If you know this song, will you sing it with me? My voice is going to crack, and it鈥檚 okay if your voice cracks too.

My life flows on in endless song,
Above earth’s lamentation.
I hear the real, though far-off hymn
That hails a new creation.

Through all the tumult and the strife,
I hear that music ringing.
It finds an echo in my soul.
How can I keep from singing?

The ancients used to speak of the music of the spheres, the music of Universalis, this cosmic ringing鈥攖he song of the cells of the planets and of the stars and of all the things that we cannot see. What does dark matter singing sound like? What does a black hole sound like? What does the sun sound like? It has a sound.

And they said it fell noiselessly on human ears. Or did it? Because if that sound and that song was ever silenced, we would know it immediately and our own silences would be put to shame. And of course, in response to this sound, there came the music of humana鈥攖he music of humankind, the necessary reply: voice to voice, heart to heart, song to song鈥攖hat way for humanity to participate in the things that are bigger and greater and beyond us.

When we reach out through song in that way, we touch the eternal. We touch the unseen. We touch those things that are around us that we simply cannot perceive and yet are so very there. And I bring you this song today 鈥� 鈥淗ow Can I Keep from Singing?鈥� 鈥� because I ask you: how can you keep from singing?

You have come to this place with your broken and silenced voices. And the voices who were off-key. And the voices who rang out clearly but had no heart. And the voices that were intact and were pure and were good. You have come here with those voices, and they are good voices. You have done so much work, and through it all you have gone singing into the dark night. You have gone singing into the work of the spheres, the unseen cosmos of yourself, the music that is within you, the music that is irrevocable that cannot be ignored and cannot be denied鈥攂ecause you have heard what the unseen sounds like and begun to know your own voice. You are doing this, graduates.

And I think now about the story we are telling. Beau has spoken to the call to adventure, the call to swim, the call to the unknown. And Mary has spoken of the descent and the holy Saturday and the silence. And so now it would be appropriate to speak of the return. Where are you returning to? Really, where are you going home to? And where is home? Is it a place? Is it a person? Is it coming home to yourself? Is it that small voice beckoning inside of you to come closer 鈥� that small voice ringing out, waiting for your harmony? Where is home? Where are you returning to?

And when I ask where is home, it makes me think how indefinable that is. We long for that home that is almost as wide as the cosmos 鈥� in God, or others, or the relationship between us. It鈥檚 something we can鈥檛 quite see or feel. And yet, we are called to participate in this earth, in this time, in the realm of the visible. We are called to follow the homecoming song that we are hearing with our own voices and respond with our broken hallelujahs.

I remember the verses from Hebrews, sometimes called 鈥渢he hall of the saints.鈥� It says that by faith, all these people of God (unassuming, strange, peculiar), all them responded by faith. And you have done the same: in faith you have done the same. Well done, good and faithful servant.

But I think of Hebrews 11: 鈥淎ll of the ancients died in faith without having received what was promised to them, but from a distance perceived and greeted those promises. They confessed that they were strangers and refugees on this earth. For people who speak in this way make it clear; they are seeking after a homeland. If they had been thinking of the land they had left behind, there would have been a season for them to return. But as it is, they burn with longing for a better country that is a heavenly one. And therefore, God is not ashamed to be their God. Indeed, God is preparing a city for them.鈥� Indeed, God is preparing a homecoming for them.

Now what do home and song and the music of the spheres and the music of you have in common? I contend that there is a song that is calling you forth. Keith has reminded us time and time again that vocation is from 鈥渧ocare:鈥� to call out. It has to do with the voice; it has to do with calling and responding. And you graduates, you are being called home. And it may not be a place you arrive at soon. You may dream of a far country without reaching it yet, or maybe ever. And yet you have to do this. And yet you have to go singing into the dark night because you believe. Help your unbelief. You must do these things because you have been blessed and you have been prepared and you have done the work.

And when you sing the song only you can sing, you join the symphony of the spheres 鈥� the song only God can hear right now. And you join the unfolding music that we will someday hear in the land of the living. The heavenly country is not the country in a celestial, faraway place. The country of heaven is the new heaven and the new earth here, that you are being called to create.

