I wrote elsewhere about True Myth. I argued there that the universal phenomenon of making myths hints at the deep structure of reality. That is to say, just as our stomachs crave food because they are designed for food, so we crave stories because God chose to make himself known through a true story. If this perspective is true, then it gives immense dignity to artists who write stories. If left there, however, the impression one could get is that storytelling is the highest form of art that there is. Music, dance, or painting might be lesser art forms because, after all, it was not music, dance, or paintings that became flesh, but “the Word became flesh” (John 1:1-18). How, then, should we think about wordless or abstract forms of art? Do they share the same dignity as word-form art?
The Dignity of Wordless Art
I would like to make the case that all art—however wordless—has a twin dignity with explicit, word-form myth or storytelling. I want to argue that all forms of art have the potential to hilight the beauty of the Jesus story, even if they never use words or consciously attempt to portray some aspect of that story. Scripture itself holds a robust category for the importance of wordless creative work when it says,
The heavens declare the glory of God;
the skies proclaim the work of his hands.
Day after day they pour forth speech;
night after night they reveal knowledge.
They have no speech, they use no words;
no sound is heard from them.
Yet their voice goes out into all the earth,
their words to the ends of the world. (Psalm 19:1-4)
Apparently, when God put on his artist hat to forge creation, he made things without a voice—which still speak of him. How is it that wordless creation speaks? How do the skies, for instance, “use no words” yet “their words [reach] to the ends of the world”? There is actually a logic to how this works. My argument is this: just as myth resonates with us because the true myth stepped into history, so also wordless art resonates with us because it shares the same logic of incarnation.
That claim that abstract art “shares the logic of incarnation” needs explaining. Psalm 34 can offer us help here. The psalmist says, “Taste and see that the Lord is good” (34:8). That’s a lovely poetic line, the idea of enjoying the Lord’s goodness by means of our tongues and our eyes. For some time I glossed over the expression without realizing that it is steeped in the imagery of the Scripture’s creation narrative which shows us how to do this. “Taste and See” specifically did not come from nowhere. He could taste God’s own life by means of the fruit of the ground. And he could see God’s own light by means of the sun. By means of our mouth, we receive God’s life and taste his goodness in giving us that life. By means of our eyes, we perceive God and see his goodness in giving us the light.
Think of the creation pages. God created the human being, and breathed into his nostrils the breath of life. Then the first command is to eat of the fruit of the ground. Alexander Schmemann points out that God’s life came first, and then the continued life that humans received from him came by means of the physical world. In other words, God continued to offer them the breath of life, and gave it to them through food. In some way, says Schmemman, when we eat, we eat God’s love made flesh. That is how we “taste” that the Lord is good. It is little wonder that Jesus later says, “This is my body, given for you. Take and eat.”
Similarly, we can “see” that the Lord is good. Recall the sun in Genesis once more. It is curious that when God spoke, “Let there be light,” the sun does not appear until day four. This surprising order—light first, sun later—suggests that God himself is the true source of light, with the sun acting as the physical steward of that light. It is, in a way, God’s light made physical. The sun is how we see physically God’s goodness. Jesus carries that pattern forward when he says, “I am the light of the world.” Specifically, concretely, his body is how we see God and his goodness.
For artists, this pattern of the spiritual taking shape in matter gives dignity to our art, even when it is wordless. As I have said, our psyche respond to stories because we were made to receive God through a story. Now we see why wordless art follows the same logic of incarnation. God made us creatures of dust. As such, he chose to reveal himself to us through this world. While art can use its words as an explicit witness to the Christian story, that’s just a small piece of what it can do. Myth becoming flesh is a smaller picture of how the entire universe works—God making himself specifically known in the world. When we write music that moves people, it’s a clue to the deep structure of reality. We hear God’s goodness made physical. When we cook a good meal, we taste God’s goodness made flesh. When we see a good dancer or painting and are moved by it, we see God’s goodness made flesh.
God’s Presence in Wordless Art
You will recall how the artists C.S. Lewis came to faith as someone steeped in mythology. Initially he dismissed the life of Jesus as a myth because it resembled so many other myths. Eventually, however, he reasoned that the world’s myths have so many common themes because they portray universal human longings. That is to say, we are story-telling creatures because God chose to reveal himself to us through a true story. The Jesus story is the story that makes sense of all the stories, the Myth that makes sense of all the myths. For Lewis, the Jesus story was the Myth distinguished itself from the others by stepping into history.
As it turns out, the whole universe works this way. It’s not a quirky Lewis thing or a strange reading of myth. From the Christian vantage point, the universe at large reveals God to us. Just as myths reveal the shape of the story God in which chose to reveal himself, so creation at large reveals the shape of that same story. If God chose symbol and made it flesh, there is no competition between symbol and truth. The symbol is the truth, and the truth is the symbol. The sun is a kind of incarnation of God’s own light. The flavor of food is a kind of incarnation of God’s own goodness. The story of Jesus is an incarnation of the story God made us for from the beginning. That’s how the artist Lewis met God.
We can meet God through other art forms. The story of Jesus is a kind of intensification of how the universe works. The Eucharist is not a kind of weird moment disconnected from everything else; it’s an intensification of how the universe already works. We meet God when we look at the sun. We meet God when we taste food. We meet God in myths of the world. When Jesus comes and gives us his body, it’s an intensification of how the world already works. If he was present in the sunlight and the food and the myths, how much more so here! That’s why not all art needs words to display the glory of God.
Some people might object that general revelation does not bring people to Jesus. True, words are needed for that. I would challenge you to look carefully at the ministry of Jesus. He always came to heal and to preach. In other words, there is a time to preach and a time to heal. They are like the two hands of our body that need not fight but can coordinate with each other to powerful effect. Word-based art can gesture toward the Christian story. And wordless art can intentionally not do so.
Lewis and Tolkien were friends and shared a theology of True Myth. They differed, however, in their application of it. Lewis was much more overt in his gestures toward his Christian faith. His fantasies had clear Christ figures brought into conversation with mythic stories, ancient and modern. Tolkien, on the other hand, preferred to revel in the glory of what he called sub-creating. In other words, there is dignity just in the virtue of creating after the fashion of a creative God. When we use our words or our craft to bring God’s goodness on earth, that is enough to bring glory to God.
Conclusion
So artists: taste and see the goodness of God. Your art can help people do that. Tolkien and Lewis, like the two ministries of Christ—teaching and healing—are like the pendulum of a clock: it swings back and forth between showing and telling the Christian story, not in vacillation but in oscillation. I have argued elsewhere for using our art as a tool to tell the Christian story. Here, I am arguing for you to leave explicit reference to the Christian story behind, and simply revel in the joy of making art for its own sake. Because God made the world to reveal himself, we can trust people will meet him through the beauty of our art without attempts to make it happen.
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