Is Change Good?

What's the greatest obstacle to change and renewal in the Church? Lutherans are a mixed bag these days, but most of the time I presume political gridlock isn't to blame so much as apathy. (And perhaps "apathy" isn't the right word. Sometimes it seems almost like a militant adherence to the status quo.) Speaking from my experience, I don't know how many times in the past several years "I've never heard any complaints" was given as a reason not to change something. Its close relatives are: "We've always done it this way," and "If it ain't broke, don't fix it." It perplexes me to some degree. If I can find someone who is willing to voice some complaint, or at least suggest that improvements could be made, then will you consider changing? What if, like good Lutherans, we're just keeping our opinions to ourselves? Mother always said, "If you don't have anything nice to say..."

The same old argument came out of the bag recently in regard to commissioning artwork to commemorate the 500th anniversary of the Reformation. It's happened often enough to at least give me pause. Is there something to it? Are there times when the status quo is to be honored above change? If I can understand the mindset, maybe that will help me to overcome the rigid apathy.

I consider myself a traditionalist, so in that regard it's somewhat odd that I so often find myself on the side of change. On the one hand, I thank God that my church is a conservative Lutheran congregation. We don't have battles over praise bands, trendy youth programs, or licentious pastors. I think my church is pretty normal among the WELS in that regard.

On the other hand, probably like many WELS churches, we sometimes confuse the status quo for "tradition." They aren't necessarily the same. The traditions of the Church (e.g., the liturgy) were established long ago and for good reasons (e.g. maintaining good order, preaching the gospel, aiding learning). Those reasons still stand. The interesting thing about the traditions of the Church is that even while they remain, they change. What served as the liturgy in the Byzantine Empire won't work for 21st century American Lutherans in Seward, Nebraska. But we still have a liturgy, and we probably sing some of the same biblical canticles that Justinian sang—only they've been translated into English and set to different music with different instruments. The clergy that served in Hagia Sophia would have worn albs, just like our pastor. But their vesture would have seemed distinctly Roman and somewhat alien to us.

Traditions in the church are commended by the Book of Concord as being good and useful, but they change. Aside from regional and cultural changes that occur when Christianity is transmitted around the world, Christians have deliberately and often improved the tradition. This is why Romanesque churches eventually gave way to Gothic—many Europeans thought that pointed vaults, stained glass windows, more light, and greater verticality resulted in a more beautiful and fitting setting for worship. Note: These weren't radical changes—they occurred slowly over hundreds of years, and maintained the same basic layout of churches past. Also Note: There was nothing wrong with the previous style. When Constantine first made Christianity legal, Christians who had worshipped well enough in house-churches didn't remain there; they began building large basilica-churches. Likewise, the Gothic style didn't come about because parishioners complained that they didn't like rounded arches. In both cases, church architecture changed because Christians with artistic sensibilities saw room for improvement.

Jump forward to 1517. Martin Luther reformed many of the traditions of the Catholic Church. One notable example was that he excised the Canon of the Mass from the liturgy. The original reasons for having the liturgy still remained—but the Canon hindered them. It turned the Sacrament of the Eucharist into a sacrifice, thus denying the once-for-all sacrifice of Christ and obscuring the essence of the gospel. This is an example of a change that was not only an improvement, but a necessity.

Luther should serve as a good example for us even in the 21st century. Contrary to the beliefs of some, the Reformation was not a one-time event. The Word and its pure teaching must constantly be guarded; the Church must undergo constant reform and renewal. Our resistance to change is understandable, given how highly Lutherans value their heritage, and given the many pressures within the church to conform to an increasingly godless culture. But we can become so wary of negative changes that we fear any change. I see that attitude in myself often enough. Change is not the enemy of the Church. Bad changes are the enemy. Good changes are the work of the Holy Spirit. It may sound like a corny corporate policy, but Meme Dwight is right: improvement is always possible.

