January 2002
It is through Art and through Art only that we realize
our perfection.
Jousting With the Void
by Rev. David O. Rankin
Moscow, Idaho
Alberto was a sculptor. Born in 1901, he was the first son of a
prominent Swiss painter. He studied in Paris, where he briefly joined
the Surrealist movement. While married, he was essentially a hermit, who
preferred solitude. He died in Switzerland in 1966, and he is buried beside
his parents. But forget the details-they are unimportant! Alberto was
a sculptor. Short in stature, he was dusty and wrinkled in personal appearance.
His brooding face was deeply lined, and his complexion sallow. While famous,
he was completely humble, a rare, non-egotistical artist. He lived in
a Paris slum for 40 years, without any thought for comfort. But forget
the details-they are unimportant! Alberto was a sculptor. Terrified of
the dark, he slept with a candle burning by the bed. He was addicted to
smoking, and enjoyed long hours in the cafes. While walking, he was hit
by a car, and left with a life?long limp. He was obsessive, compulsive,
absentminded, and guilt?ridden. But forget the details-they are unimportant!
Alberto was a sculptor. Influenced by many schools of art, he defied all
conventions. He was awarded numerous prizes, but he always forgot to appear.
While called "The Last Modernist," he resisted heating and plumbing.
His statues sell for millions, though he was never content with any of
them. But forget the details-they are unimportant!
What is important? For Alberto, it was jousting with the void: trying
to portray reality. . . trying to see new patterns. . . trying to integrate
experience. . . trying to find the essence of life. If creativity is the
encounter of the intensively conscious human being with his or her world,
then Alberto was a model of the resounding clash. As John?Paul Sartre
once said, "He was a pilgrim in search of the Absolute." In
the beginning, he simply conformed to the fashion of the avant?garde.
Highly popular as a Surrealist, his works exhibited the themes of cruelty,
violence, eroticism, and death.
A 1932 statue, "Woman With Her Throat Cut," was an instant masterpiece.
But eventually he broke with the school, saying, "The better things
go, the less closely tied to others you are." Actually, it was a
courageous decision. Conformity was fixed, safe, mechanistic, approved,
and only demanded a quiet surrender to authority figures, a spiritual
capitulation. Creativity, on the other hand, was fluid, dangerous, original,
attacked, and required a strong commitment of intense passion, a personal
authenticity. Forsaking applause, Alberto jumped into the abyss. One of
the qualities of creativity is openness to experience: a lack of rigidity,
a tolerance for ambiguity, and an ability to receive conflicting information
without forcing a solution. Alberto stretched the limits to the maximum,
going beneath the surface of reality.
"Every day, I find something new. The closer you approach, the more
there is to see; the more you know, the more mysteries there are."
It was a stubborn quest for accuracy, breaking through all of the beliefs,
perceptions, and boundaries of ordinary culture. Like a religious visionary,
he was seeking the face of God, through infinite layers of emptiness.
Using a human model, Alberto asked himself, "What do I see? How do
I copy what I see? Is what I see reality?" For five years, he struggled
to convey the whole figure, then only the head, then only the eyes-ANYTHING
solid-but he was never satisfied with the shape or dimension. "It
is no good. I have to give it up! It's useless. I'll never manage!"
Alternating between the model and the imagination, he tried to give physical
form to the inner vision. So he made, perfected, unmade, remade, re-perfected,
re-unmade, and scraped away-while bewailing the failure of art to capture
reality. During World War II, he was terrified to see the statues getting
smaller and smaller in size. They were minuscule pin forms, the product
of a decade of labor, which he stored in six matchboxes. For an exhibition
in Zurich, where his statue was to stand in a large courtyard, he arrived
with a figure only two inches high. In surges of panic and depression,
he destroyed hundreds of works, but he refused to abandon the ultimate
goal.