As you go singing into the night, as you go singing towards your homecoming, I hope and pray for you that you will hear tiny voices, muted voices that say, 鈥淎re you there, and will you sing with me?鈥� And I know you will know when you have come home. And I suspect that, like the hero鈥檚 journey, this is but the beginning and ending of a cycle. This repeats and repeats and repeats. There are always beginnings, and there are always endings. We stand on that strange threshold where this is an ending, and yet it is a beginning.

And you are pilgrims. You are singing pilgrims going forth into the land of the living. And when God asks, 鈥淪on of man, daughter of man, can these bones live?鈥� you say 鈥測es鈥� and sing with the Spirit over them. You will do these things.

You have done such great work, and I urge you, I exhort you, I encourage you, please keep singing. We need your voice. We need your cracked and broken and beautiful voice. And as you sing into the void, there will be responses. We will answer you back. And in this, we sing with the music of the spheres and the music of humankind and the music that no ear has heard. Create a new sound. Sing the song that is only known to God and yourself, and you will come home again and again and again. You will begin again and again and again.

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For these students, the Integrative Project serves as a capstone of their time in graduate school鈥攂orn out of years of study, countless conversations with peers and faculty, and each student鈥檚 distinctive embodiment of text, soul, and culture. Their work utilizes a blend of research methodology, personal exploration and engagement, and 天美视频鈥檚 unique lens.

In this video, Carrie Cates (MDiv & MATC) presents on her project, 鈥�The Snare: Theology In and Through Theater.鈥� Carrie talks about writing, developing, and performing her one-woman play, The Snare, ultimately arguing for the vitality鈥攁nd necessity鈥攐f bringing theatrical works into theological discourse. 鈥淭heater not only adds to theological conversation,鈥� she says, 鈥渋t is a necessary part of doing theology, of doing the actual work of theology enfleshed and embodied.鈥�

The Snare is an exploration of death, life, and religious ritual, and the title comes from Psalm 124:7: 鈥淲e have escaped like a bird from the snare of the fowlers; the snare is broken, and we have escaped!鈥� Carrie has performed the play in three iterations, including a performance in the Arts Series at the American Academy of Religion鈥檚 annual conference鈥攚hich Carrie describes as one of the more bizarre performances of her life, since 鈥淭heologians don鈥檛 really know what to do with people who exist from the neck down.鈥� (You can read more about that experience in Carrie鈥檚 blog )

Carrie talks about whole-bodied theology and what she calls 鈥渃ruciform art-making,鈥� and she challenges pastors and theologians to allow artists to invite us into weighty conversations that move beyond the intellect. Toward the end of this video, Carrie performs a brief excerpt from the play. Her work is stunning and gorgeous, and it is difficult to engage it without being changed.

鈥淚 believe that there is something about theater, especially theater that deals with these huge theological categories like death, like dying, like mourning, like religious ritual, that actually itself becomes a ritual whereby we can begin to engage, we can begin to hold the form of things that feel too big and difficult to talk about. […] There is so much room in the academy, in our school, in our churches, for engagement theologically that is embodied, that is enfleshed, that enlarges and estranges. It makes us not know the things that we think we know, and it makes us do it in community. Is that not part of the kingdom of God?鈥�

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I can鈥檛 give you any advice but this: to go into yourself and see how deep the place is from which your life flows; at its source you will find the answer to the question of whether you must create. Accept that answer, just as it is given to you, without trying to interpret it. Perhaps you will discover that you are called to be an artist. Then take that destiny upon yourself, and bear it, its burden and its greatness, without ever asking what reward might come from outside.
-Rainier Maria Rilke, Letters to a Young Poet, First Letter

I worried a lot. Will the garden grow, will the rivers
flow in the right direction, will the earth turn
as it was taught, and if not how shall I correct it?
***
Finally I saw that worrying had come to nothing.
And gave it up. And took my old body
and went out into the morning,
and sang.
-Mary Oliver, 鈥淚 Worried鈥�

I wrote a few months back for this blog describing some of the process of creating my original solo theater performance piece, The Snare, which I performed at the American Academy of Religion (AAR) conference in Atlanta.

