new to you friday–must see

Okay, yes, the point of “New to you Friday” is to invite new readers into the discussion of blog posts from two years ago, not two weeks. But I thought of something else I wanted to say about this, and it’s my blog. So neener neener.

Last night I gathered with a group of creative people from my church–a playwright, an author, a children’s therapist, a poet, a professor, an actress and more. We ate heaping plates of sweet corn salad and my famous orzo with roasted vegetables (I declare my recipes “famous” if I’ve made them more than once) and discussed faith and art and the intersection between the two.

At one point, David, the organizer of the evening, asked each of us to share why the conversation mattered to us personally; why (besides the orzo) we showed up.

I found myself telling them about Marina Abramovic and her performance at MOMA and the reactions of the people who participated with her. Her exhibit was titled “The Artist is Present” and, as noted in the original post, that was the power of the piece—she was fully present, seeing and acknowledging each person who sat across from her. Although she didn’t speak or interact, she was there, inviting the other person to also be present and honest in that moment.

And I realized that’s why I think the arts matter to people of faith—because they point us to the Giver of all creativity, who, frankly, sometimes acts like Abramovic. Usually I want Him to talk and respond and fix my problems—to do. Usually He simply wants to sit quietly with me—to be. In those times, music and literature and visual arts remind us that while he may be silent, The Artist is always present.

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I spent this past holiday weekend in New York City with my brother Geoff and sister-in-law Lisa, having more fun and eating more food than I could include here. (Oh, okay, twist my arm: picnics in Central Park and along Long Island City’s waterfront, walks through impeccably manicured gardens at dusk, tours of subway cars from the 50s, the Brooklyn Flea Market, and possibly the best cafe au lait ever).

But what I will remember long after my shin splints fade away and I work off the goat cheese omelets is Sunday afternoon at the Museum of Modern Art. Marina Abramovic’s special exhibition “The Artist is Present” was in its final weekend run, and we spent much of the afternoon viewing it (and much of the evening discussing it).

Abramovic is a performance artist who has scrubbed meat and blood off cow bones to protest the slaughter of war, taken mind-altering pills to explore unconsciousness during a performance, and fasted from food for 12 days while living on a shelf open to the public in a New York gallery.

But “The Artist is Present” included no such spectacle—instead, the 80-day performance simply featured Abramovic sitting silently, gazing into the eyes of a person sitting across from her. From the moment the museum opened each day until the last crowds left each evening, Abramovic sat without speaking and gave each person, in turn, her complete and focused attention.

And thousands of New Yorkers lined up each morning for the privilege of being in the chair across from her. Some smiled or giggled self-consciously. Some returned the unbroken eye contact. Several wept. Until the last two days of the performance, each individual could sit as long or as little as he wanted. Some stayed just a few minutes, others remained in the chair for hours.


In an interview before the exhibit, Abramovic said,

It’s really the idea of creating a moment of presence…… I want to create a stillness in the middle of the tornado, with just a tiny little table and two little chairs. And the chair opposite me is always empty, and any member of the audience is welcome to come and engage in the gaze with me. There will not be talking, there will not be anything, just the motionless gaze.

The eyes are the windows of the soul. You can see so much. And it will create an energy, a luminosity around it. The more time goes past with this piece, the more the piece will go where it should go – into that timeless state. It’s about the here and now. It’s not about future or past. It’s just about the present moment. I want to construct many present moments during the 600 hours, and be available and vulnerable for anybody in the audience. This will create a trust so that the other person looking at me can also be available and vulnerable, and we can create a contact which is very direct and very human.

This vulnerable human connection made the piece irresistible. Despite the huge closing-weekend crowds and the presence of two of my favorite Van Goghs on level 4, I returned to MOMA’s atrium three times during our three-hour visit. I watched Abramovic, I speculated on the stories of the people sitting across from her, and I considered the lessons this piece can teach us.

Because like all good art, this raises questions about the times in which we live and the timeless components of the human condition. Abramovic has said one reason she wanted to perform the work was to create a “center” of peace in the midst of our country’s largest and arguably busiest city.


But, of course, the hurried pace of life extends beyond New York, and so does another insight of this piece—people are ravenous for human connection.

