and depiction of the outer and inner worlds, and from the poet’s capturing of complex experiences and nuances of life, to help us grow in our capacity to love our neighbors and even enemies, and to empathize with the needs of our world.
Consider the Lilies is done with over sixty layers of finely pulverized precious minerals (azurite and malachite), oyster shell white, and painted with sumi ink that has been cured for over a century, as well as gold and platinum powders, and mixed hide glue, to adhere the materials onto the hand-pulled Japanese paper. The painting depicts Easter lilies, with triumvirate flowers opening up, but with the suggestion that even these common lilies are transformed into a post-Resurrection, generative reality. —M.F.
“The only Commandment I ever obeyed—‘Consider the Lilies.’”—Emily Dickinson,Emily Dickinson, The Letters of Emily Dickenson. Thomas H. Johnson, ed. (Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 1997), 904.
So much of what needs healing in my life is my tendency to worry. When God commands me to “consider the lilies” (Matt. 6:28, ESVScripture quotations marked (ESV) are from The Holy Bible, English Standard Version ® (ESV ®), copyright © 2001 by Crossway, a publishing ministry of Good News Publishers. Used by permission. All rights reserved.), He isn’t just telling me to stare at flowers. This looking is in itself a healing, a redemptive act that causes me to focus outside of myself and my own anxious striving for safety. In turning my gaze away from my need to control and understand, my own small kingdom wherein I build security for myself through possessions, I say yes, instead, to the Kingdom of God. This Kingdom is ruled by a King who provides, a King in whom I can place my trust, a King who, even now, is bringing about the redemption of His creation.
As I “Consider the Lilies”, I fall into an ocean of blue that is the grace of this God who loves me more than any bird of the air or flower of the field. In this place of resting and redemption, I am able to see—oh so dimly—the beauty of the lily restored to its glory before the Fall. As I abide in this place of trusting, my anxious attempts to provide security for myself are stilled. My fears are overcome by love, and I receive wholeness, life. —T.O.
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03.
Water Flames
After living through September 11, 2001, in New York City—only three blocks from what is now Ground Zero—I began a series of paintings based on Dante’s The Divine Comedy. Calling the series “Water Flames,” I desired to depict the way in which flames not only consume but ultimately sanctify. These works recall the visual language of the apocalyptic, moody paintings of the American artist Mark Rothko (1903–1970)—using Japanese vermillion, gold, and platinum powders to move our gaze upward, even as we stand in the ever-expanding Ground Zero conditions of the world. As a Japanese-American, it is my prayer that memories of Hiroshima and Nagasaki will also bring people to seek reconciliation and to work toward the elimination of all nuclear weapons, as we continue to navigate the “irreversible tragedies of our times” (Irish poet, Michael O’Siadhail). —M.F.
It is in this place that healing involves the hard work of facing that which has wounded me. I would rather turn away from this painting, refuse God’s invitation to see His work in the deep vermilions, the subtle golds. “Water Flames” is reminiscent of recent trauma: the sudden evacuation of my home during the Waldo Canyon Fire. That afternoon, our house was engulfed in the colors of this canvas, and we had to flee.
I resist looking for a long time, just as I resist looking at the trauma of that day. To face this painting is to face my pain—and yet I hear God calling me both to it and through it, again and again.
How much of my healing do I resist because it feels too much like the original wounding? I ask this of myself, of “Water Flames,” and of God as I finally begin the work of contemplation.
As the artist says, “flames not only consume but ultimately sanctify.” As I sit before this painting, I begin to see movement where I only saw a burning wall of red. The image reflects the movement of my soul as I begin to see God’s redemptive work in myself and my community through this tragedy of flame. Yahweh’s promise in Isaiah 43 is that though blazes may burn I will not be consumed. As I sit before the rippling beauty and upward movement of “Water Flames” I find that I am starting to open up to the refining work of fire. Hope flickers to life once more. —T.O.
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04.
The Prodigal God
The well-known parable, told by Jesus in Luke 15, tells of a wayward younger brother who takes all of his inheritance and squanders it in “a far country.” When he finally comes to himself, he comes home. He is expecting disgrace and rejection, but instead his Father runs to him, embracing him, preparing a great celebration of music and dancing and eating the fatted calf! The elder brother objects, unable to join the Father’s extravagant love for his younger brother.
The word “prodigal,” according to my pastor Timothy Keller (The Prodigal God), does not mean “wayward” but “recklessly spendthrift.” This shifts the focus from the younger brother’s waywardness to the extravagant, reckless love of the Father for his son. Thus God speaks both to the “younger brothers” and “elder brothers” among us, compelling us to consider the lavish gift of Life that is offered to us in Jesus. In this painting, then, I have sought to probe deeply into the tensions that exist within my heart to love deeply—in spite of the legalism and waywardness that prevails in the church and the wider culture. —M.F.
