Artist Archives - ��Ƶ of Theology & Psychology

Theology Through Art: Student Work on Miyazaki Hayao and Kara Walker

��Ƶ — Wed, 08 Jul 2020 15:00:09 +0000

Theology and the Artistic Impulse is a elective offered every other winter that uses art as a starting place for theological inquiry. The course is designed to help students expand their understanding and application of how we derive theological meaning from all five of our senses, not just the written and spoken word, so dominant in our theological traditions. Rather than treating art as merely illustrative of theological ideas, we use it as a source for theological reflection and revelation, asking “what questions does this art help me ask, what does it help me see, what does it challenge or expand in my theology?”

The main work of the course involved a three-part Art Theology project, for which students chose an artist whose work they already found meaningful but wanted to explore further. That artist’s body of work became their main text for the term as they fully immersed themselves in the art, guided by course instruction, culminating in a final presentation where they shared their theological findings with the class. The chosen artists represented a spectrum from painters to poets, singer/songwriters to stand ups and the presentations unearthed theological insights touching on pneumatology, spiritual pilgrimage, the doctrine of Imago Dei, and more.

And although we’d planned an expanded class day to hear everyone’s presentations in person, the move to online teaching due to March’s shelter-at-home order meant the presentations were recorded in a way that could be viewed beyond just our class. I’m pleased to share two of those with you here, a small sampling of the theological insights, cultural readings, and creative connections brought forth through these students’ work.
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A Theology of Life in the Worlds of Miyazaki Hayao

by Lori Bailey, an MATC student

“I had the privilege of sitting beneath the work of someone who has been a creative muse of mine for many years, the Japanese animator, filmmaker, and master storyteller Miyazaki Hayao. Best known as the co-founder of Studio Ghibli, his films have unquestionably altered the very shape of the animation industry and captivated the hearts of millions of viewers. A man of deep thought and nuanced feeling, Miyazaki’s keen perceptions of our complex world—and how he translates these into story and visual artistry— guided me as I spent 13 weeks reconsidering his films and what they have to say about humanity, nature, death, and life.”

A Reckoning of History & Our Place in It: Kara Walker

by Mercedes Robinson, an MATC student

“Kara Walker is an African American artist most notable for her detailed silhouettes and elaborate sculptures. As an artist, Walker aims to challenge, critique, and re-envision historical narratives and cultural norms that exist in society pertaining to race, injustice, sexism, and violence. The most important lesson I have learned since engaging Walker’s work is the importance of my body and my narrative as a biracial womxn alive in such a complex and challenging time in our collective history. My body, my truth, and my selfhood are whole, complete, and deeply sacred, regardless of the subtle and not-so-subtle ways the outside world attempts to invalidate that fact.”

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Artist Residency 2019

��Ƶ — Fri, 09 Aug 2019 17:07:55 +0000

There are many important rhythms taking place throughout the year here, but few leave the building looking and sounding as beautiful as the Artist Residency. The Artist Residency is an annual opportunity for members of our community to spend a week in the building, making the space their own as they create art both individually and in community. Each evening, artists come together around the table for dinner and fellowship with one another for conversation and rest during the creative process. We sat down to interview a few of the artists towards the end of this year’s residency about what they are working on and how they are being formed.

“I feel like I’m having a week-long presence session with myself—almost like a week-long personal growth moment.”

The theme of this year’s residency centered around finding beauty, though each artist was encouraged to explore the theme using their own approach. We’re grateful for these artists in our community, whose presence and creation during the residency have left a mark in our building:

– Ellen Cline
– Elise Hanson
– Johnny Hiett
– Judy Ko
– Kelsey LaBelle
– Lucas McGee
– Emi Sigrist

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Resources for Resistance in Lent

��Ƶ — Fri, 22 Mar 2019 19:08:35 +0000

Jesus’s humanity was on full display in the wilderness: he experienced hunger and thirst, he wandered, and he knew the temptation of sacrificing calling on the altar of short-term ease or glory. During Lent, then, when we remember Jesus in the desert and we reflect on our own wilderness, we are affirming that there is beauty and dignity in the very nature of humanity—even in our hunger, our doubt, and our wandering.

In the face of systems that seek to divide, belittle, and harm certain people based on some aspect of their humanity, this affirmation is nothing less than an act of resistance. And resistance, like all prophetic work, requires a deep well from which we can draw. What inspires your resistance? How is your own humanity affirmed even as you’re working to affirm others? What spiritual formation practices might grow the depth and clarity of your work in the world?

We brought those questions to folks in our community and put together this list of recommendations. May these resources bring rest, fresh insight, renewed hope, and an emboldened sense that we are not alone as we work against de-humanizing systems.

“I’m eager to go beyond theologies of suffering and survival to also examine the theologies of life, flourishing, strength, meaning-making, and #blackgirlmagic that stem from black women’s experiences and perspectives.” –Dr. Christena Cleveland

This is a stunning, revolutionary series Dr. Cleveland is facilitating during Lent, grounded in the conviction that “patriarchy and whiteness need to be exorcised from biblical interpretation.” If you find that high Church rhythms feel too entwined with historically oppressive systems, we can’t recommend this series enough. You can , then become a patron to follow the rest.

Christena Cleveland’s work above feels so crucial because, in part, the dominant expressions have for too long been aligned with the patriarchal, white supremacist forces that undergird oppressive systems. In , two pastor-historians offer compelling historical accounts of the American Church’s role in harmful power structures, and Lisa Sharon Harper and Dr. Soong-Chan Rah then share vital theological reflections and words of confession and repentance. If human affirmation is an act of Christian resistance, then confession and repentance are at once social and spiritual practices. We’re grateful to this book for demonstrating that so powerfully.