Of course, the Church doesn't change for the sake of change. We search the scriptures and test the spirits. We want to make sure: first, that there are good reasons to change; and second, that the change will actually be an improvement before we implement it. We should always resist bad changes. And for that reason, we can find cause to commend at least some of our Lutheran stubbornness. But if Lutherans are not open to change of any kind, then we're not open to improvement, either.

And that, I think, is not a tenable position for a Christian to have.

An Artist's Vocation in All of Life

The following was written as a feature article for Lutheran Forum, an independent theological quarterly for clergy and laity, with contributing authors from the ELCA and LCMS. It will appear in the spring 2016 edition.

It may seem cliché, but it was like being on a different planet. I stood underneath the massive dome of Sta. Maria del Fiore in Florence, gazing up at one of the greatest engineering feats of the last two millennia. I marveled at the scale of Vassari’s "Last Judgment" fresco, which covered the dome’s interior. The cavernous void between the vaults and the smooth marble floors was enough to induce vertigo. The whispers of awed visitors carried through the space with crystal clarity. I wondered, why was this place of worship so completely alien to the experience of an American Lutheran?

I know that I’m not the first Lutheran artist to visit magnificent churches in Europe and to be astonished by them. But for me, it wasn’t just a romantic escape f
rom the rural American landscape—it was a burning bush experience. It’s hard to imagine seeing works by Giotto, Michelangelo, Raphael, and Carravagio, and not being utterly transformed by them. They are beautiful, to be sure. And for a student of art history, visiting Florence is like making a pilgrimage to the Holy Land. But gazing at those old masterpieces, I felt the uncanny urge to remove my sandals for a different reason. They weren’t just individual “expressions” of faith—they were more akin to a divine collaboration. God was indeed present there, in more ways than one.

I wanted to make art like that. I wanted to roll up my sleeves and produce the kind of work that would transform a bland, Lutheran landscape into the kind of sublimely spiritual experience that Europeans had produced more than 500 years ago. But first I would have to make Lutherans want it. They seem to be happy with the status quo: white walls, plain glass, a steep roofline and a couple of empty crosses. Why had the visual arts, which once had flourished in the Lutheran church, almost disappeared? Whatever the reason, I was resolved to remedy it.

Since that hallowed Italian experience, I’ve come to understand my own artistic vocation much more deeply. It didn’t come to me in a flash of inspiration in the Duomo. It came by reading Holy Scripture, by the instruction of wise mentors, by reading the works of studied men of faith, and by personal experience.

The Word of God is always the best place to begin and end. For many years, I was ignorant of this passage from scripture (if I had read it before, I had probably glossed over it as many do with those tedious Levitical laws): “Then the LORD said to Moses, ‘See, I have called by name Bezalel son of Uri... and I have filled him with the Spirit of God, with ability and intelligence, with knowledge and all craftsmanship, to devise artistic designs, to work in gold, silver, and bronze... And I have given to all able men ability, that they may make all that I have commanded you’” (Exodus 31:1-4,6). God called Bezalel by name. For any artist struggling with whether or not art can be a “legitimate” vocation, the answer is there in holy writ. Add to it that Bezalel is the first person in the Bible of whom it is said that one was “filled with the Spirit of God.” If that doesn’t light a fire under you, what will?

Unfortunately for me, Bezalel wasn’t on my radar in graduate school, and I was deeply conflicted. I was attending a secular school for the first time in my life, because I felt this need to make my artistic abilities into something “productive” for a career. I found myself suppressing my desire to make overtly Christian works of art. On some level, I didn’t want to face criticism from my faculty and peers of various faiths. I never denied my Christian faith, but I was trying to compartmentalize my faith life and my vocation. It took a devout Catholic mentor to talk some sense into me. James Langley is a liturgical artist working and teaching in Savannah, Georgia. I interned with him as a studio assistant, where he saw in me a suppressed desire to make sacred art. He nurtured that spark, and advised me to do my Master’s thesis on resurrecting liturgical art. The paper practically wrote itself, and to my surprise, my faculty advisers were thrilled with it. In time, I realized that Langley was the latest in a long line of teachers, mentors, and family members who had been gently encouraging me in this direction from my childhood. I finally grabbed it by the horns.