Sure, some people sat across from Abramovic to say they had been part of one of the famous artist’s most ambitious works, but that’s not why dozens wiped away tears, or stayed for five hours, or returned several times. It’s not why the show has received worldwide attention or why MOMA’s live video feed of the experience received more than 800,000 hits.

By sitting in the chair you also received another person’s undivided attention. You became the focus of another person for as long as you needed it. You participated in something not only public but deeply intimate.

When is the last time someone gave you their attention–no cell phone glances, no mid-conversation texting, no checking the time, no looking over your shoulder for someone more interesting? When is the last time you gave that gift to someone else? The real lesson of “The Artist is Present” is how un-present so many of us are, to our own emotions and to the moment and to the people around us. Abramovic’s art reminds us that in a city propelled by image, in a nation focused on appearances, many people simply need to be seen.

must see

I spent this past holiday weekend in New York City with my brother Geoff and sister-in-law Lisa, having more fun and eating more food than I could include here. (Oh, okay, twist my arm: picnics in Central Park and along Long Island City’s waterfront, walks through impeccably manicured gardens at dusk, tours of subway cars from the 50s, the Brooklyn Flea Market, and possibly the best cafe au lait ever).

But what I will remember long after my shin splints fade away and I work off the goat cheese omelets is Sunday afternoon at the Museum of Modern Art. Marina Abramovic’s special exhibition “The Artist is Present” was in its final weekend run, and we spent much of the afternoon viewing it (and much of the evening discussing it).

Abramovic is a performance artist who has scrubbed meat and blood off cow bones to protest the slaughter of war, taken mind-altering pills to explore unconsciousness during a performance, and fasted from food for 12 days while living on a shelf open to the public in a New York gallery.

But “The Artist is Present” included no such spectacle—instead, the 80-day performance simply featured Abramovic sitting silently, gazing into the eyes of a person sitting across from her. From the moment the museum opened each day until the last crowds left each evening, Abramovic sat without speaking and gave each person, in turn, her complete and focused attention.

And thousands of New Yorkers lined up each morning for the privilege of being in the chair across from her. Some smiled or giggled self-consciously. Some returned the unbroken eye contact. Several wept. Until the last two days of the performance, each individual could sit as long or as little as he wanted. Some stayed just a few minutes, others remained in the chair for hours.


In an interview before the exhibit, Abramovic said,

It’s really the idea of creating a moment of presence…… I want to create a stillness in the middle of the tornado, with just a tiny little table and two little chairs. And the chair opposite me is always empty, and any member of the audience is welcome to come and engage in the gaze with me. There will not be talking, there will not be anything, just the motionless gaze.

The eyes are the windows of the soul. You can see so much. And it will create an energy, a luminosity around it. The more time goes past with this piece, the more the piece will go where it should go – into that timeless state. It’s about the here and now. It’s not about future or past. It’s just about the present moment. I want to construct many present moments during the 600 hours, and be available and vulnerable for anybody in the audience. This will create a trust so that the other person looking at me can also be available and vulnerable, and we can create a contact which is very direct and very human.

This vulnerable human connection made the piece irresistible. Despite the huge closing-weekend crowds and the presence of two of my favorite Van Goghs on level 4, I returned to MOMA’s atrium three times during our three-hour visit. I watched Abramovic, I speculated on the stories of the people sitting across from her, and I considered the lessons this piece can teach us.

Because like all good art, this raises questions about the times in which we live and the timeless components of the human condition. Abramovic has said one reason she wanted to perform the work was to create a “center” of peace in the midst of our country’s largest and arguably busiest city.


But, of course, the hurried pace of life extends beyond New York, and so does another insight of this piece—people are ravenous for human connection.

Sure, some people sat across from Abramovic to say they had been part of one of the famous artist’s most ambitious works, but that’s not why dozens wiped away tears, or stayed for five hours, or returned several times. It’s not why the show has received worldwide attention or why MOMA’s live video feed of the experience received more than 800,000 hits.

By sitting in the chair you also received another person’s undivided attention. You became the focus of another person for as long as you needed it. You participated in something not only public but deeply intimate.