At the heart of confession and repentance is the dynamic expression of lament. Lament is the declaration that this is not right, the grief that our embodiment of God’s image falls so short of the Christological affirmation of humanity. From the somber confession of Ash Wednesday to the anguish of Holy Saturday, lament is at the heart of Lent. This episode of , a project from Aaron Niequist and friends, is a guided journey of music, prayer, and scripture that creates space for lament to do its work.

We’ve shared this one before, but we keep coming back to it. Many folks in our community resonate with the thought-provoking, contemplative art by Scott Erickson, and we particularly love the prayerbook he created with Justin McRoberts. If you’re looking to add some depth and beauty to the rhythms of your spiritual practice—not just during Lent—this is a beautiful place to start.

A number of folks also recommended the from artist, author, and minister Jan Richardson. Each week, this blog features a reflection on a text from the lectionary, accompanied by a work of original art. We believe that integrating art with spiritual formation will deepen and energize our practice, and Jan’s work explores this beautifully.

For years, the work of Richard Rohr has challenged our assumptions, opening us to an image of Christ that is bigger, bolder, and more open than we ever imagined. is no different. Rohr guides us through a series of readings for the Lenten season (and beyond), encouraging us to grow into people who are more and more open to surprising, transformative encounters.

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A Black History Month Reading List

��Ƶ — Fri, 22 Feb 2019 16:00:33 +0000

Black History Month is an invitation to listen to the stories and insights of Black individuals and communities in America in a way that affirms and celebrates dignity and humanity. It is a crucial annual rhythm, but one that cannot—and should not—be contained to just one month (not to mention the shortest month) out of the year.

So as we near the end of February, we asked faculty, staff, and students to weigh in on texts by Black authors that have challenged, provoked, enlightened, and inspired them. The stories and ideas recommended here are enough to keep us reading and learning all year long. And may it be so.

by Angela Davis
“This woman is an idol to me—profoundly courageous, thoughtful, able to see and speak to intersections between race, class, gender, and systems of oppression, like few I have read. This woman lost her professorship to a threatened governor of California, Ronald Reagan. She went to court and took it back!” –Dr. Ron Ruthruff, Associate Professor of Theology & Culture

by Charlene A. Carruthers
“This book offers collected insights on collective liberation that are clear and deeply personal, by way of Black liberation and the Black radical tradition. Carruthers offers a critical voice rooted in ‘Black radical, feminist, queer, and anti-capitalist theories and practices.’ It is fire and it offers readers a way to sharpen their views and action.” –Jennifer Fernandez, Assistant Instructor

by Terrance Hayes
“The poems in this collection are crafted with a velocity that burned as I read and is burning still, months after finishing. With an ear to history and an eye on the present, Hayes writes about Black life in a country that has demonized and violated Blackness for centuries. Both political and personal, his work astutely diagnoses our national systems while still packing the romance and desire of a classic sonnet. The relationship between prophet and artist has never seemed clearer to me.” –Beau Denton, Content Curator

by Ijeoma Oluo
“Oluo’s work is a powerful, enlightening, and accessible ‘actionable exploration of today’s racial landscape, offering straightforward clarity that readers of all races need to contribute to the dismantling of the racial divide.’ With chapter titles such as ‘What is Racism?,’ ‘What If I Talk about Race Wrong?,’ ‘What are Microaggressions?,’ and ‘Talking is Great, but What Else Can I Do?,’ Oluo’s work should be required reading for all.” –Millicent Haase, Master of Divinity student

by Angie Thomas
“Several months ago I read The Hate U Give and found it profoundly impacting. It helped me to see in a small way what it must be like to be a young woman of color trying to be herself while also trying to fit in to both the exclusive, predominantly white high school she attends and the poor, diverse neighborhood where she lives. It is a Young Adult book, fairly easy to read on the surface, and very thought-provoking both while you are reading it and as you process it later.” –Cheryl Goodwin, Director of Institutional Assessment & Library Services

by Ibram X. Kendi
“I dare you to read a book on history for Black History Month. You will discover that racist ideas don’t create systems of oppression, but rather systems of oppression need racist ideas to do the evil and intentional work of racism. Thank you, Dr. Kendi.” –Dr. Ron Ruthruff

by James Baldwin
“I grew up reading novels by Baldwin but this was the first book of his essays that I picked up, and it changed me. The spiritual work being done by Baldwin in these pages is arduous as it demands that the reader think differently, see differently, do differently. His reflections are just as relevant today as they were in 1955 when they were written.” –Jennifer Fernandez

For contemporary fiction, Kate Davis, Director of the Resilient Leaders Project, offers a few recommendations:

Anything by Toni Morrison, but both and have stayed with me for their personal-meets-mythic/biblical narratives.
by Zadie Smith, which (among many other themes) offers complex views on religious differences in family dynamics.
by Yaa Gyasi crosses continents to lament the legacy of slavery both in North America and in Africa.
by Nigerian author Ayobami Adebayo struck me for framing relationship choices within context (what we think of as ‘conservative’—monogamy—is wildly progressive for the protagonists) and for the devastating impact of religious beliefs on a woman’s body and mental wellbeing.

Mary Oliver and the Poetry of Love

Beau Denton — Wed, 30 Jan 2019 15:00:11 +0000

Artists often occupy a prophetic role in culture, speaking truth, beauty, and goodness into a world desperately in need of them. They help guide us to those thin places where the gap between what is and what could be is not quite so daunting. The poet Mary Oliver lived into this call with a grace and generosity that endeared her to readers for more than 50 years. Here, Beau Denton (MA in Counseling Psychology, ‘17), Content Curator, reflects on the gifts Mary left us with, and on why she might have resonated so deeply with many in our community.

“Instructions for living a life:
Pay attention.
Be astonished.
Tell about it.”
–Mary Oliver

On January 17, for just a few hours, part of our collective online life seemed to take on a different tone. The usual frenzy was jarred by news of Mary Oliver’s death, and as word spread it set the Internet afire with grief and gratitude and poetry. Given the storms underway around us and the anxious pace of our discourse, Mary’s quiet prevalence that day reflects something of how unique she was, how holy the gifts she left us.