As it turns out, fulfilling one’s vocation is not as simple as just accepting it as a reality. It took a good deal of wrestling with disappointments—one after the other. I did manage to get a teaching job at a Lutheran college shortly after graduate school, but rewarding though it was, it wasn’t the “big break” I was hoping for. I kept at it, working part-time jobs, pushing mops and doing whatever it took to pay the rent. With a wife and kids, I was less willing or able to put everything on the line to go and chase that dream job—even if it is the one I thought God wanted me to have. Things just seemed stagnant. Had I not paid my dues? I kept asking myself. Then I would mentally slap myself. You don’t earn God’s grace. “It is the gift of God, not of works, lest anyone should boast” (Eph. 2:8,9).

Be patient. God knows best. My parents had recommended Gene Edward Veith’s God at Work: Your Christian Vocation in All of Life to me. When I read it, it was my second big wake-up call. It opened my eyes to my other vocations—in the home, as a husband and father; at my workplaces, as an employee; and as a Christian, to my church, and to everyone around me. Whether or not I was making a living with my artwork, I had opportunities to show Christ’s love to countless people. I had no right to despise those everyday vocations simply because they were not the one vocation I felt most passionate about. This helped to take the anxiety out of waiting for something big to happen. When the fog of self-pity had cleared, it allowed me to see that God was working small things for my good all the time—and my business was steadily growing. Every year I was getting more clients, more opportunities, and more exposure.

Realizing that vocation is not about finding the right “career” is incredibly liberating. It’s about serving God and one’s neighbor; it’s about providing for one’s family. How could I do all of those things, while exercising my unique gifts? That’s what vocation is about. Vocation is always in the present. When I saw a need that could be filled, I filled it. I started designing logos for Lutheran churches. I started teaching for Wittenberg Academy, an online Lutheran high school. I started creating church banner designs that have theological depth and artistic integrity. I even did a smattering of web design projects. Sure, those jobs are less glamorous than making an altar painting for a cathedral or being a consultant for an extensive church renovation project, but they are rewarding in their own right. I get to mold young minds with a Lutheran understanding of the arts. I get to help churches make a visual confession about who they are and what they teach. And most importantly, I have the joyous privilege of helping people focus their eyes and hearts on what God has done for us in Christ Jesus.

It’s all about Jesus. Christ lived for me. Christ died for me. Christ rose for me. If ever our work becomes about us, it will seem like drudgery. Worse, it muddies the water instead of clearly proclaiming Christ. When I paint for the church, I don’t set out to express myself. What inspired such awe in me when viewing the works of the old masters is that however great the artist’s talent, the work was most powerful when it was subordinated to Christ and his Word. It was as if God’s hand was moving in tandem with the artist’s, in order to show his love to generations of viewers. The painting or sculpture becomes a kind of veil behind which we can glimpse a portion of God’s glory, his artistry, and his reckless love for mankind. It’s humbling to think that God may choose to use my brush, my hands, to accomplish that.

As I said before, the Word is a good place to begin and end. “And let us run with perseverance the race marked out for us, fixing our eyes on Jesus, the author and perfecter of our faith. For the joy set before him he endured the cross, scorning its shame, and sat down at the right hand of the throne of God.” (Heb. 12:1-2). Perseverance sums up the Christian life pretty well. Don’t expect glamor and riches and fame. Fix your eyes on Jesus. Run the race. Remember that Christ has already won it for you—and Christ himself is the prize.

Soli Deo Gloria

Jonathan Mayer

A Lesson in Point-of-View

Once in a while, I'll try to take on some art topics that are more related to the mechanics and principles of design than the theology of art. (Although today, I'll get a wee bit of both in.) Today's topic is point-of-view: where is the viewer in relation to the subject? Why is it even important?

