Visions of New Haven

It's almost exactly midnight, as I ascend the stairs from the chaplain's office, emerging from the stony corridors of the Bingham basement into the chill nip of a late night in late autumn.

Freshmen, bundled in their brought-from-home best estimation of cold-weather garb, march past me in twos and threes down the flagstones from Durfee to Vanderbilt Hall; I turn in the opposite direction, tracing a beeline toward the High Street gate.

My steps - steady, circumscribed - trudge through the crunchy grass. My sneakers sink into mounds of leaves, impeding my footswings; rebelling against their feather-light bondage, I kick up, watching my reverse footprints swirling through the air, past my knees. My steps shorten, grow taller, until I am goose-stepping awkwardly, kicking up phantom soccer balls, watching the remnants of foliage envelop me, a torrent of sensation: crunching, yielding, bits floating into my hair and eyes and between my teeth.

I push through the final mound of leaves on the dark green quad, and I'm laughing to myself, a child blissfully alone in my own head. To my left, a Yale security officer watches me, grinning; I throw up a hand towards him, inviting him in.

He: "I've been wanting to do that all night."

I: "I love the autumn here."

As I pound the red button beside the High Street gate - a button that was not here when I arrived in this city - and the magnetic gate clicks unlocked, I chance on the uncomfortable realization that this is my last autumn in this city. As I pass through the quietly chilled night, I consider briefly the fleeting thought that I could call my friends, other church members, invite them to Old Campus, to laugh with me and throw the brown and red snowflakes of autumn at one another in large, embracing armfuls.

It's about five minutes after midnight, though, on a late night in late autumn; I tell myself, it would be unkind to bestir those whose time is better or necessarily spent elsewhere. Not to mention, I've been away from home for exactly twenty four hours, and I'm looking forward to sitting on my futon, drinking some orange soda, and watching downloaded TV shows. I trudge home through the flat streets.

That said, I am very glad that I can be a child, truly a child as even perhaps I never was in my younger years, kicking up my heels, stomping through the leaves.

Children Bearing Gifts: the Relationship of Christians to Art.

Children Bearing Gifts: the Relationship of Christians to Art.

Originally given at Café a Dieu, 04.04.2009,

at The Golden Center, St. Thomas More Catholic Chapel and Center at Yale.

The first personal encounter with art that I can recall comes from the age of ten, when my sister and I attended a class taught by a professional artist from our church. Once a week, we would pick up our sketchbooks and shoeboxes full of art supplies, be packed up in the back of our minivan, and dropped off at a church classroom. There, Mrs. Barrett would teach us about perspective, colors, or shading, then turn us loose, pencils and oil paints in hand. Our parents, as they arrived to pick us up, were be greeted by arms filled with paintings and sketches, the fruits of our labors and their monthly tuition checks.

Even now, returning home, I still occasionally come across sketchbooks filled with my youthful handiwork. Browsing through the artwork, I often wonder what my mother must have thought, every week, as her son returned bearing page after page of lovingly, painstakingly, and poorly drawn STAR WARS spaceships.

My mother has preserved sketchbooks that are literally filled, cover to cover, with illustrations of X-Wings, TIE Fighters, and the occasional attempt to illustrate the Battle of the Death Star. And, let me tell you: what I lacked in aesthetic skill, I more than made up for in productivity.

By high school, I had begun to regard these drawings with a hint of embarrassment. It wasn’t that I had grown artistically; but I had grown ashamed of my youthful enthusiasm for Luke Skywalker. Recalling my younger artistic streak, I would wonder what could possibly have motivated my parents to store such pitiful things away so carefully.

Reflecting back now, I think I’ve begun to understand why my parents saved those drawings. It’s not that my art - in either content or execution - was of any aesthetic value. But they are still dear to them because of what they represent: memories of me running up to my mom after class, bearing my latest work, filled with the childish joy and simple pride of spending my youthful reserves of skill and energy to produce something just for her. And, while my mother has never been a STAR WARS fanatic, her love for me transformed my interests and delight into her own. For this reason, I think, my mother finds twofold pleasure in that artwork: first, as a symbol of her importance to me; and, second, as a genuine representation of me as I was at the time; my childhood interests and passions.

