More Than One Christian View

Many parents and pastors are wondering what to tell their children about creation and evolution. While Sunday school classes often cover Genesis 1 around kindergarten (with kids coloring pictures of what God created on each day), most curricula do not address science again before kids leave for college. Yet issues of creation and evolution can be addressed in age-appropriate ways throughout Sunday school. Elementary school children already learn about idol worship from other Old Testament stories, so teachers have an opportunity to contrast Genesis 1 with the idol-rich creation stories of other cultures. Middle school students can be given basic tools for considering creation and evolution such as the contrast between the “how” questions answered by their science lessons in school and the “who” and “why” questions answered in Scripture. Middle and high school students can find role models by reading the testimonies of scientist Christians.

Youth need to be encouraged to discuss their questions and doubts, while affirming core beliefs. When asked why they left the faith, scientists often mention that the church was not open to their questions and told them to “just believe.” Churches can demonstrate openness to questions by teaching youth about multiple Christian views on an issue. Students need to hear that some Christians accept the science of evolution and others do not, and have a conversation about the reasons why. Too many young people have struggled when they felt they had to choose between clear scientific evidence and the beliefs they grew up with. Even when parents and leaders are unsure about evolution, they can help students by saying, “While I have concerns about evolution, I’ve heard that some Christians accept the science of evolution while still believing in the God of the Bible.”

Difficult issues like origins cannot be addressed in a single event. People need time to ponder the issues, and spaces to talk it through. One church did a six-week sermon series, with parallel curricula for all ages in Sunday school, so that families could work through it together. Another church did a sermon series and discussion group for adults for four weeks, to prepare parents before a four-week series for the youth group. Other churches encourage small groups to read a book on science and faith and discuss a chapter a week. (Since all authors have their favorite view, I recommend discussing at least two books from different authors to learn about multiple Christian positions.)

More Than Evolution

In our science-saturated culture, evolution is not the only science topic the church should be considering, and not even the most important. With church members encountering the latest medical advances as patients and family members, a discussion on bioethics would be very relevant. Since young people are usually the first to use hot new gadgets, they should be considering the appropriate Christian use of technology . As the issue of climate change becomes more pressing every year, churches need to talk about it, and not avoid it because it is so political. The Evangelical Environmental Network offers many resources for churches, emphasizing ways that creation care benefits the poor and the unborn. One group of churches, with the help of Calvin College, joined together to clean up the local creek that drains the watershed in which the parishioners live, work, and worship. Many of the congregants were not even aware of the size of the watershed or the pollution level in their own creek. This was a hands-on opportunity for all ages, directly caring for their own corner of God’s green Earth.

More Than Controversy

With so many issues to discuss, Christians can easily get the feeling that science is always attacking the faith. It is essential to balance such conversations with positive responses to God’s creation. After all, the primary response to the natural world in the Bible is to praise the God who made it. The first time I led an adult Sunday school class on creation and evolution, I was amazed how much the participants appreciated simply ending each session with a Psalm reading or creation hymn. Thoughtful frowns turned into relaxed smiles as the group remembered our unity in Christ and the centrality of God as the Creator.

Creation themes can be incorporated throughout worship. One church asked the congregation to submit their favorite creation photos at the end of the summer (from backyard flowers to National Parks), then wove the images into a worship service with creation songs and readings from the Psalms. In addition to flowers and mountains, modern science has revealed incredible glories that can inspire our praise and reflection. Several contemporary Christian musicians have begun to artfully incorporate the wonders of the natural world into their music; Chris Rice sings of “cratered moon and Saturn’s rings,” and Third Day praises the “God of wonders beyond our galaxy.” In one church, an elder brought in modern science when leading the congregation in prayer with these words: “Creator God, out of nothing you created all that is. You hurled the galaxies through time and space. . . . The universe is your hourglass, the continental drift your minute hand, the Grand Canyon your second hand. You are infinite.”

Preachers can incorporate science in the same way they make references to movies, current events, or best-selling books in sermons. To notice these connections, take some time to encounter science: read the science section of the New York Times, visit a local science museum, or ask scientists in the congregation about their work. A visit to a planetarium might give a new appreciation for the vastness of the universe, which could illuminate a sermon on the vastness of God’s forgiveness in Psalm 103:11–12. Pastor John Van Sloten learned about the neural networks in the brain and incorporated it into a sermon on the vine and the branches of John 15.

Preachers are understandably concerned about avoiding scientific errors when preaching, but this should not prevent engagement with science. Some pastors do their own research to get the details right because they enjoy digging into a science topic. Other pastors bring in a scientist (live or by video) so that they do not have to explain the technical material themselves. Others play to their strengths by choosing topics with fewer technical details, such as the Christian motivation for doing science or exposition of Bible passages relevant for scientific questions. Many of the questions Christians have are really about biblical interpretation and Christian theology, areas where the pastor is an expert. Minor technical errors made in good faith are forgivable, but a sermon that argues that mainstream science is wrong on some point can be devastating for the faith life of teenagers who are learning the correct science in school.

Beyond Sunday morning worship and preaching, science can show up in many areas of church life. During a youth camping trip or church picnic, include a nature walk concluded with praise. After a winter evening worship service, invite a local amateur astronomer to set up a telescope in the parking lot to show people the moon and planets. Convert a vacant lot near church into a community garden, so kids can experience firsthand how God provides food from the Earth.

More Than Programs

In all these activities, remember that views on science are “caught” more than “taught.” Congregants will naturally pick up on the attitude of the pastor or ministry leader, whether skeptical of science or celebrating science as the study of God’s creation. Visitors will pick up on this too, so these attitudes are part of being a church that welcomes and ministers to scientist Christians . Recently I was invited to speak at a church on the expansion of the universe and the possibility of a multiverse. Several enthusiastic young people in attendance had clearly caught the love of science from the church leaders who planned the event. One girl came up afterward with her dad, both of them marveling at God’s creation. They were amazed not just with the particular things I had discussed, but with the way in which God has embedded wonders at every level of understanding. Everyone can marvel at the starry skies, school kids can learn about the planets and asteroids, and scientists with PhDs can study dark matter and string theory. No matter how deep we look, we keep discovering more and more ways that creation declares the glory of God.

For Further Reading

For more resources on a full range of science topics, visit the The Ministry Theorem collection at http://ministrytheorem.calvinseminary.edu/. You will find sample sermons, curricula for children and adults, worship resources, essays by a dozen scientist Christians, and much more.

By Luci Shaw

Blessed be God for thaw, for the clear drops
that fall, one by one, like clocks ticking, from
the icicles along the eaves. For shift and shrinkage,
including the soggy gray mess on the deck
like an abandoned mattress that has
lost its inner spring. For the gurgle
of gutters, for snow melting underfoot when I
step off the porch. For slush. For the glisten
on the sidewalk that only wets the foot sole
and doesn’t send me slithering. Everything
is alert to this melting, the slow flow of it,
the declaration of intent, the liquidation.

Glory be to God for changes. For bulbs
breaking the darkness with their green beaks.
For moles and moths and velvet green moss
waiting to fill the driveway cracks. For the way
the sun pierces the window minutes earlier each day.
For earthquakes and tectonic plates—earth’s bump
and grind—and new mountains pushing up
like teeth in a one-year-old. For melodrama—
lightning on the sky stage, and the burst of applause
that follows. Praise him for day and night, and light
switches by the door. For seasons, for cycles
and bicycles, for whales and waterspouts,
for watersheds and waterfalls and waking
and the letter W, for the waxing and waning
of weather so that we never get complacent. For all
the world, and for the way it twirls on its axis
like an exotic dancer. For the north pole and the
south pole and the equator and everything between.

Editor's Note: If you'd like to see other great posts like this, go to the BioLogos Navigator topic Worship & Arts.

We tend to think of creativity in terms of flashes of insight and brilliance, of novelty, and especially of unexpected things bursting upon the scene. But creativity is no less creative and no less remarkable when it proceeds step by step, according to discipline, according to rule. We notice significant ruptures in the flow of things and upheavals of the regularity and predictability of life, faith, or science, precisely because such revolutions happen against a background of the ordinary. Even when the rules are interrupted and disturbed, they are usually not obliterated but modified. We and the rest of creation begin again by applying them anew and continuing on in light of what has changed.

Artist Linnéa Spransy makes this paradoxical ‘rules and rupture’ quality of life the method, not just the subject of her art, bringing a fascination with the mathematical underpinnings of the natural world together with her commitment to the kind of renewal-through-brokenness that comes with following Christ. As she says, “the boundaries between art, worship and natural sciences are fluid. I go [to that place of intersection] to be more amazed by the strangeness of existence, to experience awe and wonder.”

Confronted with the scriptural assertion that “eternity is written in [our] hearts,” Spransy wondered how we even begin to understand what that means. What might visual corollaries for such a statement be? How do we represent the tension between freedom and constraint, that dynamic dance of continuity and change, of predictability and surprise, that exists at every level of our experience and study of the world—from quantum physics to genetics to geology—and that seems fundamental to the ways of the Lord with us, as well? Her answer began to form around the study of fractals, mathematical rules whose reiteration in nature leads to endlessly new things. In her own work, a similar fractal sensibility leads to visual representations of something eternal.

Spransy says that every painting she completes “is the manifestation of a predetermined scheme – a system of small limits, with a clear beginning and end. These scripted pieces of visual choreography are allowed to accrue to show me their beauties and surprises, allowing discovery in the midst of certainty.” In other words, images like Frenetic Sequence, 2011, above, are not pictures of natural systems or objects, but representations and results of the processes and relationships by which natural systems and objects come to be. They are built from the inside out, as it were.

To begin a piece, Spransy assembles a library of “research drawings” that play out the various rules and rule sets she intends to use—essentially a kind of preliminary modeling of the visual system she wants to explore. Sometimes these are based on fairly simple mathematical or geometric rules that tell her when a line or shape will turn or divide or end. Other times she uses several different sets of rules at the same time—whether mathematical or derived from biological relationships such as those between base pairs on the DNA strand, or the way bacteria will move towards available sources of food in a Petri dish. But though these rules are established at the outset of a new piece, when she begins a new large-scale work, the outcome is anything but mechanistically predetermined, for several reasons.

First, the physical context in which she’ll be exploring each basic “module” or set of rules is different from that of her research drawings, having moved from a sheet of paper onto large prepared canvases that are five or six feet on a side. She does not transfer the small drawing from the paper to canvas, but regards that earlier work as preparation and practice of the process out of which the final work will emerge. Second, because the works are hand-drawn, there is always the element of her own agency and engagement with both the materials and the rules. There is an inescapably subjective quality to the way she responds to both materials and means. There is also subjectivity to the way she engages with the lines and shapes she has already laid down. Put another way, the abstraction of the rules is always mediated by and expressed through specific, very concrete and physical circumstances.

Finally, Spransy’s process includes what she thinks of as cataclysmic events or moments of chaos: intentional ruptures of the emergent system by gestures that overwhelm and obliterate sections of what she’s already done. Often she will shield sections of the existing system from the coming trauma either by masking them off or by subtly manipulating the flood of color—tilting the canvas to preserve sections of what was there. Afterwards, she will continue scribing and painting lines from the original system on top of or adjacent to the new areas of color, but in ways that respond and adapt to the new visual ecosystem. In this way, layers of work are built up, obliterated, and built up again.

Again, there is an inescapable agency at work in what—from the imagined standpoint of the system itself—must seem a randomly destructive occurrence, but Spransy’s point in breaking into the system is to test the limits of its creative, integrative capacity. By creating “environmental pressure” in this way, then coaxing the fragments and remnant information to multiply and reassert their orderly identities again, she asks, “How flexible are the rules?” The finished paintings are not rote recitations of fractal or statistical formulae, then, but objects with both a physical and a relational history. They are records of a thoughtful, physically engaged, but also humble exploration of how the confluence of order and chaos creates meaning.

Though Spransy denies that there can be such a thing as a “perfect analogy,” her artistic practice has spiritual underpinnings and spiritual implications, as well as visual results. Like many working scientists, she is seeking a way of understanding how the creator engages with His creation, and a better grasp on how we creatures should make our way in response. On one hand, her attentiveness to the basic orderliness of the material creation has a corollary in the familiar disciplines of faith, including reading the scriptures, prayer, and responding with mercy to ruptures in human lives and communities. But on the other hand, her embrace of surprise and chaos is, as she says, an “invitation to the otherness of God,” and a recognition that radically “dissimilar things sometimes occupy the same space.” In combination, those divergent elements help Spransy’s works hover at the boundary between knowing and un-knowing, between control and accident, between freedom and determinism.

Spransy notes that “even in the aftermath of great destruction, life is given great opportunity. In science we’re actually happy and excited when there’s a break in the rules.” This insight, clarified and lived out in her life as well as her artistic practice, directs us to consider not only the necessity and goodness of diligent pursuit of the rules, but also to reconsider the goodness of what we are otherwise inclined to see as calamity and chaos. Indeed, Spransy’s work points us back to the central paradox of the Christian faith: that the most radical disruption of the natural systems of the world occurred two thousand years ago in Palestine with the coming of Christ—singular proof that rupture does not necessarily end in destruction, but may be our means to redemption.

Linnéa Gabriela Spransy grew up in rural Oregon in a community attentive to Christ’s call to live in community with one’s neighbors, but was herself equally aware of God’s presence in the natural world around her. She received her BFA in Drawing from the Milwaukee Institute of Art and Design, and her MFA from the Yale University School of Art. In the midst of exhibiting in solo and group shows in university and commercial galleries, she moved to Milwaukee to study the Bible and consider how it might re-frame her sense of self and her career as an artist. In 2005 she relocated to Kansas City to help found the Boiler Room, a prayer-focused intentional community where she lives and in which she is the artist in residence. She continues to show her work widely, has pieces in pubic and private collections, and was the subject of a recent film-making project: Linnéa: Freedom Through Limits. More of her art can be seen on her website.

Originally posted February 4, 2012

Photo credit: Jan Bacon

Singer/songwriter Andy Zipf’s “Stumble on the Line” is built around the image of a river flowing through a canyon it has sculpted—an image that can easily be played out as a picture of the way that the Lord has been at work preparing a path for us in the material world, complete with signposts to his former and present activity. Zipf’s imagery of flowing water as a powerful (even dangerous) but also refreshing force echoes the similarly-complicated place of springs and rivers and seas in the scriptures; his description of his own path through the canyon calls to mind the Psalmist’s affirmation that his help comes not from the idols erected on the heights, but from the maker who has crafted both heaven and earth. Here, the river has literally made the canyon, carving it through the “years and layers,” and leaving the evidence of that long work as a sign to all who journey through.

But though Zipf’s canyon provides shelter, a good measure of necessary constraint, and even encouragement to keep moving along the river-course, the thrust of the song is that seeking God is a complicated, sometimes difficult endeavor, whether we are looking for Him through what He has made or through what He has said. The lyrics suggest that walking with the Lord is a path of halting discovery and intrigue, of our learning to notice the way God’s actions in the past are written subtly into the world around us. But Zipf also implies that this is a path that requires obedience, since we are also confronted with the fact that He sometimes speaks to us directly and unequivocally, saying, “follow me.” The song does not take its name and refrain from the river itself, then, but from how we tend to navigate and respond to the terrain it has carved: we “stumble on the line.”