In my corner of the Internet, this phenomenon was especially noticeable among my ��Ƶ friends and colleagues—because few voices have seeped into the pulse of this community so thoroughly and so generously. Of course, certain writers shape a pivotal moment in particular classes: first-year students often develop a begrudging affection for Martin Buber and his fondness for talking to trees; Harry Middleton’s gorgeous memoir The Earth Is Enough prompts an assignment with which Dan Allender’s students are on a first-name basis; in theology classes, many students bond in common conviction and inspiration under the work of James Cone; and Annie Rogers’s A Shining Affliction is a beloved rite of passage in the Counseling Psychology program.

Fewer writers, though, manage to impact the rhythms and tones of life in our red brick building even when they are not officially assigned in class. And perhaps none have done so with as much resonance as Mary Oliver—a matriarch of ��Ƶ whose words stir somewhere deep in the heart of this place.

With the authority of a voice at home with itself, Mary called us to listen and pay attention. Sometimes her call came as a gentle whisper, and other times it felt more like a slap in the face: look up, at the gray sky you take for granted; look down, at the wet soil knotted with roots; look in, at the self you have forgotten. In a way, she was echoing that other Mary, who teaches us that even the bravado of wise men and the chaos of exile might evoke in us a moment of attentive pondering.

“In a way, she was echoing that other Mary, who teaches us that even the bravado of wise men and the chaos of exile might evoke in us a moment of attentive pondering.”

But attention itself is not the goal, learning from her long-time partner Molly: “Attention without feeling, I began to learn, is only a report. An openness—an empathy—was necessary if the attention was to matter.” It’s why her famous “instructions for living a life” don’t end at “pay attention,” though that is the crucial point from which everything else follows. Instead, attention leads to astonishment, and astonishment turns us toward others. It seems that the work of paying attention and opening ourselves to wonder is not complete until it also deepens our capacity for love.

Love, then, is where Mary leads us, and it’s why the Internet, for just a moment, felt like such a kind place on that sad day. Because so many of us, in one way or another, learned something from Mary about what it means to love. In the profound simplicity of her work, she assured us that love is not resounding gongs and clanging cymbals. In her long, inquisitive walks she proclaimed that presence and attunement are the elements of love, and that those are grown through the repetition and discipline of ritual. And in not shying from grief after her partner’s death, she reminded us that love can be excruciating and raw—that it sometimes comes as a gift in

Mary taught us again and again that love is most fully itself when it is omnidirectional: outward, inward, up, down, around—each avenue nourished by and dependent upon the others. If you treat the with impatience and contempt, she seemed to be asking us, how can you hope to love others any differently? If you stop listening to the earth and all that breathes and pulses around you, how can you maintain the intrigue that gives love wings? And if you are not at home in your own self, will you ever be home anywhere else?

Somehow, when Mary’s work asked big questions or spoke a truth that shot like lightning through our bones, it never felt as if she was lecturing or preaching at us. She offered a small thing well said, a bit like walking on the beach with a friend who stoops to collect a seashell. “Here,” she says, dropping it into our palm, “look what I found.” Then she’s off, continuing her walk and letting us decide what to do with her gift.

That is why she could reach refrigerator-magnet-level prevalence and still feel as if she was speaking directly to you, her reader. When she said, it was both a universal proclamation and the close comfort of a dear friend, offering a cup of tea to bring our anxious frenzy back to the earth. She was both wise teacher and gentle companion.

There are some who were skeptical of this, who believed that Mary’s presence on Pinterest and postcards must mean her work was somehow less beautiful or important. Her critics often championed the suspicious belief that popularity betrays a work as shallow or false, like the easy pleasure and empty insight you might find on Top 40 radio. But I would argue that Mary’s widespread resonance was deeper than that. She saw something true of our world and ourselves, and she offered it to us as a free gift—simply wrapped, shyly given, no strings attached. And we loved her for it.

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The Finest Films of 2018

Craig Detweiler — Fri, 25 Jan 2019 14:00:30 +0000

With the Oscars just about a month away, we thought it was a good time to share this post from our President, Dr. Craig Detweiler, rounding up his top 12 films of 2018. As a filmmaker and writer, we appreciate Craig’s ability to celebrate a work of art both on its aesthetic merits and on how it reflects our cultural moment. From scathing satire to small human narratives, Craig’s list confirms that the cinematic art being made today—in the midst of (and perhaps because of) our cultural turmoil—is worth celebrating. , along with a separate roundup of

What a cinematic year uplifting the underdogs, the outsiders, and those on the margins. Our finest filmmakers dignify the oppressed and elevate the overlooked (as in the instant classic, Roma). Empathy can arise from unlikely sources, from a western rodeo story directed by a woman from Beijing (The Rider) to a nuanced portrait of 13 year-old girl made by a seemingly crass YouTube comedian (Eighth Grade). Such compassion and decency rose far above our hard-headed and hard-hearted politics. Righteous anger drove so many pictures towards savage satire and social commentary (like Sorry to Bother You). Mr. Rogers demonstrated how revolutionary kindness remains in Won’t You Be My Neighbor? Enduring films like Shoplifters continue to answer the ancient question, “Am I my brother and sister’s keeper?” with an emphatic, “Yes.”

While I haven’t seen all the highly acclaimed pictures from 2018 (including Cold War, Leave No Trace, and Burning), I have been so inspired by movies I did catch. This was the strongest year for African American stories that I have witnessed in my lifetime (including powerful films like The Hate U Give and Widows that didn’t make my Top 12). Filmmakers addressed ongoing cultural blindspots and the holes in our collective soul. Even Burden, the best unreleased film (and Sundance Audience Award Winner) embodied what we needed—hard-won hope amidst racial tension between Klan members and an African-American pastor. Burden occupied a painful spot that studios fear: too religious for mainstream audiences and too edgy for faith-based filmgoers. Will we have an opportunity to rally around this inspiring true story in 2019? We desperately need films that expand our empathy and embrace the Other.

