Fingerpainting the Spirit

Tonight's LifeSpace class focused on the Holy Spirit as the Giver of Life. We began by drawing boxes with black Sharpie markers on white paper. Many approaches to life with God either attempt to put the Spirit in one of those boxes or expect the Spirit to draw such lines around us. So little color. So little life.

But the Spirit as God's Breath is unpredictable. "You don't know where it is from," Jesus said, "or where it is going." The Spirit will not be boxed in so easily. Convinced that the Spirit brings life in technicolor, we passed out some fingerpaint. Here is the result:

The lines have been overshadowed by that which is unpredictable, delightful, and bursting with color. Not a bad image for the work of the Spirit!

Joni and Bob

The Love of Old Books

In New Haven this week for a theology conference, I made a pilgrimage Monday afternoon to the Beinecke Library at Yale University. The library houses rare books and fragile old manuscripts, and they have most of the sermons and letters of Jonathan Edwards. Anyone who listens to me and Joni teach on LifeSpace knows that we love Edwards. He was an 18th century pastor and theologian who was so influential in America's "Great Awakening." We also love old books. A visit to the Beinecke qualifies as a religious experience.

The manuscript I requested was brought to me in a large box. Inside was a cardboard envelope, about 5 inches square. I placed it on the table and gingerly unfolded it, exposing the 270 year old sermon. Handwritten on soft thin pages, the script was tiny and almost indecipherable. It did not matter that I could not read most of the words. I leaned forward and enjoyed the musty scent of the paper.

Some portions of the sermon must have flowed easily. The handwriting was stylish and the sentences smooth. Other paragraphs were more labored. Words were crossed out. The script was uneven. Ink blots and apparent slips of the pen suggested weariness.

Those thin pages were the art of captured thought. There is a sadness when I think of today's writing on this screen. Mistakes are invisible. Erased as if never occurring. The ebb and flow of writing is ironed out flat. The mark of the hand disappears. The beauty of process is lost in the efficiency of the keyboard.

As I said, my time in the library that day was a religious experience. They made me give the manuscript back. I am still trying to get over it.
Bob