The miracle of resurrection is (on a microscopic level) the re-arranging of particles, animated along a form that reflects the glory of the Force that moves them into position. At Easter, Jesus’ grave cloths, folded neatly in a pile (off to one side) communicate an orderly intentionality about the whole resurrection event that says: I have risen: and the rest of the world, in the wake of this moment, also begins to re-organize, after the Will of the Animator. The Animator has re-animated.

My own re-animations are cheap imitations: the work of a mere creature. But even of such lowly worms as you and I, God moulds his purpose. He reclaims our weaknesses for His glory. The detritus of these spent art materials, then, can also be reclaimed, reorganized, and revitalized, so that they once again become useful: elements in a story, parts of some bigger galaxy. And so my use of weak vessels in my art, my working to redeem their qualities, and re-direct their purposes, points to and mirrors the way in which God uses us. Atheist philosopher Bertrand Russell claims that "unless you assume a God,the question of life’s purpose is meaningless." On the flip side – though Lyotard may be incredulous – once assume a God, you’ll also be empowered to assume your place in his meta-narrative.

Creature One greets you with a wistful smile… a glance of simultaneous apathy and hope. Distant cousin of space robot 5, he gathers together his rusted, weary bones, and trudges on, staring out at what might be another battle (or perhaps just a sunrise); it will take resolve either way to follow through with this nearly human endeavour.

I resolve.

There is a sense in which my current theme, visual theology tires me out. There are times when it feels a bit forced, when I honestly can’t be bothered to make all the connections and to piece together a coherent worldview, a global story, from a set of mundane details. And so the meditative calm is what I crave: the place where God is found in the whisper. The tension in my work between sensory overload and zen continues.

To be honest, I feel less honest than usual with this piece. I am less invested in it than in some of my other work, because it took only 6 hours instead of 30. In reflecting on the result, that has begun to change, and I’m beginning to see where it’s headed. I think it’s a painting that I’ll work back into with some really dense physical media (charcoal and chalk, perhaps). It’s not going to finish up as a mere formal study on texture vs. emptiness.

Elijah (the Jewish prophet who lived a long time ago) was a pretty intense character: A-type personality. He took it personally when his words fell on deaf ears, and ended up being rather apathetic. So he goes out into the desert to sulk. I suppose that dry, weary places seem to facilitate pondering through deep issues. Anyway, he’s there and he sees all this intensity, but God doesn’t exist in those things. It’s in the negative space and the silence that God reveals himself.

As a Christian this has everything to do with Sunday. Thank God for Sunday in my tradition, because we all need negative space in our lives. I need to take time to hear the whisper.

It also connects to the veil image that I’ve used more than once. There is a sense in which a whisper conceals something latent, something bigger than the entire noise of the wind, the earthquake and the fire. It’s the awesomeness that exists beyond the veil that is so grand, that it’s impossible to grasp, but that humbles me to remain a mere creature.

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