From the Canvas to the Cross | Part IV | Divine Choreography

I'd like to Invite you to take a peek into my creative process, Step by Step. The alarm goes off at 5:15am. I drag myself out of bed, tired & eager, and start the coffee. I head upstairs to the office, open the window, and say good morning to my Window Tree. She looks good in green. As the aroma of my Ethiopian Sidamo rises, I head back downstairs and pour my cup - black, with a splash of cold water so it's not too hot - just the way Dad taught me. Then back upstairs to my messy desk, and I'm all ready to write. It starts like this: 

I have no idea what I'm going to write. 

The words seem to be playfully Hidden, and I start seeking. My seeking starts with stillness, listening, and Paying Attention. Then I say my favorite prayer, called "The Third Step Prayer." A question follows: "Where are you pointing, Jesus?" 

And then, He reaches out His hand and Invites me to Dance. 

I flip open Space for God and land on a page with an image of Van Gogh's Cypresses, and on the page opposite, an excerpt from a theologian about prayer as 'Paying Attention', and a verse from Jeremiah:

"When you search for Me, you will find Me; if you seek Me with all your heart, I will let you find Me, says the LORD." (Jer. 29:13-14, NRSV)

I glance up, and He stares back with wonder, deep understanding, and gentle compassion. 

I log onto my computer and am met with a dozen or so open tabs, and start cleaning them up to make space. I stop when I see the confirmation page for the tickets I recently purchased for Friday night's ballet. 

Tickets. I've been thinking about tickets a lot lately. I had quite the epiphany about tickets after listing to a sermon on 'Trusting Thomas.' I get excited and flip to chapter 20 in the book of John, which opens with a scene in a Gard...my second alarm goes off. I have to get ready for work. I groan a bit; He winks back. 

I've gotta run. Are you running with me, Jesus?

***

The alarm goes off at 5:15am. I drag myself out of bed, tired & eager, and start the coffee. I head upstairs to the office, open the window, and...well, you get the idea. 

Where were we, Jesus? 

Oh, right. Gardens. I'm reminded of a quote a fellow Substacker posted from his piece, The Gospel in Three Gardens:

"There are places where eternity bends low to touch the soil - where heaven brushes against the dust of the earth and something eternal is etched into time. Scripture holds the Story of three such places. They are not myth, nor metaphor. They are gardens. And in each one, something eternal was planted, wrestled for, and won...

This isn't just biblical poetry - it's divine choreography. A God who writes not only in words but in landscapes. Through these gardens, the Story of the Gospel is not only told - it is lived. And in it, you and I are not merely bystanders - we're Invited. Into Identity. Into Intimacy. Into Resurrection."

Divine choreography? I look up at the several open tabs about Edgar Degas' dancers, and we chuckle.    

***

What comes to mind when you hear the word 'Critic'? Though it often has a negative connotation, a critic is simply someone who communicates an assessment and opinion about various forms of creative works, such as theatre, cinema, literature, music, or culinary arts. I suppose that's what I'm doing here, so call me a critic if you will. 

When you create something and share it with the world, you naturally open yourself up to criticism, or 'judgement'.

Edgar was no stranger to harsh criticism, I learned, though this took me by surprise. After all, what was there not to adore about his pastel paintings of dainty dancers?

I click on the first open browser tab and am met with these words, big and bold: 

"Each of these girls probably did sex work in addition to dancing; the Paris ballets were a feasting ground for rich men to pray [sic] on desperate girls," she explained.

Oh, my. This took a turn. No wonder the critics had such strong opinions. He was painting prostitutes. 

When I think of the word 'Prostitute', I immediately turn to my library and pull Brennan Manning's The Ragamuffin Gospel off the shelf. If I remember correctly, he said something about prostitutes...now where was it...ah, here it is: 

"As we glance up, we are astonished to find the eyes of Jesus open with wonder, deep with understanding, and gentle with compassion...

Something is radically wrong when the local church rejects a person accepted by Jesus - when a harsh, judgmental, and unforgiving sentence is passed on homosexuals; when a divorcee is denied communion; when the child of a prostitute is refused baptism; when an unlaicized priest is forbidden the sacraments...

Because salvation is by grace through faith, I believe that among the countless number of people standing in front of the throne and in front of the Lamb, dressed in white robes and holding palms in their hands (see Revelation 7:9), I shall see the prostitute from the Kit-Kat Ranch in Carson City, Nevada, who tearfully told me she could find no other employment to support her two-year-old son." 

I keep reading. 

"I shall see the woman who had an abortion and is haunted by guilt and remorse but did the best she could faced with grueling alternatives; the businessman besieged with debt who sold his integrity in a series of desperate transactions; the insecure clergyman addicted to being liked, who never challenged his people from the pulpit and longed for unconditional love; the sexually abused teen molested by his father and now selling his body on the street, who, as he falls asleep each night after his last 'trick', whispers the name of the unknown God he learned about in Sunday school; the deathbed convert who for decades had his cake and ate it, broke every law of God and man, wallowed in lust, and raped the earth.