Though pursuing the text’s geologic conceit a bit further is possible, what is more poignant for all of us engaged in the science and faith dialogue is that “Stumble On the Line” is at its heart a love song addressed to the “you” that is the river—the one who has carved the path and along whose banks the singer and we pick our way. Our attentiveness to this terrain of faith does not come first from our desire to analyze and categorize the “evidence” of how it came to look as it does, or even to demystify the mechanism by which a message might be written “in a line of stones.” Rather, what leads us on is the desire to know how to relate to the water itself. The song describes not just a physical path, then, but one of the heart and will.

Indeed, the personal address of the song focuses our attention on the fact that the subtlety or obviousness of the signs along our way have much less to do with whether or not we heed them than does the basic dividedness of our hearts. As Zipf says, we alternate between “trying to reach” and “trying to leave” the One we love. Put another way, we do not reject how God has written his past activity into the layers and years of the earth, or spelled out his intentions for us in the future because they are not obvious, but for the same reason we reject any and all of His claims on us at one time or another: because we wish to be the ones who forge the path, write the story, and sing the song. Our pride—whether in our science or our righteousness—is what keeps us blind and deaf to His leading in our daily path. And yet, even—perhaps especially—in response to our pride, God makes a way for us to gain a better perspective, and leads us on towards Him through whatever means we need.

To return to the language of the song, there is a beautiful ambivalence to the word “stumble,” that contains reminders that following the Lord involves being ever surprised by His ways (we “stumble on” his truth as an unexpected discovery), and ever broken by our own ways (we “stumble on” our pride as an impediment to seeing and following). Yet in both cases, our stumbling leaves us in the same position: on our knees before the one who is both maker and guide. In the last few repeated lines of the piece Zipf affirms that we must and will continue to stumble on in this path of love, whether we come to each stumbling place through surprise and joy, or pride and brokenness. From that position of humility and worship we have the proper perspective to see and affirm that the God who creates is the God who speaks is the God who redeems—the Lord who meets us on our knees, lifts us up, and guides us into the steps of His righteousness.

“Stumble On the Line”

© 2009 by Andy Zipf

I walk a weathered canyon
you're the rapids, running through it
years and layers start to show
in the soil, there is a swelling, beating rhythm to it
earnest prayer I used to know

on the one side, I reach you
on the other, try to leave you
in between the faults of my youth
I stumble on the line to love you

came upon a message,
hidden in some shallow water,
written in a line of stones
telling me to go on down the canyon, follow after. . .
so I keep on. . .

on the one side, I reach you
on the other, try to leave you
in between the faults of my youth
I stumble on the line to love you

I walk a weathered canyon
you're the rapids, running through it
years and layers start to show
in the soil, there is a swelling, beating rhythm to it
earnest prayer I come to know

on the one side, I reach you
on the other, try to leave you
in between the faults of my youth
I stumble on the line to love you.

Though now based in Washington, DC, Andy Zipf began life in the Midwest (Indiana, Illinois, Iowa), but moved to Pennsylania and then New Jersey before his family settled in northern Virginia. He began his career as a professional singer and songwriter shortly after high school, and has performed over 400 times in the last four years—in living rooms, coffee houses, churches, concert halls, and bars. Though “Stumble on the Line” comes from Andy’s 2009 ep “Our Voice Is a Weapon,” his third full-length album and seventh studio release, “Jealous Hands,” became available in July, 2011. More details on Andy and downloads of his music may be found on his website.

One thing I ask from the LORD,
this only do I seek:
that I may dwell in the house of the LORD
All the days of my life,
to gaze on the beauty of the LORD
and to seek him in his temple.

Psalm 27: 4

I belong in the ranks of those who have cultivated the beauty that is the distinctive feature of scientific research.

Marie Curie¹

All of the biologists I know are undeniable lovers of their objects of study...

Konrad Lorenz²

Beauty in Science

As a biologist, I am fascinated by the fluorescent-on-black images of cells, 3D rotations of protein structures, and cross-sections of colourful tissue samples that grace the covers of scientific journals. I have spent whole weeks staring down a microscope at the beautifully transparent bodies of developing fish embryos, and whenever possible I illustrate my written work with photographs of the natural world. I’m not alone. In the institute where I did my PhD we had a basement full of microscopes and imaging technology, and it was considered important to have beautiful images in your presentations—movies were even better. The journal Nature: Cell Biology always features striking images on its covers, and in an editorial these photographs were described as works of art in their own right. In fact, ‘scientific art’ has become a recognised genre, and displays of science-related images are increasingly popular in research institutes, museums, science festivals and other public spaces.

Indeed, a number of practicing scientists have devoted their time outside the lab to communicating the beauty and wonder of science to the general public. (See sidebar.) One of these is Dr. Lynne Quarmby, a cell biologist who’s passionate about explaining her work to people outside of the scientific community. She writes a regular column, a ‘nexus of mystery, art, literature, beauty and science,’ for the online literary magazine Numéro Cinq.

If we can recognize and acknowledge that our direct biological senses, as wonderful as they are, give us only a tightly pinched and cloudy view of the world, then we open ourselves to unimagined beauty.

Lynne Quarmby, Numero Cinq, 2011³

Biologists often label themselves according to the ‘model organism’ that they work on. I was a zebrafish person, and Quarmby is a Chlamydomonas person. Chlamydomonas is not an STD (you’re thinking of Chlamydia), but a gentle single-celled algae that is in all likelihood swimming around the standing water in your garden as you read. This microscopic creature is easy to grow in the lab (a jam jar on a sunny windowsill will do), its genome has been sequenced, and it is a surprisingly powerful tool for studying human disease.

Chlamydomonas was not an obvious choice for medical research, but the secret is in the cilia. Cilia are hair-thin appendages that wave around in a coordinated fashion to move their owner from A to B. But these algae don’t spend their whole lives swimming around. When they reproduce, their cilia are absorbed back into the cell body (scroll to the 4th video here). When conditions are stressful, the cilia simply drop off. Quarmby and her students studied Chlamydomonas mutants that hold on to their cilia, and discovered a family of proteins involved in the regulation of both cilia and cell division.

At the same time as Quarmby was studying the behaviour of cilia in Chlamydomonas, medical researchers were identifying genes that are mutated in humans. The same proteins involved in cilia and cell cycle control in Chlamydomonas were affected in some patients with polycystic kidney disease. What’s the connection? Cell biologists knew that most of our cells have cilia on them, but assumed that they were not important. Our cells generally do not swim around, unless they’re sperm. It turns out that these tiny appendages are involved in a whole range of vital cell functions. The cilia on kidney cells are important for sensing the flow of urine, and without these the kidney cannot function properly.

Perhaps beauty is in the eye of the beholder when it comes to unicellular flagellates, but what I appreciate is the detail. To see the minutiae of cell structure is stunning, particularly when you know how difficult it is to achieve images like the ones in this article in the journal Cytoskeleton, or even the image of an adult rat head, below. And little Chlamydomonas, a microscopic pond dweller, has advanced our understanding of a devastating human disease. This combination of aesthetic experience and elegant scientific explanation is what I find beautiful. ⁴

Adult rat head MRI © Gavin Merrifield, University of Edinburgh.

It appears to be a universal experience for scientists to find beauty in their experimental systems. Perhaps this is because the daily discipline of examining anything in detail brings an appreciation of its finer points. Or maybe the process of choosing something to study and then spending the greater part of one’s waking hours staring at it provokes something akin to the loyalty of the mother who thinks her child is beautiful, despite the large pimple on its nose. But even bearing in mind the fascination and devotion of the true professional, there seems to be something more in the scientist’s experience of beauty.⁵ Most, I think, simply delight in the beauty of creation. For some, this gives a sense of the transcendent: a sort of natural spirituality. For a Christian, this encounter with beauty draws them nearer to God.

Christian Appreciation of Beauty in Science

One of the driving forces behind the work of many of the early scientists was their Christian faith. The astronomer Johannes Kepler (1571-1630) initially hoped to pursue theology, but was eventually satisfied that science was also a way to glorify God.⁶ Many others, including the famous naturalist John Ray (1627-1705), were ordained clergy in addition to their academic studies, so their science and theology were naturally interwoven. Others, like James Clark Maxwell (1831-1879), examined Christianity as rigorously as their scientific experiments.

These pioneering scientists (or ‘natural philosophers’, as they called themselves back then) were encouraged by a rich tradition of theology that wholeheartedly encouraged their exploration of creation. The Hebrew Scriptures tell how creation reveals the glory, generosity and faithfulness of God who created and sustains everything.⁷ The beauty of the land and everything in it is celebrated: mountains and trees, plants and animals, men and women.⁸ A number of the earliest Christian theologians, the Church Fathers, often expressed their delight in the details of animal and plant life, and what we now understand as ecosystems.

Diversity of beauty in sky and earth and sea…the dark shades of woods, the colour and fragrance of flowers; the countless different species of living creatures of all shapes and sizes…the mighty spectacle of the sea itself, putting on its changing colours like different garments, now green, with all the many varied shades, now purple, now blue.

Augustine, The City of God

Theologian Jame Schaefer has surveyed the writings of many of the Church Fathers and Medieval theologians, and found five broad themes in their contemplation of creation.⁹

• Affective appreciation: Simply delighting in what is seen.
• Affective-cognitive appreciation: A deeper, scientific study of creation leads to even greater joy for the beholder.
• Cognitive appreciation: Thinking in more abstract ways about the beauty of the interconnected universe. Each part plays its unique role for the greater good of the whole.
• Incomprehensibility: Being overwhelmed by the magnitude and complexity of the universe and everything in it.
• The sacramental quality of the physical world: The world God has created mediates something of God’s presence and character to us.

One of my favourites among the theologians covered in Schaefer’s work was an unnamed Cistercian who in the twelfth century wrote extensively about the grounds of the abbey in which he lived, and the surrounding countryside. He was obviously very happy with his vocation, and had a good understanding of the interconnectedness of the different factors: water, weather and crops - an early ecology. Basil of Caesarea (ca. 329-379) spent time observing animals and plants, noting similarities and differences, and encouraged others to do the same, giving glory to God for everything he saw. Hugh of Saint Victor (1096-1144) delighted in what his senses could tell him about creation, so enabling him to praise the Creator all the more, and lamented that others might pass such an opportunity by.

An important Medieval figure in the early development of science is Albert the Great (ca. 1200-1280), teacher of Aquinas, who wrote on “the importance of observation and experimentation in field and laboratory studies of animals, plants, metals, and inorganic elements”. He carried out field studies, and “legitimised the study of the natural world as a science within the Christian tradition.” For him, appreciation of creation had both cognitive and emotional aspects.

For all of these early scholars, to study creation and enjoy its beauty was an activity that everyone should engage in using their God-given intellect. Their detailed exploration of the wonders of the universe was fuelled by faith in a benevolent creator God, and this deep intellectual study led to heartfelt praise for the one who made it. Is this something we can share?

Protein structure model © Dr Neville Cobbe

The series continues tomorrow with Part 2: Understanding Beauty in Science.

Notes

1. Bersanelli, M. & Gargantini, M. Galileo to Gell-Mann: The Wonder that Inspired the Greatest Scientists of all Time. Templeton Press, Philadelphia, 2009. Page 9.
2.Ibid., Page 10.
3. I should highlight that as far as I know Lynn Quarmby is not religious and has not in any way endorsed this blog.
4. Further reading: http://quarmby.ca/, http://blog.quarmby.ca/, http://www.ncbi.nlm.nih.gov/pubmed?term=Lynne%20Quarmby, http://www.ciliopathyalliance.org/
5. I try to avoid using the words ‘nature’ or ‘the natural world’ as much as possible because of the ambiguity of the word nature, which is often wrongly used to create a divide between natural and supernatural worlds. This is ancient Greek philosophy and has nothing to do with the God of the Bible. When addressing Christians I usually use the word ‘creation’ in its traditional theological sense, meaning ‘everything that exists apart from God’, without connection to any one particular interpretation of Genesis 1-3.
6. Frankenberry, N.K. The Faith of Scientists, Princeton University Press, 2008.
7. For example, Psalm 29, 104, 148; Job 38-41; Joel 2: 18-32, Isaiah 41:17-20, Hosea 14:5-8.
8. Young’s Analytical Concordance to the Holy Bible.
9. Schaefer, J. Appreciating the Beauty of the Earth, Theological Studies 62 (2001), p23-52 & Schaefer, J. Theological Foundations for Environmental Ethics: Reconstructing Patristic & Medieval Concepts, Georgetown University Press, Washington, DC, 2009.

“The heavens,” wrote the psalmist “declare the glory of God.” (Ps 19:1 NIV)

The universe that inspired the psalmist three thousand years ago grows grander as each new generation of astronomers adds yet another layer of understanding. Each new discovery pushes back the boundary that separates the known universe from the vast terra incognita that beckons and teases us to keep going, to sail ever further from familiar shores.

A few centuries ago the great philosopher Immanuel Kant repeated the psalmist’s declaration: “Two things fill the mind with ever new and increasing admiration and awe, the more often and steady reflection is occupied with them: the starry heaven above me and the moral law within me. Neither of them need I seek and merely suspect as if shrouded in obscurity or rapture beyond my own horizon; I see them before me and connect them immediately with my existence."

The night sky still beckons us, as it once did the psalmist. I spend time each summer at a rustic family cottage in the wilderness of my native New Brunswick, Canada. There, miles from electricity, the night sky does not compete with artificial light. Smog does not obscure it. Planes do not draw white trails on it. It does not compete with cable television or even cell phones, silenced by the absence of signals. The night sky is simply there, quietly declaring the glory of God. Its many lights reflect off the ripples of the lake, and are accompanied by the rustling of leaves and the voices of the many creatures that call this wilderness home. Only a jaded soul could sit by that lake and not wonder if there wasn’t some larger meaning to the experience.

I can see what the psalmist saw and rejoice as he did. But I watch the night sky through the eyes of a twenty-first century scientist. I have the benefit of centuries of scientific advancement and can see, in my mind’s eye, so much more. Those visible stars are just the advance guard of an almost infinite army of stars going back almost forever. The stars are not attached to a dome that one might reach with an ambitiously tall tower or puncture with a long-range missile. They are so far away that their light has been traveling at unimaginable speed for years, centuries, milennia and longer. The light from the stars in the Hyades Cluster began its journey to the earth at about the time that my ancestors—Loyalists from Pennsylvania—began their journey to this part of North America in the eighteenth century. The light from the closest stars, the trio that make up Alpha Centauri, takes over four years to reach earth. The most distant star ever detected from the earth is a “gamma ray burster” that launched its signal almost 13 billion years ago, when the universe was young. The powerful gamma ray signal from this star began its journey before our planet was even formed, reaching the earth in April 2009.

The psalmist did not know that the stars were made of hydrogen and helium. He did not know they generated their energy through nuclear fusion or that many of them explode at the end of their lives. He knew nothing of galaxies and the layers of structure in the cosmos. He did not understand how fast light travels or that the light from our sun powers photosynthesis and many other processes here on the earth.

The universe brought into view by science is like a collection of Russian matryoshka dolls nestled one inside the other. With the psalmist we can see the outer layer—and it is grand. But inside are additional layers, each one with a new type of grandeur. And at the very end of the unpacking lie the remarkable laws of physics that keep the earth orbiting about the sun, the sun shining reliably, and the sunlight providing energy to sustain life on our planet.

The universe as we understand it today inspires awe. And for those open to its message—from the psalmists of yesteryear to the believers and even the thoughtful skeptics of today—it speaks of a Creator. Our universe does not look like a cosmic accident, where lots of stuff just happened. It looks like the expression of a grand plan—a cosmic architecture capable of both supporting life such as ours and of inspiring observers like us to seek out the Creator.