“See what great love the Father has lavished on us, that we should be called children of God! And that is what we are!” (1 John 3:1, NIV Scripture quotations marked (NIV) are taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version®, NIV®. Copyright ©1973, 1978, 1984, 2011 by Biblica, Inc.™ Used by permission of Zondervan. All rights reserved worldwide. www.zondervan.com The “NIV” and “New International Version” are trademarks registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by Biblica, Inc.™).
I sit before The Prodigal God and long, at first, for a glimpse of Rembrandt’s “The Prodigal Son.” I find it so much easier to gaze at the ragged poverty of the younger brother or the haughty distain of the elder brother than to contemplate the lavish love of the Father represented here in golds and blues, whites and greens. I would like to categorize myself and those around me—He is a younger brother, see how he squandered all that he was given! She is an elder brother, look at how strictly she judges those who aren’t like her!—rather than look at what Christ is pointing to in this parable: the stunning, overflowing love of the Father.
But then something in the painting catches me. There are words there, etched in the gold. My eyes drawn upward, I see the subtle outlines of the parable itself, the riot of color and light refracted through sentences and story. Suddenly, I see the face, where before there seemed to be only aimless strokes of white, black and purple. Who is this? Might it be the countenance of God? And more, could those eyes hold an invitation to love deeply when I would otherwise be tempted to judge? As I wonder, I find I am both younger and elder brother together, and the Father is inviting me to healing and home. —T.O.
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05.
In the Beginning
This work, “In the Beginning,” visually echoes the “Charis-Kairos” cover piece—in the same way that the beginning of the Gospel of John echoes the beginning of Genesis. The Japanese gold leaf is broken up in fragments and spread over malachite and vermillion over a
dark background. The first chapter of the Gospel of John speaks not only about the origin of all creation in Jesus, but also about the mystery behind creation. Art needs to inhabit such mysteries—to open us up to the generative reality of the deeper questions that lie behind our questions. . . . —M.F.
I remember my fascination when I first discovered that the etymology of the word “original” did not point to something new, something never seen before. Instead, “original” comes from “origin” and points to the fact that whatever is original springs from a source, a beginning. Even in striving to break from tradition, to do something “original,” we find ourselves once again “in the beginning.”
In the beginning was the mysterious unity of the Trinity; the grace of Christ and His shed blood existed before the foundations of the world. As I gaze at this churning, active painting, I see both the Spirit hovering over the void, ready to create, and the holy reality of the suffering of Christ, ready to redeem. There is more happening here than I yet understand—God’s healing actions in the world are deeper and more pervasive than I yet see. At the same time, there is sorrow to be held, tears to be shed, just as Christ weeps in “Charis-Kairos.” To hold these together is a paradox of the Kingdom, the paradox of God-made-flesh, the Savior who suffered and died for our sins.
Just as the golden tears poured down in “Charis-Kairos,” so golden light flickers over the surface of everything in “In the Beginning.” In it, I see healing and hope: “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” (John 1:5, ESV) —T.O.
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06.
Postscript
Throughout the twentieth century—from the two World Wars, Auschwitz, Hiroshima, Nagasaki, Vietnam, and Darfur—we have seen “Ground Zero conditions” expand, taking all cultures hostage. Faced with such devastation, it would be easy to lose hope and even faith. As the new century was born, we were rudely awakened by the reality of September 11, 2001. Now as the new century unfolds before our eyes, we see a conflicted pluralistic world, where chaos is spiked by religious tensions, and complexity confounds our ability to navigate. Thus it is also my ambitious prayer, as we are faced with Ground Zero realities all around us, that artistic imagination would be given wings to journey beyond the ashes—and so, combined with faith, to carry us into a place of restoration, reconciliation, and healing.
My work brings together artistic influences ranging from pre-modern to post-modern, merging Eastern and Western cultures and artistic methods, and giving new life to them in this new century. This “trans-modern” approach (as expressed by psychologist Paul Vitz) also assumes that “post-modern” contemporary culture has not adequately addressed the serious metaphysical issues raised by artists of the early modern era, celebrating instead the vacuous, wayward ideals of contemporary culture. These offerings of my works… are prayers for the next generation—to “transcend modernism” and to creative generatively into this century.
May we be deeply aware that Christ’s tears shed millennia ago are still powerfully present in this world, as a medium of hope and new creation. —M.F.
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07.