Then, there was a frenzied burst of creativity. Instead of disappearing
altogether, swallowed up by the void, the figures began to grow. Over
a 20-year period, the pin forms grew into tiny bronze busts on blocks,
delicately modeled humanoid blips; and then into foot-high slender beings,
staring blankly into space; and then into life?height statues: emaciated,
elongated, and seemingly occupied with the enormous task of simply existing.
These were the mature works of Alberto Giacometti. The razor?thin, skeletal
figures (lonely, fragile, hollow?eyed, vulnerable, and squeezed into near
oblivion merely by the air around them) were a stunning revelation to
the art world.
A critic said, "They are nervous structures dipped in matter, which
coagulates and adheres in awkward clots of meaning." Another claimed,
"He has reduced the human figure to essentials, and then gone on
to remove some of them." Everyone agreed, "They embody the spiritual
paralysis of the 20th century, the terror and anonymity of the modern
age." His statue, "Falling Man," was a will?o'?the?wisp,
spindly bronze leaning into the void, supported only by outsized toes
planted in the ground; and his statue, "Dog," was a stringy,
tortured creature that looked like a greyhound that had just survived
a nuclear explosion. The artist was celebrated as "The Sage of Anxiety."
It meant nothing to Alberto. He viewed himself as a Sisyphus, struggling
to push a weight uphill, and never fully succeeding, but obsessed by the
tantalizing ideal of reaching the top. When told that the striking figures
represented reality, he replied, "I haven't succeeded in making anything.
It would be better if I had abandoned it all." But he persisted,
believing that tomorrow, or next week, or in another year, he would finally
scrape through to the elusive essence of reality.
During a painting session in the studio, a model was surprised when Alberto
started to gasp and stamp his foot. "Your head is going away!"
he exclaimed. "It's going away completely!" "It will come
back again," said the model. "No! Maybe the canvas will become
completely empty. And then what will become of me? I'll die of it!"
He reached into his pocket, pulled out a handkerchief, and with a moan
threw it onto the floor. Suddenly he shouted very loudly, "I shriek!
I scream!" Here was the agony of creativity: the urge to actualize
the abstract; the pain of wrestling with the slippery medium; the discrepancy
between the ideal vision and the objective results-which always haunts
the inspired individual.
Alberto never changed. Totally absorbed in the challenge: of making, of
bringing into being, of giving birth to a new perspective-he was utterly
condemned to the pursuit of perfection. "I see my sculptures as landmarks
on a line reaching forward," he remarked. "I begin, but don't
know what the end will be." Since Alberto relied on internal judgment,
he was immune to praise or criticism. He asked strictly of himself: "Did
I achieve it?" "Is it what I imagined?" "Does it approach
the reality?"
In the final years, a friend remembers seeing the sculptor, sitting alone
in the back of a café, gazing into the void, entirely oblivious
to the recognition and admiration of the world, and perhaps wondering
if he could create anything. What is the meaning of the ravaged figures?
At first glance, one feels a profound despair-a mood of sadness, a sense
of alienation, even a hint of nihilism. The statues express no joy. .
. convey no faith. . . portray no love. A once?born, positive?thinking,
optimist might turn away in disgust and almost no one would promote the
art in a sermon. Yet, there is another viable interpretation. At second
glance, one feels a subtle stirring: a slit of light, a spark of energy,
even a hint of triumph. The statues push out against the void. . . assert
their right to space. . . and seem to say, "We have known the worst,
but we are still here!" For the patient viewer, the absurd and the
rational are in conflict; the ghastly and the beautiful are intermingled;
and the deep anxiety is a necessity for genuine hopefulness-no, Alberto
was not a messenger of doom.
By merely existing, a work of art is a defiant protest against all cries
of nihilism. In every act of creativity, hope is present, even if joy
is gone. In every product of creativity, hope is embodied, even if faith
is dead. In every journey of creativity, hope is traveling, even if love
is absent. Whatever the degree of success or failure, an artist knows
there is profit in the search and the jousting, itself, is redeeming.