As a first-time attendee, AAR was a garden of oddity and delights. I heard presentations from many amazing people鈥擟ornell West, Ruby Sales, Willie Jennings, Shelly Rambo, to name a few. On the last night of the conference, I crashed a reception in search of wine and snacks and ended up in a conversation with someone who thought I was a professor. In a fit of improvisation, I did not disabuse them of this notion, and had an incredible time playing pretend.

Oh yes, and I performed my show. My show, this creation that I birthed after months of labor, that I agonized over and doubted, that I almost smothered with my fear.

Performing The Snare at AAR was sublimely weird. I knew on some level that doing theater at an academic conference would be odd, but not until I got there did I realize how new engagement with the arts is to the Academy. Art is simply not understood as a vital part of theological conversation by many; most have never been asked to consider why or if that should be so. I felt in a very palpable way the disjoint between what I had prepared to share, this creation that bore so much of my heart and soul in it, and the conversations that were taking place around me. I wondered: was what I was doing welcome? Was it valuable? Was it necessary? And deeper still, was the artist who created it welcome? Was she valuable? Was she necessary?

In the hours leading up to my performance, alone in a hotel conference room with no windows and a nubby carpet, I asked myself these questions, and then some more.

I asked myself if I was compelled to create, and found that I was.

I asked myself what I was compelled to create, and found that this creation was strange, that it held within itself darkness and light both, that it was relentless, that it was imperfect, that it was full of my own heart and blood and voice, that it was like me.

I asked myself if I could love what I had created, love it more than I feared it. I found there was a yes within me, a yes that I had already spoken and that I needed to speak again and again because it was a cosmic yes, the yes of deep crying out to deep, the yes of the community that had midwifed this creation with me, the yes that rallies against the no of shame and doubt and fear.

There was a yes within me, a yes that I had already spoken and that I needed to speak again and again.

Then I found that it was not enough to speak yes in my mind, but that I needed to surrender to yes with my body. And so I put in my headphones and turned on music and danced my yes, alone in the dark, my feet pounding the scratchy carpet, my hands stretched out in supplication or celebration or both. I danced my questions and my answers, I danced what I did not know, I danced for whatever this one performance at AAR would be and all the performances yet to be after that. And then I went onstage.

I danced my questions and my answers, I danced what I did not know.

The performance was imperfect, and that was perfect. I do not honestly remember much of it. Afterwards, I was deeply surprised, grateful, and profoundly awkward when a number of people stayed behind to ask me questions, to talk about how I was doing theology through my art, to say what they felt and heard and saw, what The Snare evoked in them. I was amazed and humbled at the yes they spoke back to my own.

Now, I stand on the edge of another iteration of The Snare, . This round of rewrites, rehearsals, and creating has been accompanied by its own difficulties and fears, some of which have seemed overwhelming. I have been sorely tempted to give up, really, actually stop doing the work, more than I care to admit.

But underneath the groaning and the fretfulness, my body remembers the yes. It鈥檚 not always a triumphant, resounding yes, but it is a faithful yes, stored in my bones, stirring unseen in the depths and the marrow. It calls me back to the creation, to myself as an artist. It calls me to the unknown next: what will these performances bring? Who will come? What conversations, what moments will we share? I don鈥檛 know, but I yield, I yield, I say yes and I yield.

Image credit: Poster designed by Shannon Loys.

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In 2012, two researchers at the University of Nebraska-Omaha, Karen Dwyer and Marlina Davidson, administered a survey to eight hundred and fifteen college students, asking them to select their three greatest fears from a list that included, among other things, heights, flying, financial problems, deep water, death, and 鈥渟peaking before a group.鈥� Speaking before a group beat out all the others, even death.