This is why Antony Flew—“world’s most notorious atheist”—changed his mind and started believing in God.

Despite a common desire among Christians to find evidence for the activity of the creator God in the natural world, the Scriptures themselves more often give us images and analogies of God’s providence rather than “proof” that would be admissible in peer reviewed journals, much less in court. In his final climactic week in Jerusalem, Jesus used image after image, parable after parable to convey the urgency of his message that the Kingdom of God was coming to pass through his own coming Passion.

Though His disciples did not understand them at first, it was by new pictures (the lost coin, lost sheep and lost sons) and reinterpreted old ones (like the vineyard), that they came to understand the “facts” of His healing miracles and, ultimately, His death and resurrection. By reframing concrete happenings and material relationships, stories and images opened up possibilities rather than limiting them—and they still invite us to enter into them, rather than leaving us dispassionate and disconnected.

As we remember the narrative that takes us from Good Friday through Easter morning, the image of a buried grain of wheat invites us into the story rather than just describing what happens in it. Certainly this is an image for Christ Himself, but as I’ve written elsewhere, the seed isn’t just a symbol of His death and rebirth from the grave, but a promise of future abundance, lavish reproduction, and a pointer to the coming harvest: Jesus Himself is the “first fruits” of the new creation. We are called not only to be workers for that harvest, but to be, like Him, the harvested grains. As Christ entered into His glory through self-sacrifice, so we, too, give ourselves in order to share in and contribute to the shalom—the comprehensive flourishing—promised as the marker of God’s Kingdom now and in the future.

This combined image of death and renewal, single seed to field, is the heart of John Crumb’s hymn “Now the Green Blade Rises,” first published in 1928 in the Oxford Book of Carols and originally set to an old French Christmas carol (“Noel Nouvelet”). By clicking the image above you can hear a new version as revised and re-arranged by contemporary hymnist Alex Mejias. We offer it as a meditation on the sacrifice and victory of Jesus, the glorious promise of resurrection, and the call upon us all to join in God’s story of redemption and renewal.

“Now the Green Blade Riseth”

John MacLeod Campbell Crum (1872-1958),
© Oxford University Press
adapted and arranged by Alex Mejias

Now the green blade riseth from the buried grain,
Wheat that in dark earth many days has lain.
Love lives again, that with the dead has been:
Love is come again, like wheat that springeth green.

Alex Mejias is the founder and director of High Street Hymns, a non-profit music ministry that exists to spread the Gospel and worship the Triune God in spirit and truth through hymns, psalms and spiritual songs. Alex grew up in New Jersey and outside Washington, DC, receiving a BA in Religious Studies from the University of Virginia and a J.D. from the University of Virginia School of Law. For the past 15 years he has been leading worship for churches and ministries, writing and recording both new and old hymns, and touring the east coast as a singer-songwriter. Alex is also committed to the power of the creative arts to advance the Gospel and promote justice and healing in the name of Christ, serving, supporting, and collaborating with several other non-profit ministries. More details on these projects and music may be found at High Street Hymns.

My curiosity immediately led me to see what he had cut out. All of the miracles and the Resurrection passages were gone, and the Gospels were rearranged in a linear fashion, edited and pasted together as a single narrative. Then I looked particularly to see what Jefferson did with John 11.

Why John 11? For the past several seasons of Lent, I have been meditating upon this account of three siblings: Martha, Mary and Lazarus of Bethany. In particular, John 11:35 has become a central passage for me to consider in self-reflection, because an artist learns very early that creativity demands boundaries and limits to thrive. When I began on my recent journey to illuminate the Four Holy Gospels for Crossway publishing's celebration of the 400th anniversary of the King James Bible, I needed to find a thematic boundary. I was so overwhelmed with the grand scale of the project that I chose this shortest passage in the Bible—“Jesus Wept”—and that decision has led to many discoveries along the way.

"Jesus Wept" is, to me, the most profound passage in the Bible. After I gave a recent lecture on this verse at Duke University, Richard Hays commented on my reflections: "The Incarnate Word of God stood wordless at Bethany." Indeed, Jesus' tears make no logical sense, as he came to Bethany with the specific mission to raise Lazarus from the grave. He told the disciples his mission (and why he intentionally delayed his arrival, knowing that Lazarus lay dying) and revealed to Martha that he was and is the "Resurrection and the Life." So why did he, upon seeing the tears of Mary, waste his time weeping, when he could have shown his power as the Son of God by wiping away every tear, telling people like her, "Ye of little faith, believe in me!"?

In my reflections, this "irrational," emotional response from Jesus became a central means to understand the role and even the necessity of art in the midst of suffering—what I have began to call our "Ground Zero" conditions. Art, like the tears of Christ, may seem useless, ephemeral and ultimately wasteful. But even though they evaporate into our atmosphere, the extravagant tears of God dropped on the hardened, dry soils of Bethany, or onto the ashes of our Ground Zero conditions, are still present with us. Because tears are ephemeral, they can be enduring and even permanent, as with “Jesus wept.” In the same way, perhaps our art can be so as well. What seems, at first, to be an irrational response to suffering may turn out, upon deep reflection, to be the most rational response of all.

Predictably, "Jesus Wept" did not make into the Jefferson Bible. John 11 was cut out entirely, falling onto the floor of his Monticello home and discarded, along with Martha's confession. Jefferson's rationalism allowed only a distant deity that made sense in reference to objective ‘scientific’ calibrations, not ephemeral marks of compassion. Yet, when this attitude is actually applied to the sciences, they also become, like Jefferson's Bible, a “cut and paste” product, based on a limited viewpoint.

Even with my rudimentary understanding of the early phonetic and acoustic research my father was part of at Bell Labs in the 1970s, I know that the optimism of many scientists there was based on reductionistic assumptions. I described my father’s wrestling with the basic theses of linguistic research in a previous essay:

In the 1980s, [while in his] early 50’s, my father began to send a series of notes to his colleagues questioning the basic tenets of acoustics research, as he found them flawed and inadequate for the goals pursued. . . .[W]hat the early research assumed was that by segmenting speech patterns, you could have enough data to rebuild speech. It would be a bit like dissecting a frog, and stitching it back together, only to expect it to jump again -- A typical reductionist/modernist assumption. (Refractions 24: "The Resonance of Being")

My father began to challenge these underlying but over-simplified assumptions and as a result, came under criticism for abandoning many of the positions held by his peers. I continue:

My father’s Converter/Distributor theory (C/ D theory) assumes that computer technology is now capable of anticipating contextual patterns of speech, and is able to simulate an architectural structure to account for the morphing of speech production. Rather than the segmental approach, he calls his new thinking prosodic, as it accounts for the complexity of speech and language. But it would take years of research to get to a point of presenting his new ideas to the linguistics/phonetics community.

My father, who had rarely had problems finding support for his research before, was in for a battle. . . . He could not find funding, and found himself fighting the establishment of the research world—the very establishment he had helped to build. After my father’s many futile attempts to secure funding for his new research, my brother, a successful entrepreneur in Silicon Valley, stepped in to fund a post for a graduate student at Ohio State, to help my father compile enough data to be able to begin his research.

To my father, the integrity of the scientific process demanded such a course. He never considered that his challenge to reductionism would be seen as a threat by many of his colleagues. He simply was seeking after Truth.

Even in the objective rigor of the research process, then, human factors intervene—sometimes for better, sometimes for worse. Our presuppositions surface eventually, and it becomes clear where we place our "faith. " My father's C/D theory is an intuitive leap, arising from his love for synthesis and beauty, but pulled up by hard data and a stubborn commitment to the truth of matter. It is an example of the way intuitive, subjective insight can connect the ephemeral with the rational, objective and concrete. Should we seek, then, to make the sciences a Jeffersonian cut-and-paste re-narration of our reality? Are we so inflexible in how we will understand the great mystery of our being? If so, the gap between that reduced ‘reality’ and what is truly human is the very gap into which Jesus' tears still fall.

Jesus wept for Lazarus, but also, perhaps, for Jefferson as he snipped out John 11 with his own hands; for to dismiss Jesus’ tears as irrational and unnecessary is to miss Jesus entirely. Jefferson sought to cut out the Deity, but also lost the Man. Without Jesus' full humanity, coupled with his Divinity, we do not have a Savior. Without this fullness of humanity—concrete and ephemeral, intuitive and objective—we lose perspective on why we are doing our research to begin with. If we assent to the fragmenting, segmental assumptions of modernity, we will have stitched the frog back together only to bury him anyway. If the dead are to live, we will require a Miracle Worker to show us that the world that is cohesive, and rational, but only when seen through a veil of tears.

When astrophysicist Dr. Jennifer Wiseman first published the following posts as a paper in the BioLogos Scholarly Essay series, the essay’s subtitle asked the question, “Can Recent Scientific Discovery Inform and Inspire Our Worship and Service?” Over the next few weeks, we will look at Dr. Wiseman's answer to that query—an emphatic “Yes!”. But in this first installment we begin by describing some of the reasons such a posture of worship through science is not more common in the contemporary church than it already is.

Oh Lord My God, when I in awesome wonder, Consider all the worlds Thy hands have made; I see the stars, I hear the rolling thunder, Thy power throughout the universe displayed.
Then sings my soul, my Savior God, to Thee; How great Thou art, how great Thou art

(Carl Boberg, 1885; Trans. Stuart Hine 1949)

The words of this great hymn convey the proper overwhelming sense in which the wondrous Creation of God should translate directly into a response of awe and praise from mind, body, and spirit. The writer sees and hears the wonders of nature with his body, considers with his mind what all this implies, and responds with songs from his soul.

But is this worshipful response happening in our Christian congregations today? I believe this kind of response to the Creation can and should happen within the hearts of God’s people and wherever congregations of believers are gathered. Such power can even unify believers who differ on lesser matters as we all look up outside of ourselves at the same wonders and respond with the same praise. As an astronomer, I have felt the sense of being “blown away” by seeing images of countless distant galaxies, or even by just looking up at the array of stars overhead on a dark moonless night and sensing something of the “big-ness” of God.

There are impediments to realizing the fullness of this kind of worship experience for many Christian congregations today. I believe four of the main culprits are ignorance, distraction, controversy, and uncertainty.

Let me start with the first, and clarify up front that by ignorance I am simply referring to being uninformed, rather than the sometimes more negative connotations of the word. How up-to-date is the scientific knowledge of average, educated, committed evangelical church members and pastors?Americans, both adults and schoolchildren, are not ranking favorably compared to the rest of the world’s developed nations in science knowledge these days. We enjoy our technological achievements and resulting gadgets, but true comprehension of scientific principles and recent discoveries is not a strong part of our culture and national conversation these days.

This is reflected directly in what kinds of things are (and are not) discussed in church. In my own generally very good church experience growing up in mainstream America, I can only remember science and nature being discussed in a general way (e.g., we should look at the beauty of flowers and mountains and animals and thank God), except for once in a specific way in a children’s sermon (where we were told we should not believe we came from monkeys!). That was a while ago, but how are science issues handled today? Do pastors speak about the evidence from cosmic background light for a spectacular beginning to the universe? Are the genetic codes being mapped out for animals and humans resulting in praise for God’s amazing “blueprint”? Are the advancements in nanotechnology and biotechnology and medicine subjects for discussion of good and poor uses of technology in church? The answer to these is, of course, “no”, for the most part, yet even issues seemingly more relevant to the daily lives of parishioners are often driven by current technology and scientific advancement, and an informed congregation can better understand how to praise, pray, discern, dialogue, and serve.

Related to being uninformed is the condition of distraction for many evangelical Christians today. The distractions of overloaded schedules, pressured jobs, divided families, and even church environments of entertainment-based worship and activities can impede a lifetime of quiet listening, learning, and contemplation. If there is no encouragement from church leaders to learn and incorporate nature and current scientific discovery into contemplation and praise and service, then there will be no space available in the lives and activities of congregants for what should be the resulting awe and praise.

But what does it mean to be informed about science in today’s evangelical congregations? Too often this has implied a direct relation to controversy, the third reason science is not often inspiring worship these days. There are many voices trying to “inform” Christians about science, and for the average evangelical congregant, discernment about which authority figure to believe can be difficult. Many times Christians are presented with a clear and strong implication that scientific conclusions, especially on issues related to origins of the universe and of life, are part of the secular “World” camp rather than the camp of “God’s Truth”. And Christians “know” that they must be on one side or the other of this stark line of worldliness. Often in more conservative churches a teaching will come from the pulpit that goes something like this: “Scientists tell us that *...+, but they cannot give a reason how *...+ happened; but WE know how: God is responsible!” Therefore any serious consideration of a scientific understanding of the development of the universe and life implies that one is “compromising” the teaching of the Word of God, rather than studying the details of how God works. In Scripture, however, never is the study and experience of nature seen as somehow antithetical to knowing and following the Lord; just the opposite in fact!

This often boils down to the correct interpretation of Scripture. Through sermons, radio spots, television shows, and literature, evangelical Christians are hearing adamant messages conflating the acceptance of modern scientific discovery with worldly compromise, or else providing alternative ideas that are not entirely satisfying. From Young-Earth Creationists, they hear that a literal reading of the Biblical creation account is the only correct one, so all scientific discovery must be reinterpreted to fit a recent Creation. But this robs them of the sense of awe we glean from the magnitude of space and time revealed by astronomy, geology, and fossils. From the Intelligent Design community, they hear the message that life (and perhaps the entire universe) is too complicated to develop through natural processes alone, and therefore that God’s work requires miraculous inputs of information into the natural world. This implies that somehow natural processes must not be fully God’s processes, or that God’s work through them is somehow inadequate. They also hear the message to “teach the controversy,” so that somehow by proclaiming that there is a controversy about natural processes as an adequate explanatory tool for natural history, the controversy will in fact become real. They are then surprised to find out from either advanced scientific study or from the Evolutionary Creation voices that in fact there is no great controversy in the scientific community about the basic structure and timeline of the natural history of the universe and life; that in fact there need be no theological debate about how God brought (and is bringing) the universe and life into being, rather, the issue is whether God is in fact real and responsible for all we know and are. And yet even this unifying message can sometimes seem to gloss over the central theological issues of suffering and death and fallen-ness in Creation. So every approach to origins and evolution evokes some difficulties and challenges with which the Christian congregant must grapple.

Next week, Part 2 concludes Dr. Wiseman's discussion of the stumbling blocks that can stand between the church and its appreciation of science as a means of worship, and turns to the ways that the pursuit of God through study of the created world can help overcome those difficulties by pointing us directly to the Lord.

Knowing your context, 12” x 16” Mixed media on panel, 2009. ©R. Sawan White.

The heavens declare the glory of God, 
and the sky above proclaims his handiwork.
 Day to day pours out speech,
 and night to night reveals knowledge.
 There is no speech, nor are there words,
 whose voice is not heard.
 Their voice goes out through all the earth,
 and their words to the end of the world. (Psalm 19:1-4)

The Psalmist affirms that the created world speaks of its Creator, and that everywhere we look or listen there are words, speech pouring forth in abundance. But are we prepared to hear that speech? Will we listen to it on its own terms, in the context in which it occurs? Or will we hear only what we already ‘know,’ see only what we want to see? Psalm 19 affirms that the speech of the world is heard, but it does not say that speech is necessarily listened to, much less understood. For the speech of the world is as a foreign dialect to us, and if we want to hear what it has to say about the Creator (and overhear the praise it offers to the Creator), we need to learn to listen differently.