I suspect that the work of a Christian Artist is best performed when it stems from similar desires, turned towards God: beyond displays of ability, or the production of aesthetically stunning works, the Christian who finds herself engaged in Art is engaged in the same pursuit as that child painting, singing, or dancing for his loving parents: we are conveying, to God, His unequalled significance to us; and we are producing work that brings its audience into an honest encounter with the truth of our love and passions.

I. To convey to God our unequalled enjoyment of Him.

These may sound vague: what does it mean to tell God that He is of unequalled importance to us?

The first answer that springs to mind comes from the Protestant and Catholic catechisms, which open by addressing the goals of human existence: in the Reformed Church’s Westminster Shorter Catechism, the first question is asked, What is the chief end of man?, and this answer provided: Man’s chief end is to glorify God, and to enjoy Him forever. Similarly, the Second Catechism of the Roman Catholic Church begins with a prologue that trumpets that “The Life of Man” has as its purpose “To Know and Love God”.

To Know God; to Glorify Him; to enjoy Him; to Love Him. If these are the primary ends for which we, as Christians, believe we have been created, how do we pursue them? How do we, limited, weak, fragile human beings, bring Glory to an almighty God?

In 1^st Peter Chapter 2, Verse 9, the apostle writes that “you are a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation, a people belonging to God, so that you may declare the praises of him who called you out of darkness into his wonderful light.” Receiving the love and care of a vast and intimate God uniquely enables us to bring Him glory by proclaiming in His presence our joy at having seen ourselves “called out of darkness, into His wonderful light”. We were once guilty of an infinitely terrible crime, and faced with an infinite punishment, the only escape from which comes by an infinite grace, which, having been received, evokes in us infinite gratitude and joy.

And, in just the same way that my youthful dedication to my parents led me to hand them the fruits of my artistic labor – poorly executed, but faithfully offered – our infinite gratitude to God finds its expression in faithfully handing Him the poor fruits of our lives: our paintings and poems, songs and dances. In every facet of our selves, including the artistic, it is right to find ourselves desiring, first and foremost, to bring God praise, by demonstrating the quality and abundance of our lives in Him. As we begin to understand what it really means to be saved by grace, this desire to respond in joyful gratitude begins to push out all the other competing desires and patrons clamoring for our attention and service.

But, there is an objection that can be raised to all this; after all, it may sound troubling to limit the scope of our artistic expression simply to those things which bring God glory. After all, why can’t we let art be free of such external constraints, let it simply be “art for art’s sake”?

Well, for one thing, love, even as it brings freedom, also necessitates limits. Any mutual love imposes on the lives of those whom it touches; but it is a joyful imposition! Yes, Love limits us; it limits us in our impatience, when we desire to withhold forgiveness; It restrains us in our jealousy, in our boasting, in our pride, and in our anger. Love, when truly tasted, makes us long to stare into its depths and lose sight of everything else as we contemplate and adore the object of our love.

II. To provide audiences an honest encounter with the truth we find surrounding us.

And also, by saying that our art should bring God glory, I don’t simply mean that the truths we convey have to be uniformly pleasant.

A natural part of becoming a Christian is that a man gradually finds himself peering into two worlds at once: the world that is “real-at-the-moment”, and the world of “actual reality.” The world of the moment is the world of suffering, of distance, of sin; but, being brought more and more sharply into focus as we grow more familiar with God, is the world as it actually was intended to be: a world of peace, of intimacy, of healing and loving unity.

This is what I mean by saying that it the second goal of the Christian Artist to provide the audience with an honest encounter of truth: God’s revelation of Himself – at once intimately personal and immensely large-scale – provides the Christian with two points of view, both of which serve the artist as inspiration. To limit the scope of artistic revelation to one or another of these viewpoints rings false: while our hope is sure and our faith secure, to claim that we can distill our experience of Christ into feel-good, pastel-colored images of serenity and passivity is a dramatic oversimplification. If we do so, we create kitsch, a shallow sentimentality that is the opposite of Good Art, because it has no connection to the complex experiences and dreams of the audiences we invite to partake in the artistic experience with us.

