Into the Fire

One of the major topics on writers’ sites is the “art” of writing. Back in the archives I wrote a post entitled “I Am Not an Artist”. And that still stands. I quoted one dictionary’s definition of art and noted that not once was there a mention of subjectivity in the perception of art.

Sparse language lovers rave about Hemingway’s writing. Stephen King called Faulkner a *%#* genius in his book On Writing. Marilynne Robinson seems to capture the admiration of the literary types in Christian fiction.

On sites such as The Master’s Artist or Mick Silva’s Your Writers Group and in past commentaries on Dave Long’s Faith*in*Fiction blog, you will see the literary types en masse. Their focus is creating art from the depths of writing, to make it more than just a story, or something to read, or merely entertainment. Rather, it is to make the words exquisite, to elevate them to the level of “art”. Be it prose or poetry, the reading of such literature must aspire to an experience nearing ascension to the heavens.

So, are the admirers of Hemingway or are those who insist D. H. Lawrence is a king of artful writing the correct selectors of fine art?

Some insist that God is in the creation of any art, be it in writing, photography, painting, music, etc. My opinion is that God is in the giving of talents and giftings in specific areas, having a plan for each of His creations. However, just because something is created by a human being, be it beautiful or horrific, does not suggest that God is “in” the “art”.

I doubt any Christian would argue that we are a selfish lot. Try as we might, we fight it regularly—it is our “self” that demands to be pleased, pacified, thrilled, sated. Yet, it never is. No matter what we feed our senses, satisfaction is fleeting like a summer storm: intense but passing.

Selfishness surfaces without our permission—and much too easily—as we discuss our opinions, our passions, our rights. We assert our knowledge, our intellect, our “deep” and inner strivings to create “art”. We press the importance of such things with the intent to widen the scope of the human experience here on earth, challenging others to come on up to the pinnacle where they can see more clearly, more astutely, more beautifully. We equate art to the applause of heaven. We have labored to produce excellence, and surely everyone will notice . . . and be impressed. And shame on them if they can’t see the beauty in what we’ve done.

Do we really think our Lord is so callous as to select our “art” over that of another’s mere writing? Since He proclaims He is no respecter of persons, how can we claim His favor just because we believe the writing produced is superb and melodious? We learned and studied and searched and struggled to construct these immaculate words to express the elegance of language and story be it sorrow and tragedy or joy and triumph. How could He not notice?

He notices. He notices the heart that’s striving to do Him honor with those talents, the heart that offers every effort to Him, something borne of His gifting but given for His pleasure. And the heart who writes for Him, regardless of the glorious language or the simple telling of a tale, will not be denigrated or chastened for having produced something with less show than tell, more passive than active verbs, or an abundance of adverbs.

Yes, it is important to perfect anything He has given us, put into our makeup to be produced—but to whom and for what reason? We are to bear fruit and reach out, not to rot, withdrawn and coveting. For whom are we ultimately creating? Yes, when we’re finished, we must be at peace. Maybe we fear it is inferior—this thing we’ve jockeyed about, invested in with the hours and hours, churned our insides over, and crafted with our devotion. With a clean heart we offer it up anyway because we’ve decided it was the best we could do.

You make your own motivations to write. What you write, who you desire to please, how you create—it’s yours in the end. Who do you give it to? Where does your obedience lie? What matters the most to you—and who?

Is it really about “art”? I mean, really?

Father, let us bring our gifts to you in thanksgiving. Without you and apart from you, we can do nothing. Do we realize that, I wonder? Do we really realize that so much of what we do is useless chaff? God, help me recognize my pride and kill it. I don’t want to produce anything that’s not glorifying to you. I don’t want to watch what I’ve done “on my own” burn up as useless. I want to do what you want me to do. To bring you blessings, and honor, and glory, somehow, some way. In obedience to you. Help me, Lord. In the Name of Jesus, Amen.