the new in the old. Through their imaginative perceptions they point us toward beauty, and often the truth. They cast light on the dark corners of reality, and sometimes the light surprises. And sometimes it disturbs.
Artists may not always reflect the world in ways that make us feel comfortable, but like seeing-eye dogs, they take us places we can’t or would rather not go on our own.
Faith is like the artist’s perception of the world; it’s a different way of perceiving reality. People of faith see that God is still alive and well in this world, despite the war in Iraq or the tsunami in South Asia. Even though things may seem out of control in the world, we perceive that in some grand sense God is in control, even though God is not a controlling God. People of faith see the all-too-painful reality that because we humans live outside the will of God, we mess things up to the detriment of ourselves, others, and the natural world.
Unbelief is, I think, a failure of imagination to see beyond what we can touch, feel or smell—the inability to perceive that we live and move and have our beings in God. Unbelief lacks the depth perception needed to see that the real power is not to be found in the corridors of power in Washington DC or Ottawa—or Jerusalem—but in a baby born in a stable in Bethlehem who, as an adult, was crucified at Golgotha.
Conversely, a commitment to Jesus’ way of peace is only possible through Spirit-inspired imagination. Some people look at the injustice and hostility in the world and think the only answer is the use of coercive, if not lethal, force. But Jesus’ disciples look at the same realities and imagine another way: that of redemptive, selfsacrificial love—even toward one’s own enemies.
A missional church is committed to the perception that God is at work in the world; it is our task to discern where, and then align ourselves with God’s mission. Such a church needs artists. Sometimes they say things we’d rather not hear, like when I asked my poet friend David Wright if he’d write an article for this issue on art in the missional church. He said, “Well, as a poet I think ‘missional’ is an ugly word, but I’d be glad to write something” (see page 5). Artists may not always reflect the world or ourselves in ways that make us feel comfortable, but like seeing-eye dogs, they take us places we can’t or would rather not go on our own.
Artists and poets perceive things the rest of us cannot. And they point us toward what they see and hear. As Tolstoy once said, what we look for in art is a revelation of the artist’s soul—a glimpse of God. Thank God for artists.
Richard A. Kauffman