According to a Jewish mystical tradition, God needed a partner to complete
the world. The job required a highly sensitive being with the ability
to feel, reflect, imagine, and appreciate the earth's potential and with
the skills to form, design, shape, and symbolize the earth's future. So,
the human was conceived, imbued with the quality of creativity, and baptized
as the co?author of the world.
Alberto was a sculptor. Yet there is a desperate need for creative people,
in all spheres of activity, to sustain the divine experiment, for those
who will leap into the void, rejecting conformity, and willing to encounter
reality. A need for those who will seek fresh ideas, novel constructions,
and the stuff of magnificent dreams; for those who will mold old matter
into new models, upon which a good society can be built. Unavoidably,
each age is a dying vision, and there is always the urgency for another
birth. Even in our daily lives, if we fail to express our own being, we
have not only betrayed ourselves and denied what it means to be human,
but we have shuttered the window of hope. A twelve-year-old wrote: "Some
things may not be beautiful or great, /But if it is your own work, /Your
original self, /It is creative." It would have pleased Alberto!
Quest January 2002 Contents
 From
Your Minister
by Rev. Jane Ranney Rzepka, minister, CLF
|
Reflection
October 7, 2001
I had tickets to a play.
I had tickets to a play on September 11th.
It was canceled, of course. But the play was
one I had seen before and I could remember
one line. The narrator stands stock still
at the edge of the stage, looks directly at
the audience, and says, "The world is
no longer as beautiful a place."
After September 11, the line is poignant,
even if only in memory. Poignant, but wrong.
Haven't you seen more beauty lately?
Seen it in the eyes of the people you know,
seen it in the purple asters at the side
of the road, seen it in the pumpkins,
and the kids at play, and the safety of
the pillow as you fall asleep at night?
At this writing, the world is sober,
but still a beautiful place.
|
|
Sometimes people join a church or temple to find religion. It stands
to reason. Determine the creed you want, the statement of belief, the
customary ritual and expected behavior, and you're on your way.
Unitarian Universalists are inclined to find religion not only in church
but also everyplace else, and because we're rarely looking for a step-by-step
formulation, we frequently turn our attention to the arts: Mozart, maybe,
or masks from Yoruba, Billy Collins' poetry, a play by Derek Walcott,
or a TV special featuring the dancer, Bill T. Jones. Beaded jewelry.
Blown glass. Whether it's watercolor or weaving or hours at the potter's
wheel, something about the encounter feels different, more grounded,
than the washer's spin cycle and the commute to work.
Not too long ago I found religion in some crazy architecture in Barcelona.
Antoni Gaúdi, rooted in his Catalan culture, offers us pinnacles
and porticoes, peepholes and pavilions, colonnades, cupolas, and celestial
vaults. Whether it's the undulating, snake-like benches decorated with
abstract tile mosaics, or the fungi form bell towers modeled after underwater
flora, you get the sense that for Gaúdi, everything is beautiful.
Indeed, as one commentator put it, "Even in the radiolarians Gaúdi
saw God, as he did in the strength lines and the funicular polygons."
In other words, Gaudi found religion in shapes I never knew even existed!
They say that Gaúdi had an astounding "capacity to register"
Celtic culture, the symbolism of Herman Melville, Nietzsche's philosophy,
biological structures. He registers whatever it is, he experiences it
as beauty, he synthesizes it all into a "sacred monstrosity."
He recreates a universe; the spirit breathes.
That's one way of religion.
I, for one, have the spatial sense of a toddler, so I won't be designing
the parabolic arches with the do-dads on top. But Gaúdi took
me to that place of religion, and that's good enough for me.
