Cufflinks and Hidden Pulses

It seems as though the protestant American church has long held art in a precarious position of acceptable-but-deadly. 'Christian' radio plays music that sounds like most of the writers read the same small book and wrote songs using those words. 'Christian' videos are put together to spread the gospel like it was propaganda. The message is thinly veiled under a layer of "we believe that if you don't think like us, you're wrong." So-called 'art' is spread over 'Christian' media like dirty oil on water. Beauty is long-forgotten by mainstream producers of things labeled Christian. Aside from the fact that labelling a thing as Christian is absurd according to Scripture - "heaven and earth shall pass away" - many believe that wearing salvation on your sleeve is effective witnessing. I am unapologetic about the fact that this is somewhat akin to those 'leftist radicals' and 'tree-hugging hippies' - as some are so fond of labelling others - parading around a courthouse that hangs the Ten Commandments. Aside from that issue, one must admit that such action is merely the bull elephant trumpeting to the herd. Everyone wants their voice heard, and the louder you shout, the better.

But whatever happened to silence - that long-lost sister who speaks louder than all the rage of Madison Avenue, all the dazzle of Hollywood? She flies whisperingly in the face of Cufflink Christianity. She remembers dinner with Zachaeus. She remembers writing in the sand and a prostitutes alabaster bottle on the once-carpenter's feet. She likes looking and drinking and smelling and touching. She is as mute as Little Franny in her love. "Your local Christian Hit Source" doesn't think she's worth the effort very often. They'd rather perpetuate a cycle of yellow journalism. Music should be inspirational - and that means happy. But happiness and happenstance are old bedfellows - they write each other often, and even as often, we refuse to read the letters. All told, such damage is done by the neglect of beauty that is hidden - beauty that is quiet - beauty that suffers. In Jerusalem on Friday, Summer dies to Autumn, and the maple casts her colored children down, and we whose names are on white stones sing hymns of harvest. Suffering, imperfection, death, emptiness - these are beautiful because they are human. We have hope of a world where they do not exist because of a Savior who knew that they did. We should not neglect those who deal with the flesh and blood of a life that is flesh and blood. Art should be a medium to begin to grasp the mind of those who make it, and thus, the Mind that made the mind. Don't fly your colors too high just now, we have yet to take hold of the hem of his robe. If we parade our perfections through art and refuse entry to the drunkards of this world, we will ourselves become drunk on our pride. Remember mortality.

I learned to laugh through my tears - Karen Berquist