As Bible translators know, learning a language is much more than a matter of vocabulary. We may master a list of names or definitions, but still miss the heart of what a language is about, what its speakers are making known about themselves and the world. Just as important as the individual terms is the structure of the language—its grammar and syntax—the way it tells its stories more than the objects and characters that populate them. This may or may not be the way the hearer’s own language casts its narrative thread, so we must be aware of our own practices and patterns in order to recognize the sameness and difference of the foreign tongue. In other words, understanding another language is doubly relational: we must explore the relationships within a given dialect, but also the relationships between it and our own linguistic home.

An awareness of this relational, provisional quality of language is at the heart of R. Sawan White’s practice as an artist, rooted in her own experiences of being linguistically out-of-sync, notably during her art training as a printmaker in England. There, she mistakenly assumed she would be speaking the same tongue as those around her, only to discover that profound differences can be communicated (or lost) through inflection and cadence of speech, let alone vocabulary. Beginning by including old maps and encyclopedia pages in her prints, then by encasing others’ anonymously-deposited secrets in plaster, and later moving into an abstracted but personal exploration of graphic elements that stand in for words, White has been using paint and wax and her etching stylus to engage with the richness and limitations of “local knowledge.” Aware that each cultural context has its own way of framing the world—its own dialect—that must be taken on its own terms, she highlights the necessity of conversation between ‘locals’ across boundaries, and holds out the promise that piece by piece and layer by layer, we will approach a more wholly encompassing sense of who we are and how the world is.

White’s oil and wax painting, Knowing your context (2009), is a visual enactment of that process of negotiation between words and syntax, between medium and meaning—using forms and figures that struggle to find and dwell in their proper physical, relational context. While we are tempted to read it as a landscape, that overall pattern is a byproduct of White’s primary visual interest, the way those small graphic elements and lines—emblematic of words (and sometimes people)—relate to each other and to larger shapes and fields of color, built up in the layers of wax and oil paint that define the overall structure of the work. Thus, both small, oscillation-like squiggles and large, organic shapes arrange themselves across the surface of the panel, but also emerge from and disappear into the irregular strata.

The red-orange circular shape at the upper right, for instance, is not defined by the application of color onto the white surface, but by a final application of thick, matte strokes of white paint over the ruddy, under-layers; meanwhile, the white is itself bounded by curving lines previously inscribed into the wax. Below those layers, we can see a more directly-formed oval of blue, whose top half is now obscured, but whose bottom half influences the curvature of the lines in the lower section of the painting. Finally, the detail image of the lower right edge of the panel shows incised ciphers buried deep in the wax and paint, as well as some holding their own at the surface.

These small re-curving figures are what function most like words in White’s work, but perhaps a better way of describing them is as indeterminate or extremely flexible ideographs—a symbolic shorthand for exploring relationship without referencing specific things outside the painting itself. Her squiggles usually enjoy a kind of freedom within a painting—hovering, floating, sometimes dangling in a way that is “haphazardly self-contained, unconnected”—and seldom tied down or to each other as they are here at both the left and right lower edges. As White said of the now-marginalized characters, “They’re stuck but also foundational, they don’t get to go, but they’re crucial to this part [of the painting].” Comparing these shapes with the ones floating but isolated in the white area at the upper left, White continued, “the ones down here, though tethered down, are in a more dynamic space, their crossing is causing many things to happen with boundaries, overlaps, etc.” This is a dialogue, then, between the artist and her medium about what happens when things get confusing and we begin to notice novel relationships emerging—how a new sense of connection and order arises there, too, even if it seems unfamiliar and uncomfortable to all involved.

Again, what’s being abstracted in Knowing your context is language, not material objects—and not even specific words, but their role as place-holders and connectors between people, local places, whole worlds. White’s reference to the drawn characters as “discovering” their situation, learning to “know their context,” reminds us that her work is also a narrative: it is the trace of her negotiation with the piece itself about how words and ideas and images are situated in particular places and moments, about how slippage, misunderstanding and newness occur when ‘figures of speech’ are removed from their usual homes or asked to do work which they are unaccustomed to doing. Indeed, even her titles are part of that process, for they often find their genesis in phrases only partially heard and mis-understood; they, too, are artifacts that emerge from the process of engagement with words rather than descriptors added at the end.

So circling back now to the familiar psalm with which we began, how might this visual exercise about the complexity of speech in all its forms help us reflect on the relationship between science and Christian faith, between God’s word and his world? We are now very well accustomed to reminders that the first chapters of Genesis were not written to tell us the kinds of things we sometimes want to hear. But it is also easy to ask the material world to say things it is not equipped to say, as when we expect it to speak unambiguously about of God’s activity within it. If we truly wish to hear the speech that pours out day after day in praise of the Lord, we need to let the heavens speak in their own way and strain to listen to them in the voice God made them to have—not in the voice we wish they had. In taking hold of the difference between those ways of listening, we not only understand the world more truly, we unearth our own biases, our own deafness, our own unwillingness to hear God the way he wants to be heard.

We can’t force Scripture or the natural world to speak to us in our ordinary tongue. But by listening to them both on their own terms, and by creating and dwelling in imagery that enables them to speak to each other through us, guided by the Spirit, we may be privy to interactions that reveal unexpected and elegant truths about their dialects, but more importantly, about the God whose Word brought both into being.

R. Sawan White was a Provost Scholar at Virginia Commonwealth University before transferring to Loughborough University in England to complete her First Degree in Fine Art Printmaking with highest honors. Since returning to the US in 2000, she has exhibited her work regularly in group and solo shows, and taught and lectured at museums, art centers, colleges and middle schools. To see more of her work, please click here.

Vox Balaenae, or “Voice of the Whale,” was composed by American composer George Crumb (b. 1929) and was first performed by the New York Camerata in 1971. It was only four years before that, in 1967, that biologists Roger Payne and Scott McVay discovered that humpback whales “sing” and published recordings of the whales’ complex vocalizations, after which “whale song” quickly entered the popular consciousness and helped propel the “save the whales” environmental movement forward. (In 1970, Folk singer Judy Collins even put out a version of the traditional melody "Farewell To Tarwathie" over a background of recorded humpback whale songs.) For many, the fact that the massive creatures might share the human capacity and desire to engage in music as a social activity only made their wholesale destruction at our hands more egregious.

Though he was himself inspired by hearing those early whale song recordings, Crumb’s work does not utilize tapes of real whales or attempt merely to reproduce the effect in the context of an ordinary musical form. Instead, he asks three chamber musicians with modified and electrically amplified instruments (piano, flute and cello) to create sounds that evoke the entire natural history of the sea. The piano is played and strummed from inside the case and with a glass rod or plate on the strings, the cello part emphasizes a string’s abilities to produce high harmonic tones, and the flautist sings into her instrument as she plays. Many of these effects are intended to suggest natural sounds—as in the cello’s "seagull effect" (audible at 5:59 in the video linked blow), and the whale-like beginning cadenza by the flute—but not always in a direct way. In addition, all three players perform wearing half-masks, which, according to Crumb help “effac[e] the sense of human projection,” especially when they play under blue stage lighting as he envisioned. (Most of these features can be seen and heard in this April 2011 performance in Montreal by Philippe Prud'homme, piano; Stephane Tetreault, cello

; and Camille Lambert-Chan, flute, though it omits the blue stage lighting.)

In this multi-sensory impressionistic scene, the whales become representatives of a natural world that predates humanity, yet whose fate is inextricably bound up with the will of mankind. Indeed, the tension between the measured vastness of geologic time and the “Age of Man” is written into the score, as an opening prologue is followed by variations on the initial “Sea Theme” (beginning at 4:20), each named after geologic epochs: Archeozoic, Paleozoic, Mesozoic, and finally, the Cenozoic. It is in this last age—when mankind arrives on the scene—that the sometimes atonal and harsh combinations of sound reach a dissonant climax that the score indicates should be played as “dramatic, with a feeling of imminent destiny” (beginning at 11:26). Finally, the piece moves towards its conclusion with a haunting restatement and renewal of the Sea Theme (at just after 13:00), with the musicians gradually playing more and more quietly until ending with a pantomime, as if creating sounds beyond the limits of human hearing. Again, the sense of resolution in the music is named by Crumb in the score’s instructions to the players: “serene, pure, transfigured.”

So what do we make of this musical narrative and what Crumb seems to be saying about both whales (standing—or swimming—for the natural world) and humankind? Is it truly an anti-human statement, a “whales vs. people” image in response to environmental damage we were only really beginning to understand (via science) at the time the piece was written? There is certainly a skepticism here about human hubris, made explicit at the end of the prologue section by a “parody” of the opening phrase of Strauss’ Thus Spake Zarathustra (at 2:40). Contemporary listeners then and now will likely recognize that borrowed theme as the music from the film 2001: A Space Odyssey (1968), but before that it was a musical homage to Nietzsche’s view of ascendant Man. In this ironic re-use of Strauss’ work, Crumb seems to say that against the span of geologic time and a vast (musical) world previously unknown to human ears, our claims of knowledge and technological mastery seem laughable.

Yet there are several clues that that sort of reading misses the mark, or that it is, at best, incomplete—beginning with the experience of playing and hearing it in person. I first heard Vox Balaenae in about 2002 with my then 6-year-old son. It was played in a small hall (under blue lights) at our local art museum by the Quadrivium Players, a group that included my friend Mary Boodell on the flute. While the masks were surprising at first, they did, indeed, de-emphasize the personality of the players as individuals, while emphasizing the atmospheric, world-creating power of art-forms, especially music.

Rather than a symbolic effacement of the human presence in the world (in keeping with the anti-Nietzschian not above), the effect was to move away from the ritualized performative aspect of modern chamber music and bridge the divide between players and observers, creating a more participatory community. Because of the piece’s distinctive, impressionistic kind of narrativity, one isn’t so much as “carried away by” the music as submerged and suspended in the world created by it, and Boodell describes the effect (especially at the end of the piece) of feeling like the audience is holding it’s breath to hear the silences Crumb has written into the score.

But Boodell also recounts the story of being drawn into the conceptual frame of the piece in a very physical, way when she found herself alone in a swimming pool in the weeks leading up to a performance. Though hesitantly at first, she couldn’t help but wonder how the sounds she made in Vox Balaenae would sound underwater, and so went under in the pool to find out. While the image makes one smile and probably reminds most of us of similar, less technically-proficient underwater experiments of our own, it also suggests how the piece helps hearers make a connection in addition to that between player and listener—that between humanity and the rest of the natural world. If the unexpected flow and soundscape created by Crumb helps audience and players achieve the kind of connection music scholar Jeff Warren has elsewhere on this site discussed as “entrainment,” it is also an invitation to a similarly compassionate state with the rest of creation, based on the new-found knowledge that other creatures have complex, even musical relationships with each other, and that we are privileged to discover and begin to understand them.

Clearly, then, Crumb’s Vox Balaenae touches on scientific knowledge of the world both in its genesis in recordings of whale songs and its structure keyed to geologic, evolutionary ages. But does it have more to say to us here than that we should avoid killing whales because they sing? While we can recognize that the biblical call to have dominion over the earth guides us towards cultivation and care for its creatures and remember that Jesus exemplified such a shepherding role, we should also remember his priestly one, and ours. For just as he remains the High Priest of heaven, holding our prayers in the presence of the Father, we have similar joy in being between heaven and earth, “a little lower than the angels.” Thus we can hold up the great whales (and their songs) as monuments to the depth of God’s creative activity in and through nature—and even revel in our musical, creaturely fellowship with them—without denying the special place of humanity. On the contrary, we affirm that special place when we humble ourselves to listen, seek to understand the native tongues of creation, and then, through Christ, present its songs before the throne of the Almighty Creator and King.

In last week’s post I framed Sørina Higgins’ poem on the gentle humpback whales by noting the near-universal mixture of fascination and fear with which we greet such awesome creatures, especially when we meet them in their own element rather than ours. This week’s artistic treatment of the great whales takes as its subject a more-storied and decidedly less-gentle member of the family, but returns to our fascination with and desire to know about whatever is dramatically not us: a 52-foot-long inflatable felt sperm whale on display most recently at the Virginia Museum of Fine Arts in Richmond, Virginia.

Tristin Lowe’s Mocha Dick is a recreation and interpretation of the albino sperm whale that, in the early nineteenth century, attacked as many as twenty whaling ships near Chile’s Mocha Island in the South Pacific Ocean, sinking more than a few of the smaller vessels. In an 1839 article from The Knicker-bocker magazine, a New England sailor described him as “white as wool . . . as white as a snow drift . . . as white as the surf around him.” The whale was a source of inspiration for Herman Melville’s epic Moby Dick, and with this work, Lowe gives us an opportunity to consider the relationship between ourselves and creation in terms of human and divine making.

Lowe works in a variety of different media (including edible ones), but in recent years sculptural and installation works have been the main part of his practice. Often they are considerably less grand that Mocha Dick, tending instead towards absurd and occasionally somewhat vulgar “wry re-imaginings” of ordinary objects: chairs that spontaneously fall apart, beds that wet themselves, and—early in his experiments with industrial felt—an overturned trashcan. But there is also a sense of wonder, curiosity and even awe at the frailty of the human condition built into the seemingly-ironic works. And while the idea of human making is contrasted to natural creation in Mocha Dick, the trash-can and his large-scale felt model of the moon and Apollo lunar lander contrast the hands-on, personal side of creation with industrial and technological processes.

To create the life-size whale, Lowe first spent time in very science-like pursuits: incessantly watching video footage of sperm whales in the wild, studying and sketching their anatomy to understand the muscular structures underneath the smooth exterior as well as their movements through the water. Next, he developed an inflatable vinyl armature to serve as the supporting understructure, manufactured for him using the basic techniques and materials that go into the “bounce houses” or inflatable “moon walks” popular at fairs and children’s birthday parties. (Art and science should not devoid of fun, after all.) The sections of the armature were built to mimic the muscle groups Lowe had studied in the live whales, and the bundles of air-filled chambers are kept under tension by a network of ropes that criss-cross the hollow center.

Creating the exterior of Mocha Dick also required collaborative effort, as the entire armature is sheathed in sections of thick, white industrial felt held together with very long, large white zippers. Artisans at Philadelphia’s Fabric Workshop used skills borrowed from upholstery and dress-making to fit the skin of the whale to the structure underneath, again conforming it to the bundles of "muscles." Finally, the whale was given a wonderfully naturalistic finish in the form of a complex network of wrinkles, scars, and appliquéd barnacles like the ones that are found on seagoing whales, but all crafted from the same basic felt material and stitched thread. Again, Lowe paid close attention to the natural context and activities of sperm whales as well as the historic story of this particular whale, and the scarring includes carefully placed marks corresponding to the injuries such whales receive from battles with their chief natural adversaries and prey—giant squid—in addition to injuries from the harpoons and ship hulls that earned Mocha Dick notoriety and literary fame.

Seeing the whale in person is a marvelously fun experience—beginning with finding such an enormous “fish out of water” (pace marine biologists who will note that whales are mammals) in an institutional art setting, but continuing as one tries to figure out how it was made. A viewer can hardly help tracing the length of the zippers, peering into the barnacles, and imagining the giant white tentacles that must have wrapped around the whale’s face in its battle with the equally mythic giant (felt) squid. Indeed, the desire to touch the whale, pry open the seams a bit, and see if there might be even smaller felt creatures hiding in the barnacles on its giant prow is so common and compelling that the museum needed to add a small piece of the same felt on a wall nearby, so that children and adults alike would have something to touch, if not Mocha himself.