Artist Makoto Fujimura in Conversation with Tara Owens
Tara Owens: Makoto, thank you for offering your work to the readership of Conversations Journal. We believe strongly in the role art plays in the process of spiritual formation, and we’re grateful for your willingness to speak with us. It’s a first in the journal, having a conversation with the artist of the piece that we’re publishing, and we’re completely thrilled.
This is the year of our tenth anniversary, and in the covers of the two issues we produced we’ve attempted to reach back toward our heritage (the cover of Issue 10.1: Welcoming the Stranger is Rublev’s Icon of the Trinity) and forward in hope toward the future (with your piece, Tears of Christ, the cover of Issue 10.2: Healing). How do you see Tears of Christ fitting with the theme of healing?
Makoto Fujimura: All true art leads to healing. Art (even done by non-believers) resides in the province of Eden. Art mediates, often times unconsciously, between our broken lives and the healed reality of our being, with the Spirit guidance. Art can provide a vista of a restored world, but further lead us to consider the now, our present darkness as well. Art can invite us to a generative reality, in which we are able to see and experience far more than being restored to the original state.
Tears of Christ is a pause before healing, or rising, of Lazarus. Christ, with all His Power to heal, did not have to weep in Bethany (John 11). But he did. Why? Tears were his gift to Mary, to remind her that he is both a savior, but also a friend. True healing is more than our physical health back to normality, but is a constant state of generativity, creating a greater growth. A deep friendship can bring about this generative healing.
TO: As a visual artist, you are probably familiar with the practice of visio divina (“divine seeing”), or praying with images. Although our readership is familiar with the practice through our regular feature, O Taste & See, our readers may not have experience in praying with art that appears at first to be more abstract or realistic. How would you suggest someone new to your style of visual art begin in contemplation with your pieces? What types of prayer might you find fit naturally with your work?
MF: In prayer, we approach God with confidence that heaven and earth can be brought together in our prayers. With our rationality, though, we may not realize fully the embodied reality of heaven invading our broken earth. We need our senses to lead us to a place of abundance, or extravagant reality of our being. Such “extras” that our senses are able to tap into, “extras” that go beyond rational categories, is where abstraction and mystery dwells. Abstraction is connected to mystery; and without mystery of the Gospel informing our prayers, we cannot pray “without ceasing.” The most enduring, and memorable, experiences in our lives are non-categorical, extrasensory, and deal with the intangibles, or the abstract essence of our lives.
The best representational paintings are also representing that moment. Art helps us to represent reality back to God. This act of representing is essential to prayer.
TO: We intentionally chose your work for the issue of healing, over a plethora of wonderful classical options (such as Murillo’s Christ Healing the Paralytic at the Pool of Bethesda), because, as you write in the Artist’s Introduction to your work in The Four Gospels, “it is also my ambitious prayer, as we are faced with Ground Zero realities all around us, that artistic imagination would be given wings to journey beyond the ashes—and so, combined with faith, to carry us into a place of restoration, reconciliation, and healing.”
It’s an ambitious prayer, and we’ll follow it with an even more ambitious question, how do you see that happening?
MF: I, alone, cannot see to that happening, but I do believe that if we dedicate next generations toward this goal, God will weave, in His Wisdom, our efforts together. I believe this will require the churches (Protestant, Catholic, Orthodox) to come together through the arts. I also believe that there will be an extraordinary outpouring of the Holy Spirit in the margins and the center of culture. Most likely we would have to face more “Ground Zero” experiences before we get there. There will be a refining process that will prepare the soil for this extraordinary unity and advancement of Gospel awareness.
TO: Finally, in your own words, how does art heal? How have you seen it heal?
MF: I find healing every time I paint, and every moment that I am creating. It is through recovering our lives as Homo Faber that we touch the divine Creator/Artist’s healing Presence.
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08.
About the Artist
Makoto Fujimura an artist, writer, and speaker who is recognized worldwide as a cultural influencer by both faith-based and secular media. A Presidential appointee to the National Council on the Arts (2003–2009), Fujimura has contributed internationally as an advocate for the arts, speaking with decision makers and advising governmental policies on the arts. Fujimura’s work is exhibited at galleries around the world, including Dillon Gallery (New York), Sato Museum (Tokyo), The Contemporary Museum of Tokyo, Tokyo National University of Fine Arts Museum and Oxford House, Taiku Place (Hong Kong). A popular speaker, he has lectured at numerous conferences and universities, including the Aspen Institute, Yale, Princeton, and the Q Conference, among others. Fujimura’s second book, Refractions: A Journey of Faith, Art and Culture, is a collection of essays bringing people of all backgrounds together in conversation and meditation on culture, art, and humanity. Fujimura founded the International Arts Movement in 1992.