The best actors in 2018 elevated stories we’ve seen before to a new level of pathos. Rami Malek (in Bohemian Rhapsody) and Bradley Cooper (in A Star is Born) play tortured musicians who keep their demons at bay only while onstage. The gap between the joy of performing and the struggle to make peace with everyday life was so palpable in these musical biopics.

A Star is Born was also noteworthy in delivering the best song. The first hour of this old Hollywood story sizzles with romantic sparks that culminate in Lady Gaga busting out of her shell with “Shallow.” What a grand moment of movie magic.

For best actress, Laura Dern in The Tale and Toni Collette in Hereditary both wade into family secrets and unaddressed trauma. Their emotions veer appropriately wild in these ghost stories rooted in horrific backstories. In stepping into Jennifer Fox’s confessional memoir, Dern gifted us with a timely #MeToo tale. Alas, since The Tale premiered on HBO rather than in theaters, Dern’s performance won’t even be considered for an Oscar. Same for Kathryn Hahn, who also deserves award consideration for her fierce and funny portrait of a woman determined to get pregnant in Private Life. Filmmaker Tamara Jenkins skewers the baby-making industry (and self-involved New Yorkers) in this Netflix comedy.

“Our finest filmmakers dignify the oppressed and elevate the overlooked.”

Major shifts in finance and distribution will continue to challenge the Academy’s notion of what makes a film ‘foreign’ or even a feature. The deep pockets of Netflix allow them to release features in theaters and on home video almost simultaneously. If Roma captures the Academy Award for Best Picture it deserves, then perhaps the old rules will go with the flow. While I cherish the big screen experience, increasingly, a movie is something we hold close, in our hearts as well as our hands. These were 12 truly moving pictures in 2018:

12. Foxtrot — A brilliant three-part exploration of life on the Israeli/Palestinian border with all the painful and absurdist realities of war we imagine. Director Samuel Maoz offered this moving rationale for his cautionary tale, “If I criticize the place I live, I do it because I worry. I do it because I want to protect it. I do it from love.”

11. Blindspotting — Oakland’s other outstanding film from 2018 (along with Black Panther and Sorry to Bother You). A frank exploration of how friendship can overcome the perils of incarceration, gentrification, and police violence from writers/actors Daveed Diggs and Rafael Casal and first-time feature filmmaker Carlos López Estrada.

10. Green Book — A deeply satisfying inversion of Driving Miss Daisy as Viggo Mortensen’s tough Italian driver gets schooled by the refined musicality of Mahershala Ali during a jazz tour through the pre-Civil Rights South. Loosely based on the true story of “Tony Lip” Vallelonga and pianist Don Shirley.

9. Won’t You Be My Neighbor? — The kindness and decency of Mr. Rogers can melt even the hardest hearts. No cinematic tricks are needed to convey how Fred Rogers’ PBS television ministry remains a bold, Christ-like, counter-cultural force even 50 years later. Bring your Kleenex—tears will be shed.

8. Sorry to Bother You — Oakland rapper Boots Riley takes on tech titans and the entire capitalist system in this savage satire that manages to connect telemarketers, code-switching, and Google’s monopolizing. Lakeith Stanfield and Tessa Thompson engage in some weird, wild, political performance art.

7. The Rider — Director Chloe Zhao chronicles what happens outside the rodeo ring in this painful and healing portrait of American manhood today. A strong, nearly silent affirmation of riding life out no matter how hard the bull or the circumstances kick.

6. Eighth Grade — Laugh until it hurts in this poignant peek into an exceptionally awkward age. Bo Burnham brings profound pathos to the plight of tween girls (and their fathers). Actor Elsie Fisher deserves some kind of special Oscar for her fearlessness.

5. BlackKklansman — A crackerjack undercover cop story and a searing exploration of how racism is passed on from generation to generation. Spike Lee connected resistance to black empowerment from the ‘60s up through the recent murder in Charlottesville. We sat in stunned and reverent silence afterwards.

4. If Beale Street Could Talk — The camera aches and swoons alongside the young lovers in ‘70s New York. Such a rich demonstration of the power of the African American intellectual tradition, from James Baldwin’s words to Nina Simone’s music through the direction of the brilliant Barry Jenkins. A timeless and heartbreaking commentary on the ongoing incarceration of black men.

3. Shoplifters — A warm, deeply humane portrait of family as well as a scathing critique of how Japan tosses aside far too many citizens. Hirokazu Kore-eda shows us how love can transcend biological ties and defy social mores. For those who have eyes to see…

2. First Reformed — Filmmaker Paul Schrader fuses the ominous dread of Taxi Driver with the spiritual longing of Diary of a Country Priest in this astonishing realization of his Transcendental Style. As a tortured pastor, Ethan Hawke ponders the vexing question, “Can God forgive us for what we’ve done to this world?” Austere and demanding.

1. Roma — Bracingly beautiful reminiscence of growing up in Mexico City by Alfonso Cuarón with four or five fully realized, instantly classic scenes. Instead of the usual childhood from the filmmaker’s perspective, we see life through the lens of a family’s live-in housekeeper, Cleo (played by Oaxacan actress Yalitza Aparicio). Cuaron merges Italian neo-realism with the long, master shots of Andrei Tarkovsky to create this utterly original cinematic event. Compassion abounds in every dreamlike frame.

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Reconciling Cultural Tensions in Crazy Rich Asians

Craig Detweiler — Mon, 10 Sep 2018 18:37:56 +0000

Crazy Rich Asians is one of those rare films that hits theaters with massive expectations—and delivers. Here, President Craig Detweiler, whose career in filmmaking, writing, and teaching has explored the intersections of theology and culture, offers a response to this groundbreaking film and the important questions it asks about family, class, and culture. This post also appears on Craig’s blog over at .