Jane Rzepka
Minister
Quest January 2002 Contents
REsources for Living
by By Betsy Hill Williams, Director of Religious Education, CLF
How many of you remember when art was your favorite thing to do in
school? When sitting down to a big, clean sheet of white drawing paper
and a set of 64 crayons with exotic names like periwinkle and magenta
was a real treat? I can still smell finger paint, if I think hard enough
about it. And I can remember the feel of my father's shirt, which I
wore backwards, coated with hard, dry paint, and I tried-futilely, it
turned out-to keep it from falling off my shoulders. Like most kids,
I loved art. Until the day I started to feel that I wasn't very good
at it. Until I was told that there was a right and a wrong way to draw
and paint. Then, what had been pure pleasure became a challenge to meet
certain standards. As I repeatedly disappointed both my teacher and
myself with my ability to meet that challenge, art soon became an anxiety-producing
task. I still get nervous when I walk into a workshop and see markers
and drawing paper next to the nametags.
What happened to me (and sadly, to many others) in the process of "art
education" parallels what Don Vaughn-Foerster describes in this
month's sermon, "The Old, Great Spirit." The art in the ancient
cave was "of a piece with the mood of the canyon, with the mood
of the cave. . . It was as if the mystery and majesty of the natural
world flowed through the artist to emerge onto the cave's wall as a
picture of natural processes clothed in human form." Such connection
has been lost, Vaughn-Foerster believes, as human beings have set themselves
wholly apart from the rest of the natural world, become concerned with
human concerns only, forgetting "the primacy of the world as the
source and sustainer of human existence." But children, particularly
very young children, have yet to set themselves apart like this. Their
art, flowing naturally as it does from within and providing a kind of
primal connection that is deeply pleasurable and satisfying, is perhaps
closer to the art in the ancient cave than any other. Fortunately, today's
art teachers know this and work hard to keep creativity at the center
of art education.
Vaughn-Foerster's sermon makes me wonder. How can, or does, art continue
to help us close the emotional and spiritual distance between the natural
world and ourselves? It seems to me that all acts of creativity-be they
visual art, music, dance-carry within them elements of this primal connection.
Coming from deep within, unadulterated, unconditioned, unsocialized,
the purely creative act is part of the wholeness of being, and connects
us to that wholeness the way meditation or prayer does. Some people
make this connection by listening to music, or falling into silent reverie
in front of a painting. But others-and I would call them the lucky ones-make
their own art, their own music, their own movement. In Vaughn-Foerster's
words, they "paint their own shamans"-the mediators between
the visible world and the invisible world of the spirit.
In an interview for our children's magazine, uu&me!, singer-songwriter
and UU minister Fred Small told our kids, "I think everyone is
an artist, everyone is creative. I think that sometimes parents or teachers
or even friends discourage kids from showing their creativity. Maybe
that's because they feel embarrassed, or they remember people making
fun of them when they were children trying to be creative. And I think
that's really too bad. It takes courage to be creative. Fortunately,
children can be pretty brave."
How brave can you be?
Here's an idea, which takes Reverend Vaughn-Foerster literally: think
about what your personal shaman would look like if you were an ancient
cave-dwelling artist. Get out your finger paints, your watercolors,
markers, crayons, chalk and pencils. If you're starting to feel nervous
already, I recommend you try charcoal on newsprint-a very forgiving
medium that gives a great result. To start your drawing, ask yourself:
What forces in the natural world sustain me? If you have the luxury
of doing this activity with young children, use questions like, "What
are some things that you can't make or buy that keep you alive?"
Depending on their ages, you may need to help them name things like
air and water and sun and food. And those are a good start.
For yourself, ask what unique forces sustain you? The ocean? A deep
mountain forest? A cloudless blue sky? What does "greatness"
and "power" and "mystery" in the natural world look
like to you? Does it have multiple heads, or arms? Are there animal
parts like antlers, or billowy black wings like the ancient cave dweller's?
What are the feelings this image evokes for you? Is it frightening?
Comforting? Does it make you feel strong? Small? Let the emerging image
express your sense of belonging to the wholeness of being, not just
as your mind sees it, but, as Vaughn-Foerster says, also as it comes
through and from your heart.