The opposite oversimplification – presenting the dire state of sin, while withholding a sense of overpowering hope – is equally poor art, for it is also untrue. As Christians, for whom “in all things, we are more than conquerors, because of Christ who loved us” (Rom. 8:37), it is disingenuous to pretend that our eternal well-being can be jeopardized by the passing and momentary ills of this world.

We Christians have space to discuss both despair and hope precisely because our hope can be counted on to endure. In the Christian life, there is room for both the sad truth of the fallen world as well as the glad tidings of the redemption that is beginning to shine through its cracks. After all, without death, resurrection is meaningless; but, without resurrection, death is simply a cold, inevitable end-of-story. So it is necessary to present, in our every creative work, the full trajectory of the Gospel, never shrinking from honestly portraying the total story of fallenness and redemption; but always hinting at glimpses of the Hope to overcome the despair, and the Comforter who seeks us out in our loneliness.

Art expresses the truth, hope, and passion that we have found, or want to find, in the world around us. At age 10, I found my passion in STAR WARS; and my art reflected that. But now, for today, and tomorrow, and increasingly as the days pass, that passion is focused on the being and character of God. And I hope that the work of my hands can come to daily reflect that focused passion more and more.

Once, I drew pictures of spaceships, and happily presented the results of my work to my parents. Today, right now, we are all creating, not just as artists, but as humans going about our daily lives. I pray that we can, one day, happily present the results to our Heavenly Father.

[Xanga] When I hate the church: my UCW senior testimony

[Prelude: This Sunday, I gave my senior testimony at the United Church of Westville, my home church at Yale.
Senior testimonies are a tradition at UCW; an opportunity for outgoing seniors to think over our time here, reflect on the changes that God's brought about in our lives, and pass along whatever small encouragement or exhortations for living life - at Yale, as well as throughout the rest of our activities and communities - with which we've been entrusted, for those we love. This is the text of my testimony; I departed from it in actual reading, but the intent, thoughts, and spirit is here.]

As an introduction, I have to say this: I love this church. I love most of you here very deeply, and those whom I don’t, I’m sorry. I wish that I did; I know that Jesus, whom I love deeply, loves you deeply, enough to die for you (if he did do what I think he did). My not loving you is not because I think you’re a bad person; If I’ve failed to love you, I’m at fault. I’m a sinner.

Nothing that I say is directed at any individual: I hope nobody feels like I’m trying to single you out or correct your behavior. That’s not my place, and that’s not my hope. This is, to quote Jay-Z on The Blueprint, “just my thoughts; only my thoughts”. When I think back on my time at UCW (and look forward to the future), this is what lies on my heart.

I love this church, the people that you see around you; people who I have loved and who have since graduated; people who aren’t here today, but whose hearts and lives are being and have been changed by the love that is evidenced everyday in this community. That’s why I’m so glad to see people here who are my dear friends, who don’t often – if ever – come to this place: I think it’s a good place. I think it is a place where Jesus is.

I love what I’ve seen in this church and what it can and could be, which is why I also hate being here sometimes.

I’m tired of accepting, of settling, of making excuses for our corporate and individual sins. I’m tired of the hypocrisy, in myself and others, that I’ve seen exposed, in seemingly-never-ending layers. I’m sick of having to see those of us who’ve been privileged enough to experience the greatest love of all be inactive in our community, complacent in our faith, and weak in our spirits. I hate seeing what the church really is: tired, sick, sinful people with selfish, foolish, draining demands. I’ve seen people that I respect give until they’re drained dry; give until they can’t bear to give any more, and still that wasn’t enough to turn the tide. The church is broken; the church is human; But how can it possibly be that we who claim to be presenting the words and life and ministry of Jesus Christ to a needy world so often turn our backs on one another; so often simply disregard the wants and even the needs of others, in favor of platitudes and empty boasts of salvation through our faith? Faith without works is dead; love without obedience and care is merely self-gratification.