Detail from The Maestà, Duccio, 1311

We don't often think about point-of-view, unless the artist forces us to. We must first realize that point-of-view is something that has changed over the history of art. It didn't even become a topic that could be discussed concretely until the Renaissance, when perspective was formulated (or reformulated if you prefer, since the Greeks discovered it first, then we forgot about it). For instance, the viewpoint in Medieval art was limited to only a few options: the viewer was either watching events unfold on a flat stage, or perhaps floating above a scene as a disembodied spectator. Duccio di Buoninsegna's Entry into Jerusalem (left) from The Maestà altarpiece is a good example of the latter. Duccio was anticipating the advances of Italian artists who followed closely after him in that he was beginning to think of objects in three-dimensional space, instead of like stacked playing cards. But since there is no horizon line and no consistent vanishing points, it's difficult to tell exactly where the viewer would be standing in relation to the subject.

Detail from Holy Trinity, Masaccio, 1427

What Renaissance artists like Brunelleschi and Masaccio finally realized is that in real space, parallel lines appear to recede to a single point on the horizon, called a vanishing point. When the artist placed the subject in believable space, it suddenly gave the viewer a "way into" the work—he could determine his own relationship in space to the subject. For instance, in Massacio's famous Holy Trinity fresco (left), the lines of the barrel vault above the Holy Trinity recede downward to a single point near the viewer's eye level, thus creating the illusion that the viewer is looking up at the Godhead.

Why should you care? Because since the advent of perspective, point-of-view is no longer arbitrary; it can carry meaning. Does the artist make you hover above the scene as a detached observer, or does he place you into the scene? If he places you into it, does your position in relation to the subject have significance? Are you gazing up at the subject, level with it, or looking down at it? All of these questions were immediately explored to their fullest. Frescos on church domes depicted saints and angels as seen from below.  Instead of seeing holy martyrs stacked like sardines at eye-level, the viewers could crane their necks and gaze up at their blessed posteriors as they were carried to heaven by angelic children.

Scapegoat Studio, 2010

The invention of the camera forced us again to reconsider point-of-view. You can put a camera anywhere—on an airplane, on a tripod, on the ground. The placement of the camera has an impact on our interpretation of the work. Had it not been for the influence of modern cinema, I probably would have never considered putting the viewer belly-down in the dirt next to the woman caught in adultery (John 8:1-11, right). It's unorthodox to be sure, and you probably won't find an illustration like this in any Sunday school materials. We'd much rather see Jesus' face. In fact, we'd rather be standing next to him, looking with pity down on that "sinner." Maybe we think to ourselves, I would have shown her mercy! But what does the point-of-view here say about our relationship with Jesus? Because of our sins, we belong in the dirt with the adulterous woman, clinging to the hem of Jesus' robe. We dare not even lift our eyes to his. And yet, his loving hand reaches down to touch us, to forgive our sins, and to lift us up out of the dust.

So the next time you look at a painting, a photograph, or illustration, give at least a few seconds' thought to your point-of-view. You might see something the artist is wanting you to see.

Nativity Stained Glass

This month has been far busier than usual. Of course there's the usual busyness of the season: family gatherings, travel, shopping for gifts, and still trying to earn a living.

As part of a bid for a new employment opportunity, this month I also took the time to design a stained glass window. I spent 24 hours over the course of 2 days to design it. So it's a bit of a rush job, but they were wanting to see how much could be done and in what amount of time. The nativity was the only prompt as far as subject matter, so I wanted to do something that was colorful, exemplified good design, employed a traditional treatment of figures, and yet was completely original (as opposed to lifting figures out of old masters' paintings). I also wanted to lend some meaty Christian symbolism to a scene that tends toward sentimentality and quaintness.

Symbolism

The Latin text of the angel's banner should be familiar to most: "Gloria in excelsis Deo et in terra pax hominibus" translates as "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace to men." The peace is represented by a dove, which perches in the rafters of the stable. The dove calls to mind the cessation of God's judgment, as it did when the floodwaters receded in the time of Noah.

The cross motif is found three times in the scene: first, in the nimbus of the Christ-child, which symbolizes his divine nature (Philippians 2:5-7); second, in the lantern, which represents Christ as the light of the world (John 8:12); and third, in the rough, wooden beams of the stable, which descend directly to Jesus, foreshadowing his death.