Then, pick up your charcoal stick, or your paintbrush, or pencil, and
let it flow. Don't hesitate, don't judge, don't erase. Just let the
creative energy flow. Stop when you feel like stopping. Let it be the
pure creation it is. You could share it with others, hang it on a wall
to reflect on for a while, or throw it out. It doesn't matter. What
matters is that for a brief moment you let your experience of the natural
world that sustains all human existence flow through you. And maybe,
if you're really lucky, you also got to feel like a kid again.
Quest January 2002 Contents
CLF members-
See You inQuebec City?
CLF is entitled to have 22 delegates at the General Assembly in Quebec
City, Quebec on June 20 to 24. To find out more about what will be happening
at this year's GA, check out the GA page at http://www.uua.org/ga.
If you think you'd like to participate in GA2002 by representing CLF
as a delegate, you will be able to attend the CLF annual meeting of
the Board of Directors and CLF members, meet our minister, the Rev.
Jane Rzepka, meet the CLF staff, visit-or even volunteer at-the CLF
booth, and attend the CLF worship service.
Your costs, in addition to your travel, include adult full-time registration
of $240, hotel rooms averaging about $130 a night, and meals. Call CLF
at 617-948-6166 and speak to Lorraine or e-mail us at
before March 31 to indicate your interest.
Quest January 2002 Contents
For Pause or Paean-Hymns Satisfy
Was music the beginning? Tone and motion, pitch
and rhythm, endlessly interwoven, are there for us to find, to use.
This language is not of words, but of that which words cannot say-a
language of the heart.
Alice Parker, artistic director, Melodius Accord
by the Rev. Jane R. Rzepka,
minister, Church of the Larger Fellowship
Maybe you gather with your family on Sunday mornings to focus on "what
it all means." Maybe you belong to a small fellowship of Unitarian
Universalists, and all 16 of you crowd into your rented space to enjoy
a worship service of your own creating. Maybe you take the time driving
home from work, or with neighboring UUs on alternate Thursday evenings,
to attend to matters of the spirit. Maybe you serve on the Worship Committee
of a large congregation. Whatever the setting, you may appreciate the
hymns that Unitarian Universalists commonly use in worship. Our UU hymnbook,
Singing the Living Tradition, is a wonderful resource (for spoken service
elements too), as are the various audiotapes and CDs that are based
on it.
The Role of Music
Anyone who has worshipped in a group setting knows that tastes vary,
feelings can be strong, and there's no right or wrong. It's hard to
generalize about the use of music in services, but if we had to, we
would offer these tips. When choosing hymns, you may want to consider:
1. The theme of the service. Overall, are you focusing on grace,
science, grief, Martin Luther King Day, Channing, nature, the spirit?
The hymnbook's indexes can help ensure that the service coheres thematically.
2. The tune of the hymn. Are you looking for a musical challenge?
A familiar favorite? A catchy tune appealing to children? Something
altogether new? For some, the tune, played at the conventional tempo
(note the metronome markings), is what's important.
3. The words of the hymn. What message does a careful reading
of the words convey? Do the words enhance the goal of the service? Contradict
it? Confuse things? Does the hymn's theology exclude some of your participants?
For some, the words are what's important.
4. The mood, the spirit, of the hymn. Would you like your service
to begin with a rousing standard hymn, move to a two-line quiet, meditative
song in the middle of the service, and end with a group-building round?
Would you rather maintain a consistent level of emotion? Do you want
to begin with something somber and conclude with a peppy song? What
liturgical pattern will you create?
5. The number of hymns and verses. Music takes time (figure a
minute per verse, give or take). How many hymns will you choose? Which
verses will you sing? Some people love to sing every verse of several
hymns; others may have difficulty hearing, seeing the words, or standing,
for example, or they simply dislike hymns or singing in general. They
have to wait out the hymns.
The hymns, songs, responses, and other musical resources you will find
in our Singing the Living Tradition hymnal are among the many forms
of music that can enhance the worship experience. We hope you enjoy
building your own musical traditions.