This drive to touch the giant felt whale is likely very much the same as Lowe’s own drive to build it in the first place, and is also analogous to the curiosity that leads scientists to investigate, take things apart, and then try to build them again. It speaks to the God-given longing all men and women have to touch the world around us, make sense of it, and know and understand the ultimate source of things—what Paul describes as having “eternity in [our] hearts.” Below the artist’s name and the work’s title on the wall of the museum was this quote from Lowe himself:

“The project was like the story of Moby-Dick—embarking on a journey, transfixed by the call of the sea. It is not about Ahab’s quest for revenge, and not even about the whale itself, but more about Ishmael’s search for the unattainable.”

That search and the longing from which it comes are not exhausted or cheapened by discovery of specific mechanisms or processes by which God created the great whales, any more than our fascination and delight in Lowe’s Mocha Dick is diminished when we see (or read) how it is put together. The last mystery is not to be found in the process of the making, after all, but in discovering that there is a Maker who would do such a thing for us to discover. And in contrast to Lowe’s suggestion that such meaning is “unattainable,” or the VMFA’s admonition that we should only touch the “stuff’ of reality and not the thing itself, the ancient witness of the Scriptures and of generations of believing scientists is that we can know something true about the world and its Maker by looking and touching. Even more, both Scripture and the witness of Christian scientists assures us that even as we reach out to touch the creation, the Creator has already and is even now reaching out to touch us.

Philadelphia resident Tristin Lowe studied at Parsons School of Design before earning a BFA from Massachusetts College of Art, Boston. In addition to the exhibition of Mocha Dick at the Virginia Museum of Fine Art, Lowe has had solo exhibitions at New Langton Arts in San Francisco, the Rosenbach Museum and Library in Philadelphia, and the Royal Hibernian Academy in Dublin, among others. A more complete list of work and record of his exhibition history can be found here.

Of all the earth’s creatures, few deserve the description of “awesome” as do whales. Counting among their kin the largest creatures that have ever lived, whales exist in a world that remains mysterious and remote, as most of the specifics of their comings and goings in the deep are fully known only to themselves. Furthermore, though both the history of their exploitation by humans and the contemporary attention to stewardship at the ecological scale reminds us of their vulnerability and need for protection, from Biblical times to the present, tales have been told of whales rising from the depths to upend the boats and expectations of men upon the sea. Indeed, even today, part of the thrill of whale watching is the implicit knowledge that the creatures’ sheer size and physical power carries the possibility of danger to those who dare get close to them in the whales’ own element. We know that despite their reputation for gentleness, they are not tame, or ultimately “safe.”

The “great whales” of the King James Bible then, are well-suited to be emblems of the complex way we engage with the created world and with its Maker—the way we desire to know both the world and the Lord, are fascinated by their mystery, are both drawn to and repulsed by the knowledge that there resides so near us power that is beyond our control. So over the next few weeks (not quite a BioLogos “Whale Month”) we’ll look at several different creative responses to whales as embodiments of the persistent mystery of Creation, beginning today with poet Sørina Higgins’ account of a few minutes of fleeting intimacy with feeding whales.

At first glance, Higgins’ poem “Humpback Whales” seems to give a straightforward story of the experience of whale watching from a small boat—of drawing close, but not too close, to a pod of humpbacks—in order to experience the mixture of fascination and fear that is ‘awe,’ rightly defined. But almost from the beginning, Higgins gives clues that her meditation is about the creatures not merely as things to look at, but as a kind of speech to hear, corporeal words bearing witness to their speaker. In the third line we begin to see the imagery of speech and language emerge—the whales becoming the very mouth of the sea, forming the circle of a “yawn” that makes “vowels” in the sea.

But what kind of language can this be? is it law, or instruction, or story? And is it the whales’ own story they’re telling, or something else? In the second stanza Higgins describes the spouting humpbacks as blowing off “spumes / in great inspired huffs.” In her choice of “inspired” she literalizes the root meaning of breathing in air, but also connects that meaning to the more mysterious and spiritual sense that “to be inspired” is to receive meaning and wisdom from outside oneself. In the next line the whales are arcing through the sea in “unconscious curves.” Together these words raise the question, if there is divine meaning in these creatures and the course they inscribe in the world, are they, themselves, aware of it? Do they see the meaning the poet (or biologist) sees in them, or is it the peculiar task of Adam’s race to listen intently and then to speak for the creation: interpreting its speech back to the creation itself, to our fellow men and women, and ultimately back to God whose language is written in the world?

There is no definitive answer given here as to what the whales “know” themselves, or whether such interpretation by us is possible. Instead, as Higgins moves into the last few lines of the poem, she collapses the word and the world into a single phrase: the whales become a “rhyme-and-meter topography of terror.” The “rhyme-and-meter” are the stuff of poetry, of course, and applied to a topography—a landscape whose contours are mapped out precisely because it is mute and does not tell its own story—we seem on the verge of an affirmation of the power of interpretive speech, but for that last word: “terror.” With that word and the following description of the creatures as “Sweet and menacing” come a reminder that the physical creation retains its ability to bring us up short, a recognition that we will not demystify the world merely by understanding its workings.

So how do we synthesize these two parallel lines of thought and imagery in Higgins’ “Humpback Whales”? Perhaps the poet is helping us see that the reason we are so drawn to what also makes us afraid—especially when awesome power is wrapped in a fearsome and fluid beauty—is that we innately recognize that there is One speaking to us through such moments of tension and delight, one who also defies easy categorization and refuses to be confined by our expectations. Perhaps, like poetry, the natural world as given to us by its Creator is not so much a declaration as it is an invitation to keep looking and keep listening. Perhaps the point is not the specific vowels that are uttered, but our growing trust in the One who speaks through all things, whose word goes out in all the earth.

“Humpback Whales”

by Sørina Higgins

Distant black snouts like mammoth mussel shells
loomed into view beneath a speckle flock of bright white gulls.
The pod drew ponderous circles, great vowel holes
in the yawn of gray bay-water under clouds.

They rose and blew off spumes
in great inspired huffs,
rolling their boat-long bulk in huge unconscious curves:
warm-blooded, deep-water, rhyme-and-meter topography
of terror. Sweet and menacing, in a single glide,
they ignored a little open tin can
packed with waving, shouting bipeds.

Having other messages to bring, they moved on.

From Higgins’ book Caduceus, ©2012. Photo also courtesy of Higgins.

Sørina Higgins is an adjunct faculty member in English at Lehigh Carbon Community College. She has published one poetry chapbook, The Significance of Swans (Finishing Line Press) and a the new, full-length collection entitled Caduceus (David Roberts Books). Her poetry and other writing has appeared in several journals, including Comment, Radix, Stillpoint, Relief, Studio, and Windhover. She is the Book Review Editor of Sehnsucht: The C. S. Lewis Journal, a staff writer for Curator, and blogs about the arts and faith at www.iambicadmonit.com/blog. She holds an M.A. from Middlebury College's Bread Loaf School of English. Sørina and her husband live in Kutztown, PA, in a home they built themselves.

“Oscillators for Singers”

It's the first day of the course I teach on the physics of music. The students are mostly from my college's music conservatory; many of them have never set foot in our science building, except perhaps to take a shortcut from a dorm to the dining hall. A few slump in their seats. Others look around the room anxiously, as if trying to brace themselves for some strange physics equipment that they might be forced to use.

Before class began, I set up a small microphone which is connected to a computer. Now I open by welcoming them to the course and asking, "Who wants to sing a few notes into the microphone for us?" Some eyes light up in surprise and delight. Neighbors look at each other, seeing if the student next to them is up to it. One eager soul, a soprano, jumps up to the front of the room.

I ask the student to sing a single note at a comfortable pitch for a few seconds. The software that connects to the microphone does a quick analysis of the sound. The students smile and laugh with delight in the singer's obvious talent. I direct their focus to the projection screen, which shows a graph of amplitude, or size of the sound signal, versus frequency, the number of oscillations of air pressure the sound makes in a unit of time.

Then we discuss the science of sound. I point out that what appears to us to be one pitch is actually made up of several components. I ask the student to sing another note on a different pitch. We watch the changes on the screen, and the students describe the changes they observe. I ask for another volunteer and this time a male student volunteers. He sings a note and we compare again the similarities and differences in the components of sound. Another student volunteers to sing a note with quite a bit of vibrato. At this point the students are excitedly thinking about what types of sounds they can produce and predicting what changes might be seen on the screen.

For many of my students, this first day of class is the first time they have thought of their art as having a scientific basis. We spend the following class periods learning about oscillations: their descriptors of position, velocity, acceleration, time, amplitude, and frequency; how sound is a longitudinal pressure wave that oscillates in its direction of propagation; how instruments and the human body manipulate different variables to produce the wonderful variety of sounds that we hear. We measure the speed of sound by snapping our fingers at the end of a tube and measuring the time it takes for the sound to reflect back over a known distance. We learn about the history of tuning systems and how humans have devised a wide variety of temperaments, each one unique in how the notes differ in oscillation of air pressure.

As they build up the skills to quantitatively describe the oscillations that make up music, I sense their combination of amazement and frustration. They are thinking, where does all of this fit in with the joy that I have in music? How is it that a precisely known series of frequencies at different amplitudes can evoke emotional responses in listeners? If I know too much about all this, will it affect my ability to produce beautiful music?

These are weighty questions, but delving into them is the heart of the liberal arts mission of our college. No discipline is an island. Music especially is a wondrous example of the interconnectedness of the human experience. It is connected to science, as is our goal to explore in the course, as well as mathematics, anthropology, history, psychology—even religion and faith—and many other fields. The students are learning and experiencing that music is much more than notes on a musical staff. It is a high calling for our all-too-brief half-semester course.

It is (mostly) true that there is nothing new under the sun. These thoughts that my students are processing have been considered before and will be for generations to come. In 1863, Hermann Helmholtz, a man who oscillated between posts as professor of physics and professor of physiology, published his thoughts on the topic in On the Sensations of Tone as a Physiological Basis for the Theory of Music. He argued that the spatial and temporal reasoning in music evokes a sensory understanding of motion—and not just motion, but also emotion. Helmholtz considers music's origins in oscillations of variables in time and space and its extension to the rise and fall of notes, dynamics, and voices of a piece. He wrote, "It becomes possible for motion in music to imitate the peculiar characteristics of motive forces in space, that is, to form an image of the various impulses and forces which lie at the root of motion. And on this, as I believe, essentially depends the power of music to picture emotion."

Helmholtz later describes how the practice of learning the elements of music, both its theory and its physical basis, allow us to better understand the great works of others we experience. It enables us to see that "the artist is a man as we are, in whom work the same mental powers as in ourselves, only in their own peculiar direction, purer, brighter, steadier; and by the greater or less readiness and completeness with which we grasp the artist's language we measure our own share of those powers which produced the wonder." A careful study of music enhances our relationship to the art and its producers. We discover not only more about ourselves, but also more of what we are capable.

To my amazement, in a later class one student raises her hand and says that she has taught herself to sing two very different tones at one time as the Tuvan throat singers of Siberia do. She is somewhat hesitant to demonstrate her ability to the class, as the second, higher frequency at this point in her self-training is very faint. She holds the microphone and produces the sounds. The graph updates almost instantaneously and the class views it eagerly on the projection screen. There we see the quantification of the two sounds: the strong peak of the pedal note and the faint but measurable higher frequency note. The student smiles with great self-satisfaction; she and her classmates have connected with the skill, history, and culture of the Tuvan singers. And the science has quantified and enhanced how they understand the art.

Humanity is marked by the biological capacity for musicality. Every known culture has something like music. Understanding how we experience and create music in the present gives us clues to why and how music emerged as one of the defining features of human culture (and, therefore, of humanness itself) in the past. But thinking carefully about music and evolution can also help us reassess how we use music now: in the wider culture, collectively as the church, and even within our own homes. In a nutshell, then, this essay will examine how views on evolution impact how one assesses music’s effects and meaning. In many cases, problematic views about evolution and artistic creativity result in problematic views about music, but my argument is that an appropriate evolutionary view of music—one that looks at how music becomes meaningful within social relationships—is a view that actually enriches our appreciation of this most human endeavor, rather than trivializing it. In this first part I explore common discourses about the meaning of music and their relationship to ideas of creation. In part two next week, I suggest that understanding the role that music played in our biocultural evolution helps correct some of the myths that have made their way into popular discourse, especially with the growing popularity of trying to understand music via neuroscience.

Let’s begin by looking at a couple of popular ways of answering the question, “Where does musical meaning come from?” beginning with the idea that “music is in the ear of the beholder.” One thing that is clear from years of teaching classes of first-year university students is that they are musical relativists. They have ‘their’ music that they enjoy and even use to demark their identities, but are perfectly willing to allow others to like other music. After all, music is all about enjoyment, right? Historically, this cultural trope developed out of the post-Kantian argument of musical autonomy, the often-fashionable argument that music’s meaning is strictly musical and does not relate to other parts of the world. It is also reflected in Steven Pinker’s argument that music is ‘auditory cheesecake’. For Pinker, music used to be useful for things like attracting mates, but now we have evolved out of needing music: it’s not necessary, but is a nice extra. I might like cheesecake, but you might prefer ice cream. Either way, it won’t change the survival of the species, so we can enjoy what we like. This argument may have a harder time standing up when music is used as a means of torture at Guantanamo Bay, but it remains popular none-the-less. Like many ideas of creation and the arts, the idea of music as primarily pleasure (determined by individual taste) is a post-Enlightenment development.

This musical relativism takes a slightly more exacting form in another popular idea, that meaning is embedded within the ‘music itself’ not in the taste of the listener. This view of meaning is the starting point of Plato and Aristotle’s disagreement about the effect of certain modes, the disagreements in the early church about the usage of certain musical instruments, and the arguments of the detrimental moral impact of certain forms of popular music (which, by the way, is an argument not just limited to the 20th or now 21st centuries). It is also the foundation of the statement from one of my former conductors that if we played well enough, we would summon up the ‘spirit of Haydn’. In other words, ‘proper’ participation can reveal the meaning of the work—be that the composer’s meaning or another idealized meaning.

Musical autonomy in this case refers to the view that music stands apart and has no relations or meaning outside of itself. Many philosophers and musicologists rely on this view in an unreflective way, represented by Peter Kivy’s statement that music “is a quasi-syntactical structure of sound understandable solely in musical terms and having no semantic or representational content, no meaning, and making no reference to anything beyond itself”¹. For Kivy, the heart of the autonomy argument is that music is completely self-contained. Such a view is possible because of the historical development of ‘absolute music’, referring to music without a text or narrative, typified by the development of the symphonic form in the late 18th century. It is no accident that between 1750-1850, the form of the symphony developed, Kant theorized the idea of genius, and Schopenhauer claimed music to be “pure will.” In the 19th century, music came to be considered the highest of the arts, and even at the turn of the 20th century Kandinsky claimed that all art should try to achieve the autonomy and abstraction of music.