Last Easter Sunday, a man came to our service. I don’t know if he was homeless; I do know that he needed money enough to come disrupt our service with his requests for aid. We gave him what we could; some food and, I think, money. It wasn’t enough for him, so he hung around through lunch, asking us to do chores for money, to give him some cash, whatever. He was pretty insistent, a real distraction; an annoyance. But what someone told him was what will stick with me forever: Fed up with the man’s requests for money, one member of the congregation spit out at him: “Why should we help you?”

I hate situations like that, and I think I know why. There are two reasons: First, I hate seeing who people really are, because it reminds me of who I really am. This is who I really am: I wake up in the morning and put on my headphones, then walk down Elm Street to class, thinking at every person that I see: you in my way, and I don’t like you. This is the sinner that I am, that I see reflected in every sin that I see around me, and it saddens me. This is the poorly-hidden skeleton in my closet: I am a jerk, and I don’t like people.

And sometimes this unworthiness... it makes me wish that Jesus hadn't died for me. For us. For any of us.

Because He doesn't deserve this.

He doesn't deserve what we put Him through. I think of me turning my hat down and walking a little faster around the corner with the burrito cart on it so that I don’t have to talk to Annette, the woman many of us call the “flower lady”. I think of lying to Joe, a homeless guy I know, when I have five dollars in my pocket, but I want that money for myself, so even though he hasn’t eaten in two days, and I know he hasn’t, because that dude is skinnier than anyone I know, I lie to him and I tell him that I don’t have any money, because he knows that I normally don’t have money and, besides, he’s so used to asking people for money and getting turned down, plus I know the fact that I looked him in the eye when I lied to him, like he’s a person and not an obstacle on the sidewalk, was enough to assuage my conscience that I did right by him.

How could this be what Jesus meant when he told us: “If you love me, feed my sheep”? How could this possibly be what Jesus died for? How could this spirit that we see among us be what Jesus meant when he said, “My peace I give to you; not as the world gives do I give to you.”? We’re great at taking freshmen out for meals; for late-night snacks; for trips off-campus. But when it comes to serving someone less interesting, or less fun, or less convenient, or more familiar? Silence.

And I say that I will give my life to serve this church, to build into it, to develop it? Am I stupid? Or just lazy, and I’m trying to soothe my conscience, and, though I don’t like to work for money, I figure I don’t mind working for my salvation; or at least to deceive myself into thinking that I’ve become a new man, a saved man.

Romans 2:15 says “they show that the requirements of the law are written on their hearts, their consciences also bearing witness, and their thoughts now accusing, now even defending them.” I wish my thoughts defended me; I wish “the requirements of the law” were in my heart, but all I hear is the never-ending roar of accusations against me.

I hate this. I hate every time that I see the resignation that I sometimes feel reflected on another’s face. We got accustomed to starting service 5 minutes late, then 10, then 15. I got used to showing up for the early van to church 5 minutes late, then 10, then, hey, I can always catch the second ride. I’ve become resigned to seeing fewer and fewer people turn out for church activities as the semester wears on, because, oh, it’s to be expected; people at Yale are busy, after all. We’re just grateful that people stop by church when they have the time, when there’s not an interview, or a meeting, or a tryout, or too much studying to do, or sleep to catch up on.

And when I sleep through a Bible study or a meeting, hey, it’s okay, we all do it. I’ll do better next time. It seems sometimes that we prioritize everything in our lives over Christ, who fades into some kind of default, wallpapering our schedule: if there’s not an engaging distraction or important meeting, then pursue God; but if there is something actually important, Christ can always wait. After all, there will always be another Bible study; another church service; another service trip; another quiet time; another passage of Scripture. How can this be the Christian life?