When is the last time someone gave you their attention–no cell phone glances, no mid-conversation texting, no checking the time, no looking over your shoulder for someone more interesting? When is the last time you gave that gift to someone else? The real lesson of “The Artist is Present” is how un-present so many of us are, to our own emotions and to the moment and to the people around us. Abramovic’s art reminds us that in a city propelled by image, in a nation focused on appearances, many people simply need to be seen.

new to you friday–an open letter

This post resonated with a lot of people—several left comments on my Facebook page, a few mentioned it to me in person, and others commented on the original post. Apparently many of you can relate to my desire for formulas and “fairness” in relating to God. Or perhaps you share my super healthy and productive spiritual gift for comparing myself to other people.

Maybe we can negotiate a group rate for therapy. In the meantime, share your thoughts in the comments (or wherever brings you joy). I wonder if there’s a Facebook fan page for the elder brother…….?

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Dear Dr. Keller,
Thank you so much for speaking at Christ Presbyterian last week. I love that you still make time for the handful of churches that helped plant Redeemer 20 years ago. Thanks for traveling so far, and on such a brutal travel day, when Nashville received a whole 1/8″ of snow—almost enough to cover the grass. Sheer bravery, sir.

It seemed everyone was reading your latest book during Christmas, and I enjoyed the opportunity to hear your own summary of its message and the application to church life. Your description of healing spiritual communities and our responsibility to them as family members should be required listening for every Christian, both leader and layman, and if you ever release it as an MP3 I’m forwarding the link to everyone I know.


But I’m not as eager to share the first half of your lecture, because it taps directly into the most personal spiritual questions I wrestle with. For those reading this blog who weren’t there and aren’t you (that would be just about everyone), the first half of Wednesday night’s talk revisited the parable of the prodigal son and showed how both the prodigal and his older brother are guilty of disobeying the Father—one through promiscuity and rebellion, the other through self-righteous moralism. They both want the Father’s gifts instead of relationship with the Father, and although the elder brother expresses that desire in more culturally and religiously acceptable ways—obedience, duty, judgmentalism—both are lost. Both want to be their own master and savior, and the only solution for them and for us all is Jesus and his willingness to bring each of us back to the family at his own expense.

As you spoke, I could almost see light bulbs snapping on above people’s heads. Most of us have heard this parable dozens of times and think we understand our role as the prodigal and God’s role as the Father rushing to extend grace. I’m sure your brilliant exposition of the story caused many in that audience to realize for the first time their identification with the older brother and their own tendency to choose rules instead of relationship.


But here’s the thing: I get than I’m an elder brother.

Whether it’s this parable or the one in Matthew 20, I always identify with the long-suffering character who feels cheated. Like the prodigal’s brother or the early morning vineyard workers, I show up and do my job and fulfill expectations. I work hard and remain loyal and try to be obedient. I do stuff I don’t want to do and give money I don’t want to give. I demonstrate character when it would be easier and more fun to throw a screaming fit. I try to take the high road although traffic is light.

However, I don’t feel cheated because the prodigals receive grace and blessing just like me. I feel cheated—no, I believe confused, frustrated, and furious would be more appropriate—because they often receive way more blessings, the blessings I want, the blessings I deserve not because I am a righteous person but because God promised them.

Both the elder brother and I may be too rules-focused, but neither one of us set up the rules—the Father did. He promises to fulfill our hearts if we delight in him (Psalm 37). He promises to make our paths straight if we acknowledge and follow him (Proverbs 3). My heart is less than fulfilled and my paths are more crooked than Bernie Madoff. So either He changed the game or He wants the rules to remain unclear—is it really that terrible to feel betrayed?

I’m continuing to obey despite my limited understanding. But I do wish the parable had a third sibling—the sister who doesn’t want to control the Father, she just wants to understand His actions once in a while……even if it’s as infrequent as Nashville getting a real snow.

Thanks for reading.

Jen

a new york minute

I would rather scrub toilets than work on most church staffs. I’d even prefer cleaning the bathrooms at the church. But I might change my mind if Church of the Incarnation came calling.

This new congregation just held its first services this past Sunday at St. Matthew and St. Timothy church, an Episcopal congregation near Central Park. (You’d know all this if you received the CS enews. Sign up here.)