Crazy Rich Asians has become the most popular romantic comedy . Not since Pretty Woman () has a rom com topped the American box office for three weekends in a row. This remarkable reception is an overdue affirmation that moviegoers (and finally, maybe even Hollywood) see Asian actors and stories as significant and worthy of investment. In an era when questions of identity dominate academia and social media, Crazy Rich Asians overcame . Imagine the pressure on the cast and crew when film studios have only offered such an opportunity once a generation. Director John M. Chu and his talented cast rose to the occasion, delivering laughter, romance, and a refreshing range of representations.

Crazy Rich Asians is dedicated to upending—or at least expanding—our understanding of how Asians live and work, play and pray. Viewers are whisked from the academic confines of NYU to the glittering streets of Singapore. What a perfect backdrop for rising Asian stars to shine, from Constance Wu (from the ABC sitcom Fresh Off the Boat), to Malaysian TV host Henry Golding and his fabulous abs of steel. As Rachel and Nick, they are gorgeous, intelligent, charming, and complex. We all want to see characters who resemble us enter into vexing dilemmas and make wise choices. Aspirational images are important for kids of all ages to see on their array of screens. The love lavished upon Crazy Rich Asians corresponds to the pent-up longing to see roles move beyond tired stereotypes. For those burdened as a ‘model minority,’ what relief to discover that Asian families can be petty, conniving, and maddening, too!

Crazy Rich Asians does a great job of placing the familial ties in Singapore into conflict with the individualism that the American economic and educational system promotes, offering us the rare opportunity to eavesdrop on issues of shame, honor, and individualism within a single extended family (who happen to be billionaires!). Can Chinese values in the east be married to the personal expression endemic to the west? The power plays between Rachel (Constance Wu) and Nick’s mother, Eleanor (Michelle Yeoh), are a consistent delight. They demonstrate the layers of class and cultural conflicts within the Chinese diaspora. Singaporeans who aren’t Chinese have valid reasons for wondering when their stories will be told with equal affection. And what about the many cultures contained within the broader Asian context? We need far more than one Hollywood film to reflect the diversity and wonder found across 40% of our global population.

The scene that aroused my curiosity arrived early: when we drop in on a Bible study within the palatial home of the Tai family. (Kevin Kwan’s Crazy Rich trilogy began with a poem he wrote in college entitled ) Fierce matriarch Eleanor Young and her fellow aunties are reading Paul’s Letter to the Colossians while updating each other on rumors regarding Nick’s date for an upcoming family wedding. Some viewers may be surprised to see Christianity associated with wealth, power, and status in Singapore. And yet, Eleanor reads, “So if you have been raised with Christ, seek the things that are above…Set your minds on things that are above, not on things that are on earth.” The discrepancy between their opulent lifestyles and these heavenly virtues is quite apparent. Asian Christians deal with many of the same tensions and temptations that American churches struggle to address—how to follow the sacrificial way of Jesus amidst such affluence.

But in this scene, we also are being invited into a discussion of family honor. What if a New Yorker like Rachel Chu shames a clan that has fled oppression and worked diligently across the generations to forge a bright future for the Young, T’sien, and Shang clan? Eleanor wonders how American of an Asian Rachel might be. The plot explores the tension between loyalty to the family and personal pursuit of the vagaries of love.

“The plot explores the tension between loyalty to the family and personal pursuit of the vagaries of love.”

Crazy Rich Asians may be the most successful romantic comedy since Pretty Woman because it expands the Cinderella formula from fantasy into genuine cultural tensions. Yes, Rachel may not be as regal in her upbringing as Nick. And perhaps her single mother couldn’t afford to dress her in the most stylish gown. We wouldn’t necessarily consider Awkwafina a fairy godmother (although her hot pink Audi R8 makes a pretty effective chariot). The extreme makeover that Oliver T’sien (the charming Nico Santos) oversees is definitely magical. But the dramatic bind that Rachel finds herself within is rooted in genuine social, economic, and cultural chasms.

Crazy Rich Asians pivots upon Eleanor’s ability to reconcile her expectations for a future daughter-in-law with Rachel’s love for Nick. While Rachel is used to passing tests and performing at lofty levels, nothing seems to satisfy Eleanor’s demands. The conflict builds to a showdown at a mahjong parlor. Their dramatic turns when Rachel discards the tile (and power) she holds in her hands, allowing Eleanor to claim a pyrrhic victory. Rachel lays down her expertise in game theory. Winning this match would mean losing Nick. Such sacrificial love cuts through Eleanor’s defenses and calls her toward those “things that are above” that dogged her throughout the story.

Smart movies manage to imbue remarkable power into a single prop or gesture. I got misty-eyed when Eleanor ultimately makes her own engagement ring available to Nick to place on Rachel’s finger. That ring conveys the full blessing and acceptance of the Young, T’sien, and Shang clan. The tensions of marrying for love and honoring the family have been resolved. The beauty of Crazy Rich Asians is not just in the clothes, cars, and cast, but in the reconciliation that occurs between east and west, individuals and families, beliefs and practices.

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Mr. Rogers and the Magic of Fiction

Beau Denton — Mon, 02 Jul 2018 16:41:55 +0000

Don’t let the comfy sweaters fool you: Fred Rogers was so much more than a nice man. Here, Content Curator Beau Denton (MA in Counseling Psychology, ‘17) writes about the new documentary , the magic of fiction, and the surprising ways Mr. Rogers might shed light on how we relate to ourselves and each other—including those who are different from us.