'But how?' we ask.

Then the voice says, 'They have washed their robes and made them white in the blood of the Lamb.'

There they are. There we are - the multitude who so wanted to be faithful, who at times got defeated, soiled by life, and bested by trials, wearing the bloodied garments of life's tribulations, but through it all clung to the faith.

My friends, if this is not good news to you, you have never understood the gospel of grace." 

Damn. That's radical. Some critics find it a bit too radical:

"Being a college student pursuing a Bachelor of Arts degree in Biblical and Theological studies, I wanted to critically examine this book and weigh everything Manning had to say against the biblical teachings, theology, and doctrine which I have come to find so precious to the Christian life. I was a bit put off when Manning said on page 17, 'It [this book:] is not for the academics who would imprison Jesus in the ivory tower of exegesis.'...Manning is a heretic, and he knows it."

Been there. In fact, I think I shared this critic's opinion of the book the first time I read it my senior year of high school. Yet, it has remained on my shelf all these years for some reason...

A few more reviews: 

"[This book is] among the books on my shelf I hope my kids don't think I liked after my death." 

Interesting. 

"[This book is] not one that could lift you up or give your mind and heart positive things to think upon."

"At some point I caught him using the term 'inner child' and the book was officially dead to me."

And my personal favorite: 

"Barf." 

***

Edgar's critics bordered on cruel. "Can art descend any lower?" one critic asked.  

Others, such as the anonymous bidder who won Degas' most expensive work for just shy of $28 million dollars in 1999, seem to disagree. 

One critic presented an idea that immediately caught my attention - Daniel Halevey describes Edgar's scenes of the dancers as a "de-poetization" of life. He found something worth capturing in "the simplest, most intimate, least beautiful gestures - ballerinas stretching at the bar, practicing positions, waiting in the wings, taking instruction, scratching themselves, tying their shoes, adjusting their tutus, rubbing sore muscles, fixing their hair, fanning, talking, flirting, daydreaming, and doing almost everything but dancing." 

"One knows that in your world / Queens are made of distance and greasepaint." - Edgar Degas, 1889

Edgar was looped in with the Impressionist painters, though he considered himself more of a Realist. He mocked painters like Monet and Van Gogh who painted en plein air. Edgar aimed to capture "real life" - the long hours of rehearsal, the grueling practice that left their muscles sore and their feet blistered, the behind-the-scenes relationships among the dancers, and the waiting. So much waiting.  

As I call to mind the ballet performance I attended last night, there was one word that I couldn't get out of my mind: Grace. 

The performance was Beautiful. Stunning, even. My Beloved eight-year-old inner child was completely starry-eyed. I lean over in my chair and whisper to my Mom, "They are just so Graceful!" 

In a ballet, audience members clap not only at the end of each scene, as I am used to in Broadway-style musical theatre, but also in the middle of a performance after an impressive and well-executed bit of choreography - a perfect pirouette, a daring grand jete, a fearless fouette. But my personal favorite (and it seems the audience's as well) was when a dancer took a giant leap of faith into the air and was not only caught - but Gracefully lifted up - by her Dancing Partner. 

Are you dancing with me, Jesus? 

***

Sharing your creation with the world takes courage, because you hand over control of the outcome. You hope that people will see what you see, but some don't. And maybe the controversy is what gives it such value. 

One writer, after having discovered the dark undertones of the Parisian ballet, wrote:

"Looking back at the canvas, I no longer saw the romantic vision that had just captivated me. The image was soured. I did not see the exciting prospect of girls getting to live the dream I had also dreamed as a kid. Instead, I saw a bleaker reality, a sick image that, had I been born in another time, quickly could have been me." 

So what was Edgar trying to portray in his paintings? What was the meaning behind these seemingly beautiful scenes? Straight from the source: 

"People call me the painter of dancing girls. It has never occurred to them that my chief interest in dancers lies in rendering movement and painting pretty clothes." 

Wait. That's it? He thought the tu-tus were pretty? No Hidden meaning? No grand juxtaposition? I'm not going to lie...I'm a little disappointed. 

Then again, as I gaze upon The Dance Class, the sour turns back into honey when I simply appreciate the Beauty. Do you see the way he has used gold tones to capture the shimmer of the satin ribbon on the dancer who looks bored out of her mind? The reflection of the window in the mirror on the wall? And the proud instructor...the instructor. 

A central figure in the painting, and yet he seems to have been overlooked this entire time. Of course. Every dance class needs an instructor - someone to show them the Steps, correct their posture, and to spot them in their practice.

I have a few Instructors in my life. I met with one just the other day in her garden for some advice on how to extend Grace to someone I've been harboring Resentment toward. As we pulled up weeds from the root, I'm reminded of my friend, Pando, and start humming lyrics from one of my favorite worship songs:

You turn mourning to dancing!

Lyrics re-used from one of David's songs.

***

The sun is high in the sky now. The coffee is cold. My inbox is blowing up and the dogs need my attention. I gotta run soon. But before I go, Jesus, just one more dance? 

Let's take it from top.