Okay. By now, you all get the point that this church, this religion, my sinfulness, they’ve all worn me out. Multiple times. But still, I’m not only committing to spending two more years here, but then three in seminary; then a lifetime in church ministry. This is foolishness; you think it, I admit it. I say it to myself, reproachfully, like I imagine some of you are thinking to yourselves: If the church discourages him so much, he should just shut up, stop whining, and get out of here. Care a little bit less – maybe put a little bit more distance between myself and this community. Why does it matter? After all, we evangelicals are so fond of saying that it’s our “personal relationship with Christ” that matters, and not anything else; why should I let someone else, or even a community of others, stand between me and Christ?

It matters, because I’ve seen what this church can be. What it has been for me; what it could be for others.

At the Thanksgiving service last semester, right before leaving for break, Pastor Kang asked the college students present to introduce ourselves and why we like UCW. That day, I didn’t say that I like UCW; I said that I love UCW, because I have seen God’s love here.

I love UCW; often, I like it. Often, I dislike it. But I love it, because it’s loved me; even more importantly, I’ve seen it love others.

That’s it, really. That’s the only answer that I have. I could retell stories – of walking to the pond at midnight during retreat; walking to East Rock on the coldest morning I’ve ever felt, just to see the Easter sunrise; late nights with Victor, and Ray, and Lee-shing, and many others, talking about whatever; the time I saw Carol during winter break, and it felt so good to see a familiar UCW face; dating Janice, then, even better, no longer dating Janice, but continuing to pray and read the Bible with her and grow in friendship – the list would go on and on, but none of the stories are particularly good, and none of them would be told as well as Dan could tell them.

I’ve been rather discouraged, recently. I’ve been wrestling with the notions of church and Gospel. But that’s not important now, we can discuss that some other time; what’s important is that I’ve been feeling, as I said earlier, that this church that you see before you – these human imperfections – could not possibly be what Jesus wanted His body to be. What He died to establish.

Some of the worst was Saturday afternoon. I was in a Bible study – with Ray, Josh Au, and Eric Klein – and I couldn’t concentrate. The modern church, not to mention UCW in particular, far from the strong reminder of the might of God’s love, seemed like every wrong caricature of Christianity to me. I left early, ran a few errands, then had to head over and lead Alpha Bible Study. I got there and turned on my computer, starting to write this exact testimony. Ten minutes after we were supposed to start, no one was there; I figured this was just another UCW no-show event. No surprise. But then two of the freshmen guys showed up, and we started talking about Christ and Christianity.

Telling them the story of the Church through the ages; of Paul, of Peter, of the law; of Jesus and His parables and healings, made me remember why I love Christ. That they were late didn’t matter; what mattered was, they were here, now, and we were speaking about things that do matter. Then one of the freshmen girls showed up, and we continued to talk; she asked, why Christianity? Why choose this, out of all religions, when there are miracles and goodness and ethics in each? My answer to her was really an answer to myself: it’s not about them being wrong and us being right. It’s about Christ having loved us; so, regardless of what anything else says, I love him back, wherever I find Him.

I love this church, because Christ is love. This community is often loving; but then, often it is not. That doesn’t matter: the same is true of me. What is important is that I have seen the loving spirit of Jesus Christ at work in this community. I see it when I hear Josh Williams tell me about how excited he is about the living faith of Barack Obama; I see it when I see the quiet dedication of Lee-shing and Victor to fulfilling their commitments; I see it when I see Emily taking freshmen out to eat, or Joe Oh basically giving his life up for the Red Cross and Relay and whatever else, despite grumbling about it the whole time.

This church does, and will continue to, disappoint me, sadden me, and shake my faith. A lot. But Christ never does anything but draw me to Him; and He has chosen to make His home in this place. I don’t know why, but I’m thankful that He has. “God demonstrates his own love for us in this: that while we were yet sinners, Christ died for us.” I’m a sinner; We’re all thorough sinners here, in need of full pardons. And this is why I love this church and remain here: not because we’re sinless, but because Christ is, and because He is here. Wherever He is, that’s the only place that I need to find.