I expected much of how Won’t You Be My Neighbor moved me. I watched in tears as Morgan Neville’s beautiful film showed Fred Rogers’ seemingly endless capacity for empathy and compassion, and I choked up at the all-too-rare gift of an adult who remembers what it’s like to be a kid. I was inspired by his defense of quiet kindness in media, energized by the subtly subversive advocacy woven through his show, and grieved by the ways that his advocacy fell short (like when Rogers told his friend, Francois Clemmons, that he could not remain on the show if he came out as gay). I was angered by the pushback to Mr. Rogers—those who say he couldn’t possibly be genuine, or the right-wing commentators who skewed his “you’re special just the way you are” message as one of entitlement, claiming that he ruined a generation by insisting on the God-given beauty in each person.

I don’t want to minimize what a gift all of the above is; the film is worth seeing on those merits alone. But I would like to focus on something else, something that surprised me and has stuck with me for days after leaving the theater. First, though, a story.

***

When I was in middle school, my English teacher assigned The Wizard of Oz and lectured about the use of symbolism and metaphor, arguing that the whole text could be read as a commentary on political issues of the late 1800s: the plight of farmers, the intrusion of business magnates and politicians from the east, the movement to keep the rate of the dollar fixed to the value of gold or silver.

By this time I had long been a fan of the Chronicles of Narnia and the lion-Jesus that stalked its pages, but I had never tried writing an allegory myself; my stories up to that point comprised a Hardy Boys-inspired series about me and my brother called, originally enough, the Denton Boys.

This was in the year after 9/11 and the run-up to the 2004 election. It was the first time I remember being curious about the U.S. political system, at least as it was filtered to me through my parents and my conservative Christian school, and I was intrigued by the idea of crafting a timely political allegory.

My story was about a bold and handsome history teacher who drove a Chevy pickup. His name was Mr. Smith, and he was often seen carrying a baseball bat—you knew right away that he was confident and tough, an all-American embodiment of everything I thought a man was supposed to be.

One day, Mr. Smith and the other teachers learned that one of their students was being abused at home. A debate ensued in the staff lounge. Mr. Smith wanted to go to the boy’s house and teach his parents a lesson; Mr. Pierre, the French teacher, insisted that it was none of their business and they should stay out of it (worth noting that this was smack dab in the middle of the “freedom fries” era).

The principal, Unifred Nattings, decreed that they needed more time to talk about it before deciding the best course of action, but Mr. Smith would have none of that. He called his gorgeous wife to say he loved her, then grabbed his bat and ran to his truck, which spewed gravel and dust as he peeled out of the parking lot. That’s where the story ended—no need to write any further, because the righteousness of Mr. Smith’s actions and the certainty of his victory were so evident.

My political inclinations have shifted quite a bit since middle school, and I’d like to believe that I now have at least a little more appreciation for nuance and subtlety. But that initial intrigue with symbolism and metaphor remains, an enduring fascination with the ways we express that which we don’t know how to express.

***

Here’s what surprised me about Won’t You Be My Neighbor, what I haven’t been able to stop thinking about: Mr. Rogers wrestled, at times, with profound insecurity. I remember reading somewhere that he had been insecure as a child and had experienced bullying, but I must have assumed that—even though I don’t hold this expectation over anyone else—he had grown out of it. His gentle strength, his quiet conviction, his steady faith and unflinching kindness: how could a man like that be so anxious about how his work would be received, or worry so intensely about living up to people’s expectations?

In a particularly telling scene, one of his children reveals that, when Rogers needed to act at home in a way that was un-Mr. Rogers-like, he would take on the voice of one of his puppets. The implication is that, in moments of conflict or discomfort, Fred Rogers was terrified of remaining in his own skin and would, instead, assume the identity of a character.

That moment (questionable parenting tactics aside) immediately brought me back to the middle school boy who was so intrigued by allegories and symbols, so comforted by the idea of using fiction to communicate that which he did not otherwise dare reveal. My days of Bush-era fanfiction had been mercifully short-lived; instead, in high school, I started writing stories in which the most damaged and insecure parts of myself were free to roam. I dreamed up characters who said all the things I couldn’t say, imagined worlds in which I could be brave and articulate and wise.

I sobbed there, in the theater, as I wondered if Mr. Rogers had been doing the same thing all along. He imagined a simple but vibrant world and filled it with characters who embodied different parts of himself, parts that he may have been too anxious to live into without a little separation, a little space created by fiction and imagination. He put on his puppets and projected his voice into them, giving language to the expressions of himself that he had learned to silence and hide as a child. This imagined world was not divorced from reality, and it did not make Rogers less of himself without the puppets. It was, like all the best fiction, a space where he could wrestle with real-life concerns and wonder about real-world issues in new ways, inviting millions of others to do the same.

“He put on his puppets and projected his voice into them, giving language to the expressions of himself that he had learned to silence and hide as a child.”

I wonder, if Fred Rogers had somehow “grown out of” his insecurity, would he still have that remarkable capacity for remembering what it’s like to be a child? If he did not find ways to give voice to the parts of himself he was ashamed of or anxious about, would he have still resonated with so many children from such diverse backgrounds?

I wonder, too, what our world might look like if more of us kept our childhood selves in mind more often, if we did not act as if our own insecurities and anxieties were things of the past. Would we still be capable of separating immigrant children from their parents in the name of self-protection if we remembered something of what it’s like to be scared and alone as kids, if we stopped pretending we are not sometimes still scared and alone as adults?

Our distance from childhood is not just a problem of memory; it is a lie we tell ourselves and each other. I’m grateful to Mr. Rogers for reminding me of this, and I believe—I have to believe—that there are others like him in the world. Through fiction, art, music, whatever it takes, I pray that we acquaint ourselves again with the beautiful, anxious, lonely world of childhood, that we find new ways to give voice to the parts of ourselves we have hidden, and that this deepens our empathy and compassion for the people around us, no matter who they are.

https://youtu.be/x6XAP_VThhk

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New Blooms

Heather Casimere — Fri, 29 Jun 2018 13:00:48 +0000

For the past 16 months, MA in Theology & Culture student Heather Casimere has been contributing monthly posts here on the Intersections blog. Heather will graduate with her classmates at Commencement on June 30, and here she shares words of gratitude as she looks back on the past two years and turns toward a new chapter. We’d like to share our own gratitude, too—for everything that Heather has poured into her writing, and for the gift of watching her step more fully into her identity as a beloved child of God.