Available from the CLF Library
Bring Many Names (also on audiocassette). The Chancel Choir of
the First Unitarian Church of Oakland, 1996. Available from: The UUA
Bookstore. This recording of 20 hymns from Singing The Living Tradition
is a delightful CD-it will give you musical interludes for services
and provide opportunities for singing along. The lyrical round, Come,
Come, Whoever You Are, for instance, is sung through once by a soloist
and then your singers could accompany the three parts of the choir as
they sing the round through. The spirited N'Kosi Sikelel' i l'Afrika
is not only fun to listen to-it offers the lively change of pace a talk-heavy
service really needs. The CD offers a range of hymns from the familiar
Spirit of Life to the less familiar (but exquisite) I Know this Rose
Will Open.
Music In The Air. Volume 2 of Bring Many Names with 25
more hymns from Singing The Living Tradition. Available from:
The UUA Bookstore. It would be impossible to make a dirge out of It
Sounds Along the Ages if you're singing it along with the Chancel
Choir. This CD offers hymns from a variety of cultures-the choir's inspired
version of the Shaker Hymn, My Life Flows on in Endless Song (How
Can I Keep from Singing) to the Hebrew round, Hasheveinu, and the
instrumental Hindu prayer, Raghupati, among others.
Sing and Rejoice. Accompaniments for 34 favorite hymns from Singing
the Living Tradition; Available from: The UUA Bookstore. The music
on this CD is perfect for congregations without an instrument, choir
practice, RE programs, home singing and the like. Each hymn is played
through simply once and then a humming chorus accompanies the music
to bolster the sound of tentative singers. It includes such favorites
as 'Tis a Gift to Be Simple, Here We Have Gathered', and 'Though
I May Speak'.
Songs of a Living Tradition. Available from: Steve Hulse, at
1-800-470-4654 or by e-mail at hulse@mindspring.com.
These 15 UU hymns by four voices in both solo and chorus are perfect
for listening. Several are four-to-five minutes long-excellent bridges
in a service and the lyrics are very clear. Many of the songs, from
Ric Masten's, 'Let It Be a Dance' to the African American Spiritual,
'Every Time I Feel the Spirit', are among our most melodic.
Quest January 2002 Contents
Two New CLF Email Lists
There are two automated mailing lists that CLF members may want to
know about-one is for active or reserve members of the military and
the other is for high school and college-age UUs. Here are the directions
for participating.
The UUMIL is limited to UUs active or in the reserve of the United States
military and is for their general use and discussion. The content of
this moderated list is unrestricted, but it focuses on the faith interests
of its members.
The YUU-CLF is an automated mailing list with subscription limited to
high school and college-age Unitarian Universalists who are members
of CLF, CLF families, or people who participate in the CLF Student Services
Program. The content of the list is unrestricted and focuses on issues
of, and relating to, the faith interests of list members-especially
those relevant to their age group.
If you'd like to join either of these lists, just visit the Members'
Page of the CLF web site for subscription instructions: http://www.uua.org.clf
Come join us for an online adult education class on the 7 Unitarian
Universalist principles. We will be exploring the principles, what they
mean, where they come from and why they are important to us as Unitarian
Universalists. The class will run 8 weeks, starting the last week of
January. We will be limiting the class size to 25 so please sign up
early. E-mail Amber Beland, Ministerial Intern at abeland@uua.org
or call her at 617-948-6170 to sign up for the class and get more information.
Quest January 2002 Contents
The Old, Great Spirit
by Don W. Vaughn-Foerster, interim minister, UU Fellowship
of Vero Beach, Florida
I stood on what must be one of the holy spots of this continent. I
was in a deep and quiet canyon. Surrounding it were wide and smoothly
rounded walls and boulders. The sky was a gray and luminous late-winter
sky; the canyon floor, flat but lightly corrugated by centuries of desert
flash-flooding. All was a deep and quiet witness to the abiding stillness
of the ages. I felt a peace there, a peace that made me want to find
a recess in the canyon wall or a low rock to sit on in contemplation
for a long, long while.