In keeping with the more formal (and beautiful) worship space there, Church of the Incarnation has adapted a liturgical service style. Of course, this is also user-friendly to the many unchurched New Yorkers with Catholic, Orthodox, and Anglican backgrounds. Services combine prayers of confession and responsive readings with songs from a variety of time periods. You can find examples of their liturgies here.

“The new church has an old name for a specific reason,” says Orchard Group, the church planting organization that helped to start COTI. “First, ‘Incarnation’ ties the community and its vision to the heart of the good news in Scripture—God taking on flesh in Jesus Christ in order to renew all of creation. Second, ‘Incarnation’ ties the community and its style to practices of worship shared by the ancient church. New churches in the city who are more contemporary in feel are healthy and effective. Yet Incarnation is taking a different approach by retrieving a range of ancient practices in the hopes of providing a hospitable environment for New Yorkers who might not gravitate towards more contemporary expressions of faith and worship.”

I love this, and I can’t decide if I’m more envious of Rhesa Storms, who plans the weekly services, or Jonathan Williams, who organizes service projects, book clubs and movie groups. If you guys need any help, give me a call. Bathrooms are negotiable.

an open letter

Dear Dr. Keller,
Thank you so much for speaking at Christ Presbyterian last week.  I love that you still make time for the handful of churches that helped plant Redeemer 20 years ago. Thanks for traveling so far, and on such a brutal travel day, when Nashville received a whole 1/8″ of snow—almost enough to cover the grass. Sheer bravery, sir.

It seemed everyone was reading your latest book during Christmas, and I enjoyed the opportunity to hear your own summary of its message and the application to church life.  Your description of healing spiritual communities and our responsibility to them as family members should be required listening for every Christian, both leader and layman, and if you ever release it as an MP3 I’m forwarding the link to everyone I know.

But I’m not as eager to share the first half of your lecture, because it taps directly into the most personal spiritual questions I wrestle with. For those reading this blog who weren’t there and aren’t you (that would be just about everyone), the first half of Wednesday night’s talk revisited the parable of the prodigal son and showed how both the prodigal and his older brother are guilty of disobeying the Father—one through promiscuity and rebellion, the other through self-righteous moralism. They both want the Father’s gifts instead of relationship with the Father, and although the elder brother expresses that desire in more culturally and religiously acceptable ways—obedience, duty, judgmentalism—both are lost. Both want to be their own master and savior, and the only solution for them and for us all is Jesus and his willingness to bring each of us back to the family at his own expense.

As you spoke, I could almost see light bulbs snapping on above people’s heads. Most of us have heard this parable dozens of times and think we understand our role as the prodigal and God’s role as the Father rushing to extend grace. I’m sure your brilliant exposition of the story caused many in that audience to realize for the first time their identification with the older brother and their own tendency to choose rules instead of relationship.

But here’s the thing: I get than I’m an elder brother. Whether it’s this parable or the one in Matthew 20, I always identify with the long-suffering character who feels cheated. Like the prodigal’s brother or the early morning vineyard workers, I show up and do my job and fulfill expectations. I work hard and remain loyal and try to be obedient.  I do stuff I don’t want to do and give money I don’t want to give. I demonstrate character when it would be easier and more fun to throw a screaming fit. I try to take the high road although traffic is light.

However, I don’t feel cheated because the prodigals receive grace and blessing just like me. I feel cheated—no, I believe confused, frustrated, and furious would be more appropriate—because they often receive way more blessings, the blessings I want, the blessings I deserve not because I am a righteous person but because God promised them.

Both the elder brother and I may be too rules-focused, but neither one of us set up the rules—the Father did. He promises to fulfill our hearts if we delight in him (Psalm 37). He promises to make our paths straight if we acknowledge and follow him (Proverbs 3). My heart is less than fulfilled and my paths are more crooked than Bernie Madoff. So either He changed the game or He wants the rules to remain unclear—is it really that terrible to feel betrayed?

I’m continuing to obey despite my limited understanding. But I do wish the parable had a third sibling—the sister who doesn’t want to control the Father, she just wants to understand His actions once in a while……even if it’s as infrequent as Nashville getting a real snow.

Thanks for reading.

Jen