Heather has been selected as one of this year’s graduating student speakers at Commencement. We’ll be sure to share the video when we can, and in the meantime, you can catch up on all of Heather’s blogs on her author page.

Strange to comprehend these are the final words I leave you with before I receive my diploma, walk across a stage, give a speech, and release a squeal.

Seattle, I want to say thank you.

Strangely, I really do. Thank you for essential oils and chai teas. For sharing your swimming pools with me. For providing me one helluva black woman therapist to help me navigate your shades of white and gray.

Thank you Jesus, for your kindness. For loving me so. For your eyes always so full of compassion towards me, your hand ever extended to mine.

Holy Spirit, thank you for your Wildfire, for blowing your wind and waves over me until I listen. For introducing me to paint; for meeting me when I step out in faith.

Father God, thank you for containing me. For all the times I thought I would explode but I didn’t. For all the times I began to fall and you caught me. I am so amazed that you showed up and did what you said you would do.

Thank you for the people of color whom you laid ahead for me to be my friends. Sitting in circles creating space to share our pain and joy together has been my greatest honor in this place.

To my white allies, thank you for your brave words, for your silly loveliness, for taking road trips with me to places in different states—and countries—but always with trees!

Mom, thank you for your faithful love for me, for your passed-along creativity. Dad, thank you for the indomitable spirit and listening ear. Brothers, your strength and solidarity holds me up. Sisters, your presence fills me with joy. Cube, I can’t believe how great you are!

Beloved, I am awed by how brave and courageous you have grown to be. You amaze me with your yeses! Let’s keep going. Love conquers fear, so let us just keep moving against it.

And of course, thank you to professors who guided me through schools of new thought, who cultivated space for me to ask hard questions and be myself.

“Thank you to professors who guided me through schools of new thought, who cultivated space for me to ask hard questions and be myself.”

And gratitude for friends who hold the ropes, in Seattle, the Bay, and L.A. You know who you are.

I am overwhelmed with joy because You showed me that I am a beloved, powerful, victorious daughter. Amidst the pain and the struggle, you have shown me that Love conquers fear. Every time.

I never would have chosen this dewy city, with its rugged mountains and Evergreens. Wasn’t on my radar. But once here, I found that God did what They said They would do: finished a season of healing. Ben Quash writes in Found Theology: “The God who ‘has stocked our backpack for the journey,’ so to speak, also ‘places things in our path’ up ahead of us.” This playful, wild, tenacious God led me into the wilderness, equipped my feet for great heights, and led me out to a wide, open space.

There is space enough here for new blooms.

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“Lift Every Voice and Sing” with Stephen Michael Newby, Part Two

Chelle Stearns, Ph.D. — Fri, 22 Jun 2018 14:00:19 +0000

A few weeks back, we shared the first part of a conversation about “Lift Every Voice and Sing” between Dr. Chelle Stearns, violinist and Associate Professor of Theology at ��Ƶ, and composer Stephen Michael Newby, Associate Professor of Music at Seattle Pacific University. Today we’re excited to share the second part of that conversation, in which Dr. Stearns asks Dr. Newby more about his approach to music, and how that might intersect with the cultural dynamics unfolding around us. This interview originally appeared on the .

Dr. Newby has composed two large-scale works based on the life and writings of Dr. Martin Luther King; selections from his oratorio, Montage for Martin, were performed at a candlelight service commemorating the 50th anniversary of Dr. King’s death at the Martin Luther King Jr. Memorial in Washington, DC earlier this year.

Chelle: Tell us about your compositional methodology. Did some of the music that you sang in the Detroit public schools influence your choice to become a musician and composer?

Stephen: I think it was not only the public-school system, but it was the church. I also came from a musical family. My mother was a singer. She was supposed to sing opera, with a four-octave range. My mother was beautiful. I remember that I loved my mother. I had a love for music from my parents. They really instilled it in me. I didn’t know I wanted to become a composer, I thought I wanted to become a lawyer. In high school, I remember telling Bill Wiggins, my band teacher, that I was going to become a lawyer, and he looked at me and he laughed, he laughed so hard. He said, “Right! You are going to be a musician. That’s what you are going to be, Newby.” I looked at him and said, “What do you mean?” But I was playing trombone, piano, I was playing in my daddy’s church, and I was picking up saxophone and flute. I was always curious. I couldn’t land on one single instrument. I was fascinated and intrigued by instruments. I was fascinated by creating and making up songs. I was a songwriter before I was a composer. They are connected, but there is a difference. So, I really started in high school, but my serious career as a composer started after I finished my undergraduate degree in music education and flute performance at Madonna University.

Chelle: When did you start to bring the elements of jazz together with your compositional style?

Stephen: It was already there—and that’s what the problem was. I was trying to find a degree program that would allow me to write and to express. The only place I could find was the University of Massachusetts at Amherst, where I got by master’s degree in jazz composition and arranging. I studied gospel music and gospel music history with Horace Clarence Boyer. I was able to express myself. […] Fredrick Tillis, an African American composer who is still alive today, about 83 or 84, he was a mentor of my teacher, he said “Write, write what you hear. Bring all of that in and write!” The master’s degree in jazz composition and arranging allowed me the freedom to bring my voice into the mix. Nobody slapped my hand and told me that I had to be like that person over there. My teachers allowed me to expand my musical canon by importing my sound and bringing in other influences as I heard them. I studied Western European music during my master’s degree, but that’s when my compositional style really started. Then when I went to the University of Michigan and submitted my portfolio, they wondered, “What in the world do we do with this? We don’t have a Quincy Jones on our faculty to teach guys like this. What are we going to do?” And then, the late Dr. Rae Linda Brown said, “No, you gotta bring these guys in.” It was me and William Banfield at the time, though I arrived a year earlier. They took a chance and Bill Balcombe and Bill Albright, Leslie Basset, Fred Lerdahl, George Wilson, and Michael Daugherty. They worked with us, and voila, I learned how to create this hybrid music. I consider myself an Americanist.