That feeling was, if anything, intensified when I stood inside a cave
in that canyon once inhabited by basket-weavers, prehistoric Indians
who survived on small game and sotol roots from the surrounding desert.
Inside the cave, with its smoke-blackened ceiling and the archaic rock
art inscribed on its walls some 4,000 to 10,000 years ago, the stillness
and the sense of sacred space still pervaded. It was especially strong
in the spot where I stood, as before an altar, and looked upon what
to me is one of the strangest and most compelling figures in religious
art.
Before me was the image of an ancient shaman, a half-human, half-god
from the twilight spirit world, a being with power to heal, with power
to protect, with power to quell enemies if properly invoked. He (I assumed
from its shape it was masculine), appeared to have two heads, one like
a deer with antlers, the other with strange projections sticking out
in several directions. He was clothed in a calf-length tunic and his
feet pointed downward like cloven hooves. Spreading out from him were
what looked to be billowy black wings. Or, perhaps, they were depictions
of magical power surrounding the shaman as an aura. At the ends of both
wings (or magic clouds), and partially obscured by them, were two more
figures: attendants, perhaps-or messengers or magical agents.
I was with a group of tourists at that time and the guide, who led us
through the canyon and to the painting in the cave, said that no one
could be sure of the painting's function-whether it was for magical
purposes or for simple self-expression. But, as I stood there viewing
it, I felt that more than self-expression was involved. It was so in
keeping with the mood of the canyon, with the mood of the cave. It was
as if the archaic artist were attempting to project onto the cave's
rock wall an experience of where the greatness, power, and mystery of
existence came into focus. It was as if the mystery and majesty of the
natural world flowed through the artist to emerge onto the cave's wall
as a picture of natural processes clothed in human form.
The paintings remind us that the locus of the relation of our selves
to the cosmos (i.e., the ultimate wholeness of things) has somehow shifted
so that, as a culture, we no longer feel rooted where we are, so that
our earth-home has ceased to be home at all but rather a pilgrimage
through alien lands of the spirit or an unfamiliar continent or planetary
system. They remind us of how estranged so many of us have become from
the process that made us. In our historic effort to free ourselves from
unseen, magical, supernatural forces, we modern human beings have put
a great emotional and spiritual distance between the natural world and
ourselves.
We have forgotten the primacy of the world as the source and sustainer
of human existence. The ancients knew that the world is the physical
setting that sustains or destroys us but always is a source of human
spirit. They knew that the great clarity of being that is so obvious
in the world on a sunny day in the desert is but the bright side of
mystery. They knew that, in some paradoxical way, life and death in
this world sustain each other and that, therefore, the shadow is necessary
to sunlight.
For all the technical advances of civilization, this is still the same
world as that of the ancient Native American who painted the shaman
on the Seminole canyon cave. And, in spite of all the accomplishments
of our civilization (if not because of them), we also stand in need
of allowing the whole of the mystery and the majesty of the natural
world to flow through our being. And we need to allow that flowing to
emerge as an expression of our sense of belonging to a wholeness of
being that speaks, not just to our minds, but also through and from
our hearts. We need to be able to restore, in modern guise, that awareness
of the underlying mystery that expands and supports existence and does
not diminish it. We need, in short, to be able to paint our own shamans-shamans
of natural forces flowing through human form. We need to paint our own
shamans, not on cave walls, but in our own spirits
.
Quest January 2002
Contents
Meditation
by the Rev. Arthur Graham
Each of us is an artist
Whose task it is to shape life
Into some semblance of the pattern
We dream about. The molding
Is not of self alone, but of shared
Tomorrows and times
We shall never see.
So let us be about our task.
The materials are very precious
And perishable.
Quest January
2002 Contents
Did You Know that it's time to send in your pledge
to CLF for 2002? Use the envelope in this issue or email Lorraine at
.
Quest January 2002 Contents
Last updated June 12, 2005
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