Some have asked why a Lutheran would also place halos around Joseph and Mary's heads. Lutherans, after all, do not hold to the same view as Roman Catholics concerning sainthood. Joseph and Mary were sinful descendants of Adam and Eve, the same as you and me. Yet, Lutherans also hold to the biblical truth that all believers in Christ are simul iustus et peccator—at the same time saint and sinner. Without exception, human beings are sinful, but are made righteous through faith in Jesus Christ (Romans 3:21-26). On that basis alone, I feel perfectly comfortable signifying the sainthood of any deceased believer with a halo. Add to it the fact that Joseph and Mary are described as "a just man" and "highly favored one, the Lord is with you; blessed are you among women!" So in this design, the halos reflect not only a long Christian tradition, but also the righteousness imparted to them by faith in the Son of God.

Typically the manger scene is depicted cluttered with animals, especially in popular culture. I opted to include only a lamb. The singular lamb foreshadows Christ's role as the sacrificial Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world (John 1:29).

At the foot of the manger is the fruit by which the devil first tempted Adam and Eve to sin. It is the piece of the story that necessitated Christ's incarnation, his death on the cross, and his resurrection (1 Corinthians 15:21-22). Immediately next to the fruit is the serpent, its head crushed by the sign of Christ's complete humility. Thus the beginning of the story of salvation is placed in context with its conclusion.

What if I'm Not Good at Art?

As an art educator, I've often heard the question asked, "Why should I take an art class if I'm not good at art?" The question is raised in at least two different contexts. The first context is when students who are being required to take a gen-ed art class make it known that they'd really rather stick a fork in their eye. The second context is from people of any age who are interested in art, but feel that a lack of talent would prohibit them from learning anything.

To answer the question with a blanket "yes" would be to oversimplify. So just to be thorough, we need to first address each context in which the question might be asked. To the reluctant students in the gen-ed art class, it needs to be made apparent that artistry is, in one respect, a life skill. Whether or not a student is good at math has no bearing whatsoever on whether or not he has to take Algebra. I realize there isn't exactly a 1:1 comparison between Algebra and Drawing, but in what other discipline is a lack of skill a legitimate excuse not to take a class? If that logic were applied to all of life consistently, we'd move through adulthood in an infantile mental state, refusing to learn anything we don't already like. (I'll refrain from commenting as to how accurately this describes the human race in general...)

To those who want to learn art, but don't feel qualified, there's no entrance exam. I've had students of all skill levels, and rest assured I'd rather have a student with little talent who wants to learn than a student with ability who refuses to learn. Students very often surprise themselves (and their instructors!). Especially in the last century, the artistic "elite" have cultivated the myth that artistic and creative skill is in-born, and that an education can do little else but squash our creativity. To put it bluntly, this is a lie. (Talent may be in-born, but skills are learned through instruction, experimentation, and repeated practice.) We all have to start somewhere, and as much as I'd like you to think that I was born with a brush in my hand, the truth is that I've come a very long way since drawing potato-head people with crayons. And most of that distance I did not cover on my own.

I'm not saying that anyone can paint like Rembrandt. But I am saying that anyone can learn, and anyone can improve as long as he is willing.

So to answer the question as honestly as possible, I would say that in most circumstances, taking an art class or two would be beneficial both to the individual and to society as a whole. For anyone who can maintain an open mind and has even the slightest interest in the arts, I believe it is prudent to invest in some basic, foundational art classes.

Now, pragmatic people in either context still want to know what utility there is in studying art. I remember those futile words escaping my lips more than once—"Why do we have to learn this, anyway? It's not like we're ever going to use Calculus." The truth is, beauty can be an end unto itself, so sometimes art defies utility (e.g., the Grand Canyon is beautiful, but it doesn't fulfill a function other than to glorify the Creator). But other kinds of art are functional. They communicate information, evoke emotions, and inspire devotion. A positive side effect of learning more about art is that you'll become more fluent in the visual language that is being employed all around us. We're visual creatures. We aren't all expected to be poets, but we're all expected to read. Communication is built into our humanity that way. I think a little artistic literacy would go a long way toward making the world a more beautiful and meaningful place to live.