Chelle: What motivated you to turn to the words of Martin Luther King, Jr. when you were working on the music for your PhD dissertation? It is amazing that a piece that was written for a PhD has had a long life and has been performed a number of times.

Stephen: It is interesting that you ask that question, because I was thinking at the time about longevity, about what really matters. I know for a fact that my faith tied into it. At the time I was writing, words really mattered and I used Christian Scripture. It was important for me to wrestle with the words while I was being creative, so I would write a sacred music. Now, MLK […] I already knew that other African American composers had put their spin on King and reflected on his words and writings. And I made the decision to use his work because these words are important. “Hatred and bitterness can never cure the disease of fear, only love can do that.” “Every man is somebody’s somebody, because they are a child of God.” I got a compilation that Coretta Scott had created from the words of her late husband. And I thought, “If these words are important to Coretta, they’ve gotta be important, so I better pay attention to them.” I followed the woman author who compiled and gathered works from her husband, that was my instinct. The entire composition is entitled, “Let thy mercy be upon us,” which is based on Ps. 33. It was based on this hymn that I wrote. I then created this octatonic scale, a kind of 8 pitched and atonal collection, and created this symphony based on Martin Luther King. The words of King were important. When I thought about what was important and had longevity, I didn’t think about if I wanted to write something that would last. Instead I realized that King’s words were important, they had longevity, so I wanted to take a look at the writings through my compositional process. The words today still resonate. They are apropos today. I will listen to King’s sermons today and think, “How did you know what happened last week in the news?”

Chelle: We are in a moment, again, aren’t we? The questions that are being asked today address the deep places that we have ignored as a country. We think we have healed, we think that we’ve moved beyond, but the truth is that we’ve just looked away. In this moment, we are starting to ask, what else can we do?

Stephen: I think, what else can we do? We have to be together. We have to just be together, to be at the table. [Recently], I was on Orcas Island conducting a gospel workshop with people out there, and the average age of the folks I was working with had to be about 65 or 68. A woman who was from Mississippi said, “You know, Dr. Newby, I didn’t know how to deal with the Jim Crow laws at the time and I still feel guilty because I didn’t know what to do.” And I thought to myself, “Wow! Just to confess that, just to say that, to release that is healing.” It is part of the story. And I had never heard an older white woman tell me that before. I had told her that my mother was from Mississippi and she’s all, “Oh you’re from Mississippi, what part of Mississippi?” And that is how the conversation got started. There was a common place of geography. So when I’m working with this population that has this history with blacks, that is an opportunity to restore, reconcile, redeem. There are a lot of “R” words going on here. To remember, to react, to respond, and to make something positive. Our singing together helps us to remember. […] It helps us to figure out how to press forward.

Chelle: In trauma studies, both personal and cultural trauma, theorists talk about how there is explicit memory — what we think of a story — and then there is implicit memory — which is emotional and bodily memory. This is why I think we need to turn to the arts, especially music, because they can excavate and shape this emotional memory, they excavate the places that are hidden within us. The arts then have the capacity to realign us with one another, especially when we sing together.

Stephen: Yes, it does. […] I remember my mother, after they shot Martin Luther King. My mother was standing there in front of the ironing board, ironing my father’s shirts. I said, “Mama, what’s wrong, what’s wrong?” She said, “They killed him, they killed him. They killed him.” And I knew who it was, she didn’t say the name, but I knew. I remember because later I wanted to go outside and play and she said, “You can’t go outside, there are tanks on the streets. You can’t go outside, baby, I’m sorry.” I remember some things that my mother said, there is a lot from my childhood that is blocked, I can’t remember it, because I think it was just so devastating, so traumatic.

Chelle: Can you talk a little about the upcoming performances of your work?

Stephen: What’s being performed are excerpts from my Oratorio on Dr. Martin Luther King, Montage for Martin. Inspired by the late Ja Jahanness, the genius behind the concept for Montage for Martin.

Chelle: What brings you to these words, what brings you back to this inspiration?

Stephen: It’s just truth. His words need to be articulated again and again. Look, Martin was a prophet, a 20th century prophet. Billy Graham was a 20th century evangelist. The sovereign Lord drops people into humanity that do certain things for a certain time. We know that the words of King are rich, they are right. Like many prophets and prophetesses, they are God’s mouthpiece. King knew he was a vessel, he wasn’t the end of it. That’s why he said, “I’m not afraid to die. Longevity has its place, but I’m not concerned with that right now.” He was so in the moment. It’s that type of passion and focus that inspires all of us, to be present and know what it means to have hope and to live out justice.

Chelle: James Cone turns to the spirituals and the blues, and he also turns to the narrative of the life of King as, what I would call, theological text. By returning to King’s words over and over you are, in essence, doing the same thing through your music.

Stephen: Absolutely. There’s Christian Scripture […] there is theological text. When I look at the words of King, as a composer, thinking back at what I’ve done in the past, what you are hearing is a hermeneutical artistic task. I’m interpreting what he said. And so, to exegete the words of King, and to be enlivened with it. To try to make sense of this idea of what is at stake if we do not pay attention to these words today. I think that is why I keep returning to that text.

Chelle: Any last words?

Stephen: Let’s pay attention to what we are singing and to what happens when we don’t sing together.

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