鈥� Joan Acocella, The New Yorker, August 3, 2015

A momentous and mysterious factor that keeps us going through every obstacle is the love of our unfinished work鈥� We cannot see our unborn creation, we cannot know it, but we know it is there and we love it; and that love drives us to realize it. The work in progress can be experienced much as another person with whom we interact, whom we get to know鈥� Like loving someone, commitment to the creative act is commitment to the unknown鈥攏ot only the unknown but the unknowable.

鈥擲tephen Nachmanovitch, Free Play, 167

This November, I am going to present an original solo theater piece at the American Academy of Religion conference in Atlanta, Georgia. The working title of this piece is The Snare is Broken and We Are Set Free (a reference to Psalm 124:7). The Snare is (or I think it will be) an exploration of religion, ritual, death, and mourning. How is it that people from across faith traditions talk about death and dying? What are the ways different religions ritualize the passage from death to life for both the living and the dead? Why does it matter?

I say that I think The Snare will explore these questions because I don鈥檛 really know what the piece will look like yet. This is a frightening thing because the days till November are becoming less and less. I am fretting over the work, insisting it answer my questions, making harsh demands of it, and am being met with silence. The silence terrifies me; this work terrifies me, and in my fear, I grow less and less able to listen to both the voice that calls me to create and to the unborn creation itself.

The fear I feel in this process has been surprising in its swiftness and all-consuming nature. I fear failure. I fear humiliation. What if my art is not good enough, for myself or for anyone else? What if I am not the artist I thought I was? What if I fail? I glut myself on these and a thousand other anxieties, consuming and being consumed, forgetting that this ever had anything to do with desire and with love.

There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love. 1 John 4:18, NIV

Oh love鈥擨 remember you. I remember before I was afraid of the peril of artmaking that I was overjoyed to be invited into the electric fray of creation. I remember that accepting the risk of baring my face, revealing my heart, and using my voice was a part of an invitation toward wholeness before it began to feel like a condemnation unto death. I remember my longing to be a part of breathing beauty into ashes; I remember the Spirit鈥檚 breath in me.

As artists, we are constantly in a battle over which gospel rules our lives. There is a familiar gospel of fear, and it is a gospel of scarcity. Its disciples are stuffed with the worry that never sates, the anxiety that can鈥檛 be quelled. It鈥檚 cheap; there鈥檚 always too much and there鈥檚 never, ever enough.

Then there is the gospel of love, which is a gospel of abundance. It is free, and it also costs you everything. But what it gives鈥攈ope, faith, courage, joy鈥攁lways begets more and more goodness, more and more beauty, all moving toward wholeness. The gospel of love for artists, for myself, is that which calls us to create in the image of the Creator. Creation is joyful, tender, and intimate. There is delight and anticipation, a belief in the goodness of the unseen That Which Is Not Yet.

So the question before me as an artist is: which is my gospel? I have been a ready student of fear, it is true, but I am yearning to be a disciple of love. This gospel teaches me love for my Creator, love for myself, love for the work that I labor over and birthe. It calls me to a kingdom beyond fear, where the glory of creation and living unto and into wholeness means more than any measurement of success or failure.

Changing allegiances from fear to love does not happen overnight, and perhaps may never fully happen in this life. But for today, I will choose to live and create under the banner of the gospel of love as much as I can. And today, perhaps that is enough.

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听

An actor who is truly heroic reveals the divine that passes through him, that aspect of himself that he does not own and cannot control. The control and the artistry of the heroic actor is in service to his soul.

Don鈥檛 act for money. You鈥檒l start to feel dead and bitter.

Don鈥檛 act for glory. You鈥檒l start to feel dead, fat, and fearful.

Act from the depth of your feeling imagination. Act for celebration, for search, for grieving, for worship, to express that desolate sensation of wandering through the howling wilderness. Don’t worry about Art. Do these things, and it will be Art.

-John Patrick Shanley

听

I have worried a lot about Art.

I have worried that Art is something that only people who don鈥檛 occupy my skin can create. I have worried that my Art is really art just pretending, that my Art is not good enough (mostly for the unappeasable critic of myself), that my Art is unwelcome, that my Art is unnecessary鈥攖hat not even I need it.