Sacred* Art by Atheists

Today's question is: can a non-Christian make meaningful Christian art?

David Mach: Crucifixion, Edinburgh, 2011

David Mach, a nonbeliever, was commissioned to recreate biblical scenes out of coat hangers to celebrate the 400th anniversary of the King James Bible. Despite the acclaim of art critics, us ordinary folk have trouble shaking images of "Hellraiser." It makes you wonder exactly what Mach is trying to communicate, aside from pain. Anger? Hatred? Torture? Industry?

In an interview with the Telegraph, Mach admitted to being "irreligious," and said, "I’m sure I’m going to get accused of hijacking something that I don’t really have massive feelings about. It’s not about me. It’s about what I’m making. If I’m asked for opinions I’ll give them, but look at the work and see if you can get something from there."

Then there's atheist Gerhard Richter's design* for the transept window in the Cologne cathedral, Germany. The original window was damaged by air raids in World War II. The design* was created randomly with a computer, and mimics a digital "pixel" pattern. I would describe this as iconoclastic, but throngs of critics—and even parishioners—have described it as "spiritual," "contemplative," even "divine."

*Design implies intention. Something that is random cannot, by definition, be designed.

Gerhard Richter: South transept window, Cologne, 2007

Massimiliano Fuksas takes the cake with his design for a church in Foligno, Italy. Art critics use words like "modest" and "inspiring" to describe this massive concrete cube. These critics are apparently used to building with alphabet blocks, so that is to be expected. Photos of the oddly claustrophobic interior can be found here.

Massimiliano Fuksas: Paolo Church, Foligno, 2009. Photo credit: ARQA.com

Germaine Richier: Crucifix, 1950

Not to be outdone by her male counterparts, Germaine Richier caused a stir in the 1950s when she created this crucifix for the church of Notre-Dame de Toute in Assy, France. She explained its ugliness as depicting the suffering of Christ. She also explained that the figure has no face because God is spirit and therefore has none. This illustrates why we don't ask atheists to make theological statements for us. After complaints from horrified parishioners, the cross was removed from the church, and immediately became the center of much early controversy as to the role of artists (and their faith—or lack thereof) in the church.

Igor Mitoraj: Christ Resurrection, Rome, 2006

The last artist whose work I'm going to show is the odd one of the bunch. Igor Mitoraj produced several huge bronze doors and many other large-scale figurative sculptures in the Renaissance tradition. I've scoured the web for any mention of his faith and came up dry—even his obituary from late last year suggested nothing. But his bronze doors from Basilica di Santa Maria degli Angeli in Rome struck me with their classicism. And while employed with a kind of surrealist, postmodern flair, the Christian symbolism also struck me so much that I cited this door in my thesis. Here is a resurrected Christ figure, reminiscent of Greek gods (and early Christian depictions), but bearing the empty shape of the cross in his body.

There are countless examples that I either am unaware of or have passed over—especially in the architectural realm. The point I'm trying to make is that nonbelievers have made it apparent to believers that their grasp of Christianity is extremely shallow. Even if we didn't have the evidence before our eyes, we know that these truths are only made known by the Spirit, through faith.

This isn't to say that every construction worker who drives a nail into your church must be a believer. But when it comes to designing a church, or producing artwork for that community of faith, it should go without saying that it requires an intimate knowledge of what those people believe and practice and confess. Furthermore, it requires a knowledge of what has come before, and a sincere desire to chart an artistic path into the future that recognizes the eternal and transcendent nature of the Church. What sets Mitoraj's bronze doors apart from the above works is a familiarity with and respect for the pages of art history, many of which were written by artists of faith. Still, even if a blind squirrel occasionally finds a nut, I don't think we should encourage the practice of hiring blind squirrels when we have so many sighted ones...