When I got up this morning and made my coffee, there was a bright blanket of mist that lay over the hidden river beyond the band of trees at the far side of the field behind our house. The mist bled over the band of trees to cover also the field. This had lifted by the time I returned to bring away my cup and slowly wake with it. When I brought the empty cup back to rinse it out, the mist was back on the field, a second wave of a sort of fairy whiteness shining in the west.
A couple of days ago I wrote an interpretive appreciation of two pictures which hang in my study, how they are like little vacations for the eye. I marvel at the ability of artists to capture something fascinating, and to fix it materially to a piece of paper, and so communicate that fascination to us who view them. I say this even though I myself have produced such things, though as I have grown older I have gravitated to writing more than pictorial art. The amazing ability to (as Tolkien says) sub-create things that reflect the creations of the original Creator, working out a portion of His image in us, stuns not only the viewer, but the sub-creator himself. It is a humbling exercise of privilege.
because we know that all art is made by an artist
Yet day by day we see, as I saw this morning with the mist, the works of the original Creator displayed is a sort of performance art, tossed off expertly for any eye to see, to recognize, and to wonder at in stunned appreciation. The golden light of the dawn, pouring out (not down!) from the low-hanging sun to gorgeously highlight the neighbor’s maple, the patterned projections of tossing light and shadow on the living room wall, the “light by which we see light”, all display a wonder that challenges us not only to look, but to be thankful for the vision, because we know that all art is made by an artist – and here is the original One!
God still reigns, whatever men do
It is all a sort of visual joy, a satisfaction for all wants, a declaration of peace and delight and security, even in the midst of a world seemingly determined to wreck everything. Adolf Hitler, as he saw his terrible dominion collapsing around him, asked if – as per his instructions – Paris was burning. He did not so much mind his own destruction if all beauty could die with him. But the general to whom he had given the command could not bring himself to obey it. Even wicked men often retain some nugget of their God-given image; and this one ignored the useless and merely retaliating command of a dictator about to pass from the scene. Paris did not burn, because men still appreciated its beauty, even men who held it in bondage. So God continues to pour His wonders out in earth, and those who can recognize and appreciate it, even in the midst of varying degrees of oppression, nod in wonder and an inward exultation: God still reigns, whatever the conditions.
Men will do their worst, but they can’t block out the sun. The birds will still sing and fly; the grass will still grow; rain will fall and clouds fly and wind blow and the sea still roar. God reigns, whatever men do.
Drink your coffee and rejoice.