The idea of musical meaning somehow residing within the musical work is based on an assumption that the more one can isolate and analyze something, the more can be known about it. We can certainly learn much about a rock or plant by isolating it and putting it under a microscope, and those who take music to be autonomous believe that music can also be known most thoroughly by placing it ‘under the microscope’ through close analysis of a score or recording, or through close listening. It is through such pseudo-scientific analytical acts that knowledge about music is thought to be accessed. This is also the guiding ideology of ‘music appreciation.’ But while much can be gained by close examination of rocks or music, much more can be gained by studying how a rock or (especially) music is used by people—a central point to which we will return.

It is more than a little ironic, then, that a further example of the belief in an intrinsic musical meaning is the argument that music is ‘universal’; that is, that at least some music can cross cultural barriers and mean the same thing to all people. Often this view assumes a primacy of the Western canon, as it is believed that Mozart has a universal meaning but Chinese qin (zither) music does not. In a globalized world where many cultures listen to and value Mozart, people who do not share a common language or view of the world may find Mozart a common point of contact. But finding Mozart a point of contact is not caused by the music having a universal meaning. Rather, it is an example of the way music can become a shared space where people enter into a relationship via art. The West-Eastern Divan Orchestra (a project of Daniel Barenboim and the late Edward Said) is an example of music being a common ground where people from different views of the world can connect, not an example of universalized meanings of music.

Indeed, there are many situations when music’s meanings are not shared, showing that meaning is most definitely not universal. Martin Lodge recounts the encounter of Dutch explorers and the Maori people of New Zealand in 1642. When the parties got close enough to see (and hear) each other, each group signalled with trumpets. The Dutch, thinking they were successful in making contact, sent a boat of unarmed sailors to shore. The boat was met by Maori warriors who killed more than half of the sailors. This misunderstanding was caused by not sharing a musical meaning: “The Maori trumpeting in this case was the music of war, an invitation to fight. On the other hand the Dutch trumpets played a variety of tunes intended to be welcoming.”² Musical meanings are often shared, but are not universal or ‘in the music’.

As we have begun to see, considering music as culturally embedded lets us recognize something quite different from the arguments that musical meaning is either subjective or encoded within the music itself. Music does allow for subjective response, but not truly autonomous response—our experience of music occurs within the bounds of cultural norms. Since music’s significance cannot be abstracted from it’s embeddedness within social relationships, an attention to culture and human intentionality (not just a reductionist sense of biology) must inform the ways that music is studied, whether in contemporary culture, in neuroscience, and with reference to human evolution. Unfortunately even many Christian views of music have relied upon some of these problematic views of musical meaning, aligning ideas like individual artistic genius and the “meaning in the music” concept with theologies of creation ex nihilo. As Bruce Ellis Benson discusses in an essay in the journal Verge (and in a shortened version here at BioLogos), this combination or paralleling of genius and ex nihilo creation complicates the church’s understanding not only of music, but also about the Creator God, downplaying the essential element of community and interpersonal relationship inherent to both.

Next week, we’ll look at a similar tendency to abstract and quantify the way music makes meaning in the burgeoning field of neuroscience (from the “Mozart Effect” to fMRI scans), and return to the way that thinking about music within the evolution of human culture might give us a deeper appreciation of music—even of worship—within the church. In the meantime, here are some questions to consider:

How do my own assumptions of the way music is meaningful affect the ways I conceive of and use music?

Are there negative consequences stemming from these assumptions?

How have problematic views of musical meaning affected the use of music as personal identity? Or in the church? Or in the media? Or in popularized science?

Notes

1. Kivy, Peter (1990) Music Alone (Cornell University Press: Ithica, NY): p. 202.

2. Lodge, Martin (2009) 'Music Historiography in New Zealand' in ed. Zdravko Blazekovic, Music's Intellectual History (RILM: New York): p. 627.

Today's sermon is from Pastor Mark Swarner of Menlo Park Presbyterian Church in Menlo Park, CA. You can hear the full sermon here.

Of all the blessings to be thankful for on Thanksgiving Day, none of them surpasses the riches of the eternal blessings which the Lord has bestowed on his sons and daughters in Christ Jesus. Pastor Mark Swarner of Menlo Park Presbyterian emphasizes this point as he looks at Psalm 103: 1-4 (NIV):

“Praise the LORD, my soul;
all my inmost being, praise his holy name.
Praise the LORD, my soul,
and forget not all his benefits—
who forgives all your sins
and heals all your diseases,
who redeems your life from the pit
and crowns you with love and compassion…”

The benefits are “life-changing” and “soul transforming.” Unlike most where there are exclusions and various requirements, these are freely given through Christ, and no one is disqualified based on pre-existing conditions. In fact, God desires that people come to him in all their imperfections that he might renew and heal them.

The first benefit deals with the major problem of the human heart: sin. In the Psalm, King David, who knew what it meant to be forgiven for deeply wrongful acts, boldly speaks of the love which God has for his people such that God does not deal with us according to our past actions. Rather, “as far as the east is from the west, so far has he removed our transgressions from us.” Regardless of a person’s past or future mistakes, God’s love is stronger still. We are, above all, forgiven people and with that "we enter his gates with Thanksgiving in our hearts.”

In his second point, Swarner examines the power of God available for healing. The verse is not claiming that one will never become sick, but it does indicate that God has the power to heal. The all-important assurance in this passage is that God will take our brokenness and weakness, and through him, ultimately, we will be whole. We are, above all, a people filled with hope, and with that "we enter his gates with Thanksgiving in our hearts and we come into his courts with praise.”

The third benefit the Psalmist declares is that the Lord “redeems your life from the pit and crowns you with love and compassion.” There is a sense in which we all—like Joseph in Genesis 37—have experienced life’s pit of despair. We, like Joseph, emerge from the pit to a new life crowned with the confidence that we are loved, and with that we, ourselves, become agents of God’s love and channels for God’s compassion. We are, above all, a people redeemed by love, and with that "we enter his gates with Thanksgiving in our hearts and we come into his courts with praise.....This is the day that the Lord has made and we will rejoice for He has made us glad.¹”

1. See Psalm 100:4 and 118:24:

One of the defining features of the debate about science and faith is the stark difference in the way evolutionary processes are perceived. While many scientists find the intricate web of internal mechanisms and external influences to be not only fascinating but beautiful, those who have not spent years studying biology and ecology are just as likely to see natural systems as depicted by science as no more than “red in tooth and claw,” an affront to the Biblical affirmation that God created a good earth, though now marred by sin. How do we begin to sort out these issues of conflicting images of evolution? A starting place may be comparing two perspectives on another highly ambivalent natural system and symbol—a fairly common “garden variety” spider and its web.

In April of this year, poet Suzanne Rhodes gave a presentation at the University of Virginia—Wise likening the craft of poetry to the way the family of spiders known as “orb weavers” spin their webs. One of the three largest families of spiders, the Aranedae makes what might be considered the archetypical form of web, with circular bands of sticky prey-catching silk organized around and supported by a structure of radial strands. But just as interesting (and instructive) to Rhodes as the basic form of the web was the process by which it was made and—at the end of the day—unmade.

An orb weaver begins her work by casting a multi-stranded line of silk far into the air, letting the wind carry it an often-considerable distance before it hits an upright object like a tree, a tall stalk of grass, or even a building. From this initial thread the spider begins to build the scaffolding for the rest of the web. For Rhodes, this first arachnid ‘act of faith’ is very much like the way a poet must begin a work by allowing her thoughts and sensibilities to focus on whatever happens to be out there in the natural and cultural world at the moment—essentially, of waiting on the Spirit to take the lead by carrying the silk of her attention to where it needs to be attached. This is neither an unguided nor unconstrained sense of “inspiration,” but one that recognizes the importance of waiting (rather than an immediate act of will) to creative acts like poetry—something not far from the kind of patience and observation practiced by scientists in order to discern a specific approach to solving a problem in their fields, or even to recognize a problem in the first place.

The unmaking of the orb-weaver’s web was also an important metaphor in Rhodes’ description of the creative process, as it is also integral to the completion of the working web, while also allowing for the next web to built. The first few strands an orb weaver establishes after the first launched line are typically not artfully laid out in the eventual radial pattern. Rather, they are somewhat haphazard temporary supports connected to whatever other objects are nearby and at sufficient height, and linked together by a hub. Little by little, subsequent lines begin to conform to the eventual pattern and the first become unnecessary to the stability of the web. Indeed, once the spider has laid out the sticky circles of the working part of the web she eats these first helper lines, reabsorbing their material into herself to become part of the now much-more coherent and organized final structure.

Rhodes suggests that this is very much like the necessity of editing and revision in the craft of poetry, as early lines and images get a poem started and may even be quite beautiful in themselves, but often must be sacrificed as the eventual order and aim of the whole becomes more clear to the poet. This creative scaffolding is not “bad,” by any means, and early working versions are actually indispensable to the development of the eventual poem, but they must also be set aside and reabsorbed if the final work is to be completed and serve its purpose of revealing and describing a truth. This sense of sacrificing the means to the ends is given another twist when the poet asks us to consider that many species of orb weavers deconstruct their entire webs each day, eating them, recycling them, and beginning the whole process anew, depending on a new breath of air to show her the way.

As with the first part of the process, the orb weaver’s habitual setting aside of its previous hard work in order to be about the ever-renewing business of being a spider can be a useful analogy for the way the scientific endeavor rightly pursued requires that scientists not be over-fond of their own constructs, but be willing to have them taken apart and rebuilt for the larger purpose of seeking a true understanding of the material world. And likewise, it can suggest the way we must also be open to the constant renewing of our minds (not to mention hearts and wills) under the leadership of Christ, even when that means setting aside cherished thoughts and ways that turn out to be less than central to the life of following and proclaiming Jesus.

Clearly, the orb weaver is a powerful symbol of both spiritual and creative truth for Suzanne Rhodes—something wonderful and beautiful. But my own experience with orb weavers was somewhat less poetic, and can serve as a counterpoint, of sorts, on our way to thinking about reconciliation.

Many weeks of my summers growing up were spent on my grandfather’s farm near Corpus Christi, Texas, fiddling in the shop or roaming about the homestead on a John Deere riding mower. In addition to driving on the “yard” part of the property, I typically drove the three black dirt paths that led from my grandfather’s farmhouse across the field to his parent’s old place, to the main road out front, or (the longest run) to the back of the farm at the next section road. These “roads” were really no more than 8’ to 10’ breaks in the row crops, typically cotton and milo, or grain sorghum. When mature, milo’s deep green, corn-like foliage is topped by seed-heads that vary from pale yellow through orange and reddish brown, standing a bit over four feet tall.

At nearly head-height for a boy abut 10 years old and sitting on a riding mower, the lines of those ruddy, golden seed heads converging in the distance seemed a magical pathway, made better by the fact that I was navigating it at the helm of a motorized vehicle, and going at a pretty good clip. Magical, that is, until I ran smack dab into the web of a large orb-weaver who'd strung her web all the way across the road, also precisely centered at boy-head-height. I remember feeling the whack of the spider, which seemed to be as big as a dinner plate—or at least my hand, which scale was probably a bit closer to the actual span of 3+ inches. That initial close encounter would have been bad enough, but was made much worse byt the fact that I now had very strong sticky web all wrapped around me, which felt an awful lot like more spiders. I let go of the wheel of the mini-tractor and plowed off into the rows while I tried to extract myself, hoping that the spider had bailed out soon after impact.

Eventually, I recovered my composure and got the mower back on the road and continued the drive—taking deep breaths to ward off the shudders I was still getting, not being too keen on creepy things with more than six legs, anyway, and still having little tendrils of silk tickling the back of my neck now and then. With my eye fixed on the horizon again I was able to start thinking about how impressive it was that a spider was able to cast its web all the way across the road, and that its colors blended so well with the backdrop of the milo that it had been all but invisible, even given its size, and even given the zig-zaging stabilimenta the Argiope spiders add to the basic structure of the web. And that's when I hit the second one.

Those encounters did not help my opinion of spiders, which wasn’t very high in the first place. Indeed, for years after that I felt something like (but not quite) disgust at them, and really, really didn’t like the idea of having them on or near my person. My reaction did not rise (or sink) to phobia, but it was very much not “friendly,” either. But in retrospect, I had also been given a glimpse of something quite marvelous about their abilities as natural engineers—something I could not help but recognize as worthwhile and true, even if I didn’t like it, or found the specific ramifications of being caught in the web myself unsettling.

The point of tying my personal narrative to the description of artistic and scientific process, then, is to carry one step further the idea advanced in last week’s post on oysters and pearls: that God opens unexpected spaces to demonstrate His agency and grace. For if God works in the dirty and grimy and unglamorous places, hiding pearls of beauty in their midst, He also works through means that do not have the obvious redemptive surprise of a gem hidden inside. Sometimes the Lord’s means remain resolutely resistant to our attempts to find them lovely rather than ugly. Sometimes God’s ways aren’t just mysterious, but seem to mock our sense of propriety and make us wince at they way they violate what we understand to be right and beautiful. Despite the victory of Christ’s resurrection, the cross remains an unmitigated image of suffering and shame.

So what do we do with such images, objects and processes that strike many of us as repulsive, yet also seem to be integral to the way God is working in the world? While the orb-weaver and evolutionary creation are drawn from the ways of nature, the conflict between expectation and fact is just as often felt in our interpersonal and social relationships as in our intellectual ones. In all areas, we are required to humbly depend on the Spirit to help us see the way forward, rather than retreating on our well-worn and well-loved paths.

We may never be fully comfortable with the people we are called to love, nor with the processes and agents through which the Lord works creation and redemption in our midst. But unity does not require unanimity. Rather, by the Spirit the Church can actually be what the Lord has called us to be: a community of people whose differences incline them towards argument and who would likely never choose to be associated with one with otherwise, but who join with one another on account of our common fellowship with Jesus. Though we may all one day come to appreciate strange beauties like those of the orb weaver, the greater lesson is learning to trust the Lord even in his most jarring ways, when we still find the spider’s web a reason to shudder, rather than rejoice.

Poet Susan Wharton Gates begins her poem “The Spirit in the Oyster Shell” with a reference to Jesus’ description of a merchant willing to sell all he had to possess “a pearl of great value.” Following on the previous verse’s image of a treasure buried in a field, the pearl itself is often understood as an image for the Kingdom of God—something so dear that we should, likewise, give all we have to claim it for ourselves. But as the text actually names the merchant as the subject, it can also be taken as a reminder that the Kingdom consists of not just the treasure, but the One (and after Him, the community) who searches for what is of value—sometimes in unlikely places.

Having grown up spending time on the boundary of the Chesapeake Bay on Maryland’s Eastern Shore, seeing watermen making their living from the often hidden bounty of that fertile estuary and its many inlets, Gates acquired a more prosaic and ecological context for pearls than the crowns of kings or the necks of ladies. And as she was acquainted with the oyster long before she was acquainted with the treasure that it sometimes contains, in this poem Gates touches on the Biblical image of the pearl, but grounds that image and her spiritual ruminations in the life of the oyster.

Gates recalls hearing her mother say that “the first person to have opened an oyster must have been pretty hungry,” but that culinary pioneer must also have been both observant and curious in order to notice and extract the shell from the muddy bottom or the jagged oyster reefs in which they grow. As for the mollusk itself, its outward appearance would not immediately signal that something good, much less something beautiful, was inside. Moreover, the rough, irregular exterior requires a lot of work to get into. There are oyster-shucking contests not because prying the halves of the shell apart is easy, but because it is hard and can even be dangerous to one’s fingers. And yet, for the imaginative (who ask “what might be in there?”), the persistent, and—above all—the desperate, there is the reward of sustenance and the possibility of something more.