But worrying about Art is a little like worrying about breathing.

The ancient Greeks used the concept of inspiration in their theater festivals as a means of invoking Dionysus, the Muses, and the other gods for whom they performed their works. Inspiration here is related to invocation, respiration, and animation. To be inspired by the gods meant to be in some sense indwelt by them, filled up as with breath, in order to create most fully and beautifully the Art that was their worship.

This is sounding familiar.

Jesus said to them again, 鈥淧eace be with you. As the Father has sent me, even so I send you.鈥� And when he had said this, he breathed on them, and said to them, 鈥淩eceive the Holy Spirit.鈥� (John 20:21-22, RSV)

Art can鈥檛 happen if there鈥檚 no inspiration鈥攖hat is, if there鈥檚 no breathing in of the divine. And breathing is pretty straightforward. You鈥檙e either doing it or you鈥檙e not, and if not, a) you鈥檒l know pretty quickly, and b) something is very, very wrong.

And he said to me, 鈥淪on of man, can these bones live?鈥� And I answered, 鈥淥 Lord GOD, thou knowest.鈥� Again he said to me, 鈥淧rophesy to these bones, and say to them 鈥� Behold, I will cause breath to enter you, and you shall live.鈥� (Ezekiel 37:3-6, RSV)

If you鈥檙e not breathing, or to follow my analogy here, if you鈥檙e not creating Art, but maybe something more like art鈥攐r even creating nothing鈥攖here is probably a good reason that you鈥檙e deep in a grave of dry bones. I find myself here time and time again. It is a powerful thing to be an Artist; we are called to the staggering glory that is being a creator, one who calls to the deep parts of the world to draw out its stories and dreams. Think how high we can go into this calling. Then consider that there is a corresponding depth to which we can too easily fall, whether by way of trauma or idolatry or worry or hatred of our own beauty, and there鈥檚 your valley.

If there is resurrection from this place, how will it come? Not with our clawing our own way up out of the grave, but with that freshest breath of new life from this very tender, very present, creating God who has a penchant for hovering over broken and undone things.

Then the LORD God formed man of dust from the ground, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life; and man became a living being. (Genesis 2:7, RSV)

The animating inspiration that calls us into life, the God鈥檚-breath or ruah Elohim or pneuma or hevel or whatever you want to call it, is offered freely as a gift of love. It won鈥檛 be coerced, won鈥檛 be coaxed or cajoled out of a begrudging Creator. It is free and plentiful, refreshing and exhilarating, and I have to believe that God delights in giving it, or creation simply would not exist.

Resurrection is God鈥檚 work, but the Artist is called to respond to the gift of the ruah Elohim. The first and most difficult response is to yield to the unbearable love in the resurrecting breath. If God chooses to call us to life, then God must love us. Moreover, God, who knows and who crafted our particularity and our calling, must love鈥攔eally love, in a gut-wrenching, heart-pounding way鈥攖hat we are Artists. God must want us to be Artists who care about making Art because we are made in the image of the one who hovers over chaos and blossoms it into creation. If this love is true, then we are compelled to do the difficult work of agreeing with God that we are a good and beautiful creation ourselves and that our Art is one of our highest and holiest forms of worship, and a high and holy way of living.

The second response follows hard on the heels of the first. If God loves us, then it is entirely possible that God also likes us. Loving is one thing鈥擨 can get onboard with the deep holy stuff of worship and resurrection. But if God likes me, and specifically likes that I am an Artist, then God鈥檚 resurrecting breath might be used as much for whistling and laughter and the out-of-breathness of play as anything else. And that brings a new dimension to my Art-making. If I am allowed to play with a very kind God and with God鈥檚 world through Art, it would seem that I am invited to have some more kindness with myself as an Artist. I might feel a little less, as Shanley put it, dead, fat, and fearful. Indeed, I might be able to worry less about Art and just do more of it with full ownership of my identity as an Artist.

Huh. These rattly old bones might decide to get up after all.

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