That something nourishing resides hidden away in the most unexpected and unglamorous of places speaks to the paradoxical hiddenness of God. It speaks to the way God’s presence in the world—not to mention His revelation of Himself— is not always perfectly obvious, but instead, mysterious. Seeking Him, therefore, requires discipline and perseverance in looking in places one might not “reasonably” expect to find Him, a fact that says more about our expectations than about God’s character. This is true of looking for the Lord in human character and relationships, but no less in looking for Him in the midst of His creation. Thus, scientific endeavor informed by Christian faith can be seen as the practice of seeking the Lord in the oyster, not just the pearl, of looking in the muddy places for the dirty things and still expecting to find God in the midst. It is not always in the spectacle of clarity that God reveals Himself, but in the murkiness of our fallen world.

But what of the pearl, itself? Despite the advent of modern techniques to “culture” them, it is helpful to think of the pearl as a costly gift rather than a product or commodity—costly to the oyster more than to us. A pearl does not come about because the oyster “wants” to make it, but on account of an irritant, a wound. As beautiful as we find its translucent, iridescent layers, the pearl is the treasure of suffering, made by the oyster’s bathing a foreign object in the substance of its own shell, lavishing itself on the intruding body, the very thing that gives it hurt. This treasure’s maker does not just ignore the damaging foreign body but, instead, transforms and redeems it. And when we remember that the oyster must die to surrender the pearl to our waiting hands, realize that we adorn ourselves with the beauty of its suffering at the cost of its life while consuming its very flesh in the bargain, the pearl becomes an even more apt symbol for God’s grace extended to us in Jesus.

Taking the oyster and pearl together, then, gives us a dual analogy for the way the Lord reveals himself in both the world and in the Word—a symbol for the relationship between general revelation in the Creation and special revelation of Jesus through the scriptures and the ongoing work of the Spirit. First, in all its unglamorous bivalve-ness, the oyster is like the way that God’s agency and sustaining presence is “evident” in nature: it is there for all to explore and examine, but to do so requires that we have the perseverance to pry open what may not seem particularly promising or appetizing (much less lovely) at first glance. If we do persist, though, we will be rewarded with something good and nourishing, even though still surprising: an awareness and appreciation of the created order, an appetite for discovery of the unheralded beauty of the “ordinary” materials and ways of the Creator. By the same token, the way God has spoken to us through the scriptures, pointing us always to the person of Christ, may be likened to the pearl itself, that treasure hidden within the shell, unseen at first, but undeniably beautiful when revealed, removed from its humble package, and turned over and over in the hand.

It is true that one can go through a lifetime of oysters without encountering a pearl in the shell. Conversely, one can possess a pearl without ever having shucked an oyster. But if you have both seen a pearl and know how they come to be, then each unopened oyster on the plate holds more than the promise of bodily sustenance, it holds the possibility of discovery, of beauty, of delight. A careful and scientific exploration of the natural world does not lead directly to Christ anymore than meeting Jesus requires an intimate knowledge of biology or physics. But it is surely the case that seeking the Lord in both the oyster and the pearl develops in us a taste for the surprising ways He is bringing in His kingdom, the unexpected places He is revealing His grace.

Gates has a somewhat light tone about the oyster, seeming to laugh as much as marvel that God should make something both so unassuming and so superficially off-putting, and that we should respond with so much curiosity and determination to get at what’s within. Rockefellers aside, the oyster seems a “beatitudes” sort of meal, rather than a feast for princes. But the better punch-line still is that for those who seek diligently and make themselves acquainted with the “mournful, craggy shell,” God has another, greater surprise in store—not just life, but treasure.

In her last lines on the almost surreptitious discovery of the pearl itself, Gates echoes the upside-down spiritual economy that Jesus proclaimed when he told the religious leaders of His day that heaven rejoices more over one sinner turned to the Lord than over many who deny their need for salvation. The oyster and the pearl it contains, she says, is for the downtrodden, those who are not looking for treasure but only for something. It is in and through such unexpected gifts, placed for the “undeserving” to find, that God greets us and all mankind, treasure which Heaven thrills for us claim as our own.

“Spirit in the Oyster Shell”

by Susan Wharton Gates

Deviously hidden
from view
in black river mud
by the maker
who longs to greet the few
hungry enough
thirsty enough to
fish it up and
pry apart the
mournful, craggy shell—
the oyster
is God's humblest vessel.
A seemingly uninspired afterthought
pieced from nature's scrap,
it is (admittedly) a hard sell.

But tucked inside
like the prize in crackerjack
is the pearl.
Heaven thrills when
someone picks and
pockets it.

Susan Wharton Gates is a recovering financial services executive just as happy to be writing about oysters as banking regulations. She grew up around Wilmington, Delaware and got her first exposure to Maryland’s Eastern Shore as a child when her family rented a cottage from the parents of her future husband, Peter, built on pilings in the Chester River. She later proved her love by drinking her first oyster out of a muddy river shell on the same pier.

Gates received her Ph.D in Public Administration and Policy from Virginia Tech, writing her dissertation on the impact of social gospel ideas on the development of early 19th century government "bureaus," and concluding with an examination of local watermen’s own response to environmental and social challenges on Tangier Island in the Chesapeake Bay through a community covenant based on Charles Monroe Sheldon’s 1896 book, In His Steps. Gates has authored two chapbooks of her poetry: “Buttons for the Whole, Poems for our common life,” and “Spirit in the Oyster Shell, Pearls on the Way,” in which this poem was first published. They are available by writing directly to the poet.

Listening to this recording of The Fretful Porcupine playing “The Water Is Wide” online is a very different experience than being in the room with the duo and other audience members for a live performance. Nevertheless, the diversity of readers of this post does recreate one particular aspect of being with Jake Armerding and Kevin Gosa presenting the music in person: in both settings, some hearers are familiar with this very traditional and well-known folk tune as just that, but many others’ first association with the melody will be the cross of Christ, as those hearers recognize the music as the Christian hymn “When I Survey the Wondrous Cross.” At the live performance, that latter group may have wondered if this pair of avant-garde bluegrass/jazz players was surreptitiously proclaiming the story of Jesus’ death and resurrection in the midst of a show at the Infinity Hall performance space, or merely hearkening back only to an 18th-century tale of woe. The truth is most likely “both,” and in that very fact the Fretful Procupine gives both audiences a complicated gift—an example of the way that in music, as in all life, adaptive reuse is a way to wring the most meaning out of both the material and symbolic forms we discover in the world.

In the life sciences, the idea of adaptive re-use or biological re-purposing—of taking an existing form and making it do sometimes very different work—is often given the term “exaptation.” In less technical terms, scientists also sometimes speak of a feature being “co-opted” from one role in the life of the organism to another. But while in common parlance we tend to think of something being “co-opted” as a bad thing and a violation of original principles or intentions, the word itself does not imply a “hijacking” so much as a divergence with connection: co-operation between one use and another.

This intrinsic openness of both complex and seemingly-simple structures—not to mention whole organisms or ecosystems—sometimes makes for new, different, even transformational relationships that do seem to upend or contradict what came before, rather than merely taking a slightly different “co-operative” path. Thus “The Water Is Wide,” also known (and listed in hymnals) by the name “O Waly Waly,” is a song that its early hearers would recognize as a lament about the fickleness of love, the inconstancy of human relationships and promises, and the despair that comes of misplaced trust. But when paired with a different set of words, those of Isaac Watts’ hymn, “When I Survey the Wondrous Cross,” the meaning undergoes a profound and ironic change.

What’s interesting here is not just the idea that one can strip a symbolic, expressive musical form of its “original” meaning and impose an entirely new regime of meaning upon it, but the way such a change is often not a wholesale substitution but a transformation—the old meaning becoming part of the new meaning, even when that first is superficially left behind. This is particularly appropriate when thinking about the Water Is Wide/Wondrous Cross pairing, because the lamentation quality of the original tune reinforces in the newer symbolic environment the idea that what makes the cross of Jesus “wondrous” was precisely its horror—and that our very God would submit Himself to it for our sakes. That tension is one of the deep and terrible mysteries and ironies of the Christian faith.

But even more than just affirming that the cost of our redemption was high, remembering (or learning) the various texts that “O Waly, Waly” accompanied before Watt’s hymn was paired with it gives us a beautiful contrast between the character of human love and commitment (fickle, inconstant, self-serving) and the character of divine love (constant and self-sacrificial). In other words, the hymn setting preserves not only the musical structure of the song, but even part of the meaning of the first—lament and sorrow over love—but in a new context, with a new framework of meaning. The lament itself is transformed without being lost, and turned to mark the distinctively Christian tension between sacrifice and redemption through a greater love than that of mortal men and women.

Precisely because of this kind of expansion rather than replacement of meaning, our appreciation of this or other hymn tunes ought not decrease when we realize that they may have had secular or even profane origins (think of the drinking songs used by Charles Wesley), or be limited to merely rejoicing that such vulgar forms have been redeemed. Instead, we can celebrate and marvel at the way such beauty and new work has come directly out of something that seemed either unrelated or even in opposition to our life in Christ. This dynamic of renewal is, after all, exactly what we celebrate when we affirm that God’s grace is extended to us, and our own covenantal responsibility fulfilled by God himself, through the horror of the cross of Jesus.

By analogy, then, this instance of expressive “exaptation” in the art of worship has something to tell us about how we might think about the science of biological and even human origins—of how the scientific accounts of the history and relatedness of life on earth express the character of God. Most generally, we should see that it need not degrade or debase the biological world (much less humanity) as God’s creation to proclaim that we were made from lesser materials and that we share so much of our physical make-up and history with creatures in whom we may not see much to celebrate. It is, after all, the very power of God to remake what is base into what is glorious through often surprising and unexpected means.

Even more specifically, this reminder of the way new meaning emerges in old forms may help Christians think about what genetic research and developmental biology is suggesting about the way everything from proteins to cellular structures to body parts (from bacterial flagella to feathers) may be put to very different, novel and unexpected uses in different (or just changing) biological and ecological contexts. The more scientists in various fields of specialization look closely at the way life grows expands and connects, the more they see that adaptability—creativity—is the rule rather than the exception, and that biological or environmental challenges are often answered by surprising and unexpected re-purposings of previously-extant, often apparently “unrelated” capabilities.

A more detailed discussion and important examples of this exaptive principle in evolutionary biology may be found elsewhere on this site, but the key issue for our worshipping life together as the Church is that we recall the thrust of Watt’s hymn—that God wrought something more wonderful than the disciples (or we) could have imagined from the most unlikely and disturbingly-familiar means: the cross. Listening to “The Water is Wide” with ears to hear both the lament for lost human love and the affirmation that divine love has, indeed, found us, may we be reminded that at nearly every scale of life, and at every point on the material scale from chemical compounds to poetic symbol, creation points to the Creator who says, “Behold, I am doing a new thing,” and to the Redeemer who so often told His hearers, “You have heard it said. . . but I tell you. . .” while calling them to a radically new way of being the People of God. May all our songs of lament be put to similar new uses under the guidance of the Spirit and in fellowship with all the saints.

In their own words, The Fretful Porcupine "brews finely-crafted roots chamber music made of saxophones, wires, and wood." The duo incorporates a list of styles and idioms in creating its own, from jazz to pop to bluegrass to classical. Since their first official performance at the 2009 World Saxophone Congress in Bangkok, Thailand, they’ve performed regularly throughout the U.S. at festivals, clubs, colleges, performing arts centers, cellars and rooftops. Currently, the group is focusing much of its energy on developing a new paradigm for live performance that recognizes the need for physicality and human interaction in music. They are performing and lecturing on the subject "Embodying Music" at colleges and conferences throughout 2011/2012.

The ensemble's saxophonist, Kevin Gosa, is an emerging thought-leader on arts and culture. His writing has appeared in Comment, Chamber Music, and The Curator. He has masterminded four conferences for International Arts Movement. Violinist/mandolinist/guitarist, Jake Armerding, has been performing as a bluegrass fiddler and folk songwriter for over 20 years. He was acclaimed by the Boston Globe as “the most gifted songwriter to emerge from the Boston folk scene in years.” You can follow the Fretful Porcupine on Twitter, and like them on Facebook.

Opening Prayer: “Will you join me in prayer as we focus our hearts and our minds on the Lord this morning? Let us pray. Take a minute and just speak to God yourself, and speak to him about your love for him and your thankfulness for his love and grace and mercy in your life—Father you are good and your love endures forever, your faithfulness to all generations. Thank-you for your faithfulness in our lives, thank-you for your grace that is sent to us, especially sent in the form of your son Jesus. Lord help us to continually appropriate that grace, to continually seek after you. Lord we ask that you would take this time to grow us, to spiritual form us. Amen”

Ken Myers: “Morning. I am in east Texas. The original invitation was to give some lectures on the subject of beauty. I am lecturing in Tyler beginning tonight and tomorrow morning, and when an opportunity came up to speak to you all here at Le Tourneau, I suggested that I might want to talk about a related topic, and so my topic this morning is going to be about the arts and worship.”

“I started working at National Public Radio just before I turned twenty-two. I went to work in the arts and performance department, and I was editing interviews with and commentaries about some of the most creative people in the world. Now, during that time I was also attending an evangelical church I had been at since 5th grade, and that meant that I was spending Monday through Friday with people who were intensely involved in the arts, but pretty much indifferent to, if not hostile to, the practice of Christian worship, and on Sunday’s I worshipped with people who often regarded the arts rather nervously, if not with hostility. It was like when worlds collide, and it was my life.

“During this period in my life on Sundays, I spent time with people who believed in creation, while during the week I worked with people who believed in creativity, and often their lives didn’t seem to overlap. My church friends were deeply committed to the first clause of the Nicene Creed: ‘I believe in one God, the Father Almighty, Maker of heaven and earth and of all things visible and invisible.’ These people believed in a creator. They described the world as a creation, but, in general, like most Christians for most of the Church’s history, they were often more eager to defend the fact of creation than they were to explore the consequences of creation’s nature and meaning in their everyday lives.

“My colleagues at NPR, on the other hand, and the people with whom I was pursuing my vocation, were all people who did not believe there was a maker of all things—they believed in nature, but not creation, and certainly not a creator. But they did believe, and sometimes in an almost religious way, in creativity. In fact, some of them were willing to ascribe almost redemptive power to creativity as made evident in the arts. The arts made life worth living. The arts fulfilled meaning in otherwise meaningless lives. In a world that was essentially chaotic, in which everyday life was dominated by bureaucratic, mechanistic institutions, the arts were great refreshment. They were a source of hope and joy and peace and even possibly moral guidance. The arts rendered us human, many of my friends believed, and delivered us from mere bestial or mechanistic existence. Some of them may have gone so far as to say that the arts imparted a spark of divinity into our lives.”

“Now I was used to living between these two worlds—I majored in film studies as an undergraduate, and I didn’t have a lot of colleagues in my department at the University of Maryland who took religion very seriously either. And I dealt with this conflict early on by starting to read as much as I could lay my hands on about Christianity and the arts. In 1975 (when I started at NPR), there wasn’t a lot written—you all are lucky that there is a lot more great stuff to read now on subjects like that—but I was beginning what turned out to be a life time of reading and study and writing and interviewing to try to understand how we had gotten to the point: how was it that the Church had generally allowed its concern with redemption to eclipse the theme in both Old and New Testaments of the goodness and givenness of creation? Why didn’t we attend to the structure and form of creation that much? …and how was it that modern western culture outside the Church had abandoned its belief in a creator, in a creation that was ordered and given meaning by its maker even while it tried to sustain a belief in human dignity and creativity?

“And over the years, as I have studied this and read about it and thought more about it, I came to realize that both the church and the world of the arts suffered from a diminished appreciation for the meaning of creation. Modern Christians often assume that they could relate to God apart from any deliberate relation to the stuff of creation, and modern secularists assume that they can relate to creation without recognizing or honoring the creator in any way. For both sides, creation is just a lot of raw material; creation isn’t inherently meaningful. It is meaningless and awaits our creativity to achieve significance. Modern Christians, moreover, have tended to pursue an understanding of God that was more and more abstract. It focused his attributes, on invisible realities rather than history, and as theology has aspired to be more like a science, it has assumed that we can think about God apart from his relationship with creation.

“ Of course, God’s identity is not determined by creation, but it is through God’s actions in and through creation that we know him. The Psalms make this very clear. He reveals himself through creation and his supreme revelation of himself involved his entering into creation in a sensory and perceivable way. Creation is an epiphany, it is a revealing…it is a revelation. The heavens declare the glory of God, and God’s eternal power and divine nature can be perceived in the things he has made…that is a remarkable statement. Throughout the Scriptures, especially in the wisdom literature and the Psalms, creation is depicted as an active and evident witness to God’s identity, and all of creation bears witness to God in a chorus of worship. In Psalms 89 we read the very heavens shall praise thy wondrous works and thy truth in the congregation of the saints. The heavens and the earth are depicted as testifying to God’s nature and to his coming triumph over evil. In Psalm 96 we read ‘let the heavens be glad, let the earth rejoice, let the sea roar and all that fills it. Let the fields exult and everything in them, then shall all the trees of the forest sing for joy before the Lord for he comes to judge the earth. He will judge the world in righteousness and the peoples in his faithfulness. Creation bears witness that those with ears to hear can hear, but to hear we have to approach creation with a well-ordered imagination.”

“There is a wonderful poem by Gerard Hopkins “God’s Grandeur,” and I mean it is wonderful in the strictness sense. It is full of wonder. He begins by insisting that the world is charged with the grandeur of God, and he goes on to suggest that modern men and women fail to perceive the grandeur of God. They fail to perceive what is revealed there because we are so preoccupied with practical things. All is seared with trade, bleared, smeared with toil, and all wears man’s smudge and shares man’s smell. We are too preoccupied with getting things done to actually attend to the glory present in creation, and as I have suggested, where the Scriptures present creation as an epiphany, a revelation, modern culture and a lot of modern Christians see creation as a lot of raw material resources. It is inert, meaningless stuff awaiting our creativity to become meaningful.

“So, the world is commonly regarded as material to which we do something, and not a source from which we receive something. I think that this attitude toward creation is contrary to how we should pursue the Arts, but also to how we ought to proceed in worship. Our worship should recognize that God the Maker of all things reveals himself in what he has made and that he calls us toward a receptive and grateful posture toward creation, not just toward the redemption he has provided…and that is really the posture of faithful artists. Both worship and the arts serve the function of reorienting our minds, our imaginations, and our practices so that we can properly perceive what creation is and what our position in creation should be. Art is a way of admiring and marveling and wondering at, as well as engaging in, meaningful and wonderful creation. God presents us in creation with materials and forms that artists transform, but they are always tethered to some order that is implicit in creation itself.

“Theologian Peter Lighthart has observed that the artist is always transforming, but this transfiguration is an attempt to get at dimensions of what is really there. It is not an abandonment of what is really there. Even if the artist is aiming at fantasy, art attempts to highlight patterns, correspondences, and dimensions to reality that are usually missed in our everyday experience and to force us to look again at the sunflower or the pipe or the chair. As the Russian formalists say, one of the purposes of art is to de-familiarize the familiar. The reason we do that is so that we can see it for what it is. It has become too familiar for us to recognize what it is. The artist is always responding to the reality of creation in some way—even the most abstract artistic forms—and the best artists are open to receiving something from creation before they can transfigure it. An artist has to sense creation with an exceptional acuity.

“Catholic philosopher Joseph Piper has a little book of essays called “Only the Lover Sings”—art and contemplation—only if you love something do you sing about it. Only if you delight in it, do you rejoice in it, and he is talking about the kind of rejoicing that is evident in works of art. He says there that to contemplate means first of all to see, not to think, and he is advocating a contemplative approach to creation so that we can see what it is, and then express what we have seen…a kind of seeing that is receptive and open, and not just accurate. That is the kind of seeing that is practiced by artists, and it is not unlike the tradition of contemplative prayer in the Christian tradition, and that gives us a link between worship and the arts.

“When I say the artist perceives creation, I don’t just mean trees and birds and colors and sunsets, but I mean all of the components of creation—shapes and sounds and textures—as well as various human activities within creation: the way our bodies inhabit space and time, the way words work with all their intriguing textures and resonances as well as the shape of our inner life—what sorrow feels like or sounds like or looks like. Memory, grief, affection—all of the aspects of nature and human nature have to be attended to lovingly and then reassembled or reconfigured or remixed in some way. Human creativity is not as God’s creativity ex nihilo—creation out of nothing—it is creation out of something, and it is a something that God, the God that we worship, has already blessed with meaning. Creation is meaningful revelation, and its revelation can be perceived as we are imaginatively involved with the stuff of creation. The God we worship, the maker of heaven and earth, has made as creatures whose lives are fulfilled when we engage creation well.”

“I have to confess that I get nervous when I hear Christian artists or other religious artists talk about the relationship between faith and art only as if art is an expression of spirituality or art is a gateway to the transcendent. It may be that, but I think they run the risk of presenting Christianity in disembodied terms. We should not be ashamed of the fact that our faith integrates spirit and body, but our faith calls us to regard the stuff of creation in all of its materiality as good, and thus offers the best starting point for the practice and pleasure of art.

“Christian worship has always been involved imaginatively with the stuff of creation. The poetry of the Psalms was recited by our Lord and his disciples so that he was engaged with the sound of words as well as the meaning of words. Music was a part of Christian worship—at least since choirs of angels greeted the nativity of the incarnate Christ and possibly earlier. Whether Mary sang her wonderful song which we call the Magnifica, a wonderful song inspired by her miraculous pregnancy or whether she simply spoke it we don’t know, but it is still sung week after week in churches around the world. Artful expressions and worship have been present in less obvious ways. It is notable that the communion table contains bread and wine, not wheat and grapes. It is not organic material in its most natural state that serves as a memorial meal that unites us with God, bread and wine are the products of human creativity. They are not simply of the natural blessing of God’s harvest, even grain and grapes require attention and care to bring them to fruition. Wine is an even more artful product and bread demands attentiveness to the details of creation. Bakers and vintners are not people we usually think of as artists, but what they do has a lot in common with what artists do: they take the stuff of creation and transform it into something newly delightful and beautiful. Bread, wine, and art all serve practical purposes, but they often go beyond necessity toward delight.

“Again, theologian Peter Lighthart has observed that art is a making that imitates the making of God, and it is most God-like when it is purely gratuitous, when it is not meeting a need—creation is gratuitous, it is not something that God needed to do, but we rejoice and give thanks both in worship and in the arts that he chose to do so. In worship, we honor the creator for the gift of creation and of salvation. In works of art we imitate God’s act of delighted and gratuitous making, and in the Lord’s Supper we receive a great feast, a table set for us not because we deserve it or even because we need it. God’s salvation could have been less extravagant, more perfunctory than a feast, just as the wine that Jesus made from water could have been merely passable rather than a really good wine. The wedding guests thought it was any way, and the inspired texts of the gospel seem to remind us of that. The gifts that God has given are given generously as well as gratuitously. Now, when we receive a great gift, we are delighted in the gift, and in the generosity of the giver, and so it is with a reception of a powerful work of art.

“When I hear the thoughtful and attentive performance of a carefully crafted piece of music or when I watch a masterfully constructed film, I often have a sense of gratitude not just to the performers and the composer or the director, but to God! I am grateful to live in a world where such joys are possible. The gratitude felt by the recipients of a gift resonates with the delight known by the giver of the gift. It is win-win, and that is a pattern built into creation since creation is the work of a dynamic three-personed God and the members of the Trinity enjoy an eternal giving and receiving of love among themselves. The doctrine of the Trinity reminds us of the personality and dynamism of God…qualities suggested in the ancient term applied to the Trinity by theologians [is] perichoresis. Perichoresis refers to the mutual indwelling of the persons of the Trinity, and by extension it refers to God’s relationship to the world whereby everything is in him and has its being in him. The ‘chor’ in perichoresis, by the way (if you have studied any Greek), may recognize that it shows up in our word choreography. Perichoresis literally means dancing around. So, the relationship among the persons of the Trinity is a dance—Father, Son and Holy Spirit dancing around each other and the Christian life which involves God in us and we in God is our entry into that dance.”

“What I am trying to do with all this theology is to make a case that artistic and imaginative and creative activity is not simply a pleasant and rewarding ornament that we might use to decorate our worship services or to increase enthusiasm to make them less boring, artistic activity is evidence to us of the kind of creatures we are, the kind of creator that God is, and the kind of world that we live in, a world that he has placed us in to love and serve him and others as we exercise our stewardship over that world. Since worship is in the words of one writer “the school of the Church,” our hearts and our minds are shaped through the experience of worship to properly perceive things as they are, and not only spiritual things, but all aspects of creation. After all, when Jesus commissioned the Church with the task of making disciples, he begins by declaring his authority over heaven and earth, not just their spiritual lives…and when we pray the Lord’s Prayer, we ask that God’s rule over all earthly things would become more and more evident on earth as it is in heaven. And so in worship we learn to perceive and name reality in a Christian way, and works of imagination can assist in those lessons.

“Since I have already mentioned the subject of music briefly, an observation from theologian and musician Jeremy Begby is appropriate here. In his book Resounding Truth: Christian Wisdom in the World of Music, Begby notes that in the western musical tradition guided by the Church quote “we have been placed in a world vibrant with its own God-given integrities and with the opportunity of interacting fruitfully with those integrities and that music is one means we have been given to do just that. When churches order their ministry of music with those kinds of integrities in mind, then music becomes a tool to reshape our imagination and to renew our minds.

“Art provides us with ways of perceiving reality aright. Not all art does this, or very well, and not all of us have allowed our imagination to be encouraged that kind of perception—we are in too big a hurry or it doesn’t seem practical enough; we have other things on our plate. Just as our thinking can be taken captive to worldly conclusions, so our imaginations can become preoccupied with novelty or with the merely interesting or with something that is trivializing or flattering. Just as we can surrender our bodies and the various consequences and configurations of our life in the body to patterns of disobedience, so we have the opportunity to present out bodies and all that we do in our body life in worthy and thoughtful sacrifice to God. The orienting of all aspects of our embodied life to God is the worship that we owe him.

“We learn that from Romans 12. And so, the use of our hands and our eyes and our ears and our voices in creativity activities that resonate with God’s own music in creation is a most suitable offering to bring him. In Romans 12, Paul warns about being conformed to this world and in no matter are we more in danger of worldly conformity than in our posture toward creation. All sorts of intellectual and social pressures suddenly persuade us to ignore the Biblical testimony of God’s identity as creator as well as the nature of our engagement with creation. The rationalism of the Enlightenment, which guides modern science and technology, encourages us to assume a god-like stance over the material world and at the other extreme, modern materialism suggests that we are at the mercy of something utterly different and incomprehensible.

“The Gospel picture of creation is radically different. Theologian Colin Gunton has said that we can know the world, not infallibly, not with a name of a kind of omniscience because we are both a part of it and able to transcend it through our personal powers of perception, imagination, and reason…and perception, imagination, and reason come together most intensely in artistic modes of knowledge and expression. The world is a creation intended for us to inhabit. It is not simply a meaningless, cosmic accident, and thus art can be powerful, it can resonate deeply in our lives, and even people who believe that the world is the product of a cosmic accident often cannot help when they work creatively to behave that way. Imaginative expressions in the visual arts and poetry and music have existential power because at some level, they convey to us something about the various connections and likenesses that God has placed in creation.

“This is especially evident, I think, in poetry where metaphor is involved in the recognition of likenesses, and it is an idea that came up in a conversation that I enjoyed a number of years ago—someone less famous than Johnny Cash—Richard Wilbur, who is probably our greatest living poet. Wilbur and I talked about the centrality of metaphor and poetry, how poetry works by likening one thing to another. In Psalm 1, a righteous person is compared to a tree sustained by its life and fruitfulness in life-giving water. The power of metaphor, Wilbur observed, “puts almost every poet in danger of being religious. If anything can be compared to anything else, if the world can be seen as a linkage of similes and metaphors and figures, then poetry itself comes very close to declaring that all things are co-natural, that they are of one nature and that brings you to the threshold of saying all things have had a maker.” Wilbur went on “I remember ages ago reading the final book of poems by poet Joseph Warren Beach, who claimed to be an atheist, and I took it around to him and he was in Cambridge at that time, and I said Joseph look at these two lines. Don’t you think that they amount to a religious affirmation? He read them and said ‘well, I can see that they do. I must say that I seem simply to have submitted to the spirit of poetry at that moment. It is an awesome thing to submit to the spirit of poetry even if for a moment.’”

“Worship that avoids imaginative expressions runs the risk of reducing our religious experience to mere ideas or mere therapy, when in fact our religious experience is rightly understood as cosmic. The scale of the Christian story incorporates the intensely intimate and the vast incomprehensibles of the cosmos, and we need works of imagination to convey that whole story to us, to refresh our gratitude to God, to reorient our engagement with all that he has made, and to baptize our imaginations. Art that resonates with the order in creation conveys to us a deeper character of our creator and the character of the order he has placed there.

“In Isaiah 45, there is this wonderful passage where we read of God: “For thus says Yahweh, the creator of the heavens, he is God who shaped the earth and made it, who set it firm. He did not create it to be chaos; he formed it to be lived in. I am Yahweh and there is no other. I have not spoken in secret, in some dark corner of the underworld; I did not say offspring of Jacob search for me in chaos. I am Yahweh. I proclaim saving justice; I say what is true.” In closing, I want to comment on that observation from Eugene Peterson in his recent book Christ Plays in Ten Thousand Places. He says at the beginning of that book…and that line by the way “Christ plays in ten thousand places” is from a poem by Gerard Manly Hopkins—I think it is the poem the “King Fisher,” which is about the glory evident in a bird…Peterson writes, ‘it is the task of the Christian community to give witness and guidance in the living of life in a culture that is relentless in reducing, constricting, and enervating life’ [repeated once more].

“I think that with that task in mind the Church and its ministry in discipleship and mission should proceed in three steps. First, we need to identify the ways the culture around us has misshaped or misunderstood how to live life well in God’s creation, how it has sundered what should be united. Second, the church in its teaching and discipling should encourage the convictions and practices necessary to restore a proper wholeness to life, which includes recognition of all the glories and wonders of creation. Third, motivated by the need to love our neighbors, care for widows and orphans in their misery, and having demonstrated to the world the ways in which redeemed humanity is a fulfilled humanity, the church has to find the false gods under whose captivity people are suffering. I am afraid in our time there are a lot of false ideas that penetrate the world of the arts, and part the task of the church is to recognize those false ideas so that we can, in fact, be liberated. This is a problem that should concern the church, and not just those in Christian arts—thank-you very much.”