Dynamic Doxology

The passion of the Poet is perfection: everlasting orchestration of a melody of expression to a beat of meaning until all pretenders fall away, all detractors are set aside, and only pure artful essence remains. A Poem requires a lifetime of pondering to the point of paradigm busting, rephrasing until no words seem sufficient, and experiencing the emotion so much that anyone around can feel what is expressed therein. But this art has been reduced to a traveling circus in which only the most bizarre and attractive succeed, because people will come to see them, pay to see them. And having no money makes all other skills and talents have similarly small value. So poets write and sell appealing books of poetry that no one has time to read or education to appreciate; poets find a cultural niche in patriotism or world news in hopes to be hired by countries or corporations that support art while killing art. While Poets are forced to sacrifice their art for life: money, acceptability, accomplishment.

I can only dream of writing like a Poet, but I have experienced what it must feel like to be a Poet. Why write this entry? There’s more than enough material for people to read, that people pay to read, that offer them things beyond what I ever could. One of the last things this world needs is another webpage full of words that a handful will ever examine and no one will ever remember. After over a decade of musicianship, I recently completed my first song. There’s more than enough music for people to listen to, that people pay to listen to, that offer them more than anything I will ever write. One of the last things this world needs is another collection of notes that few will ever hear and no one will ever remember.

So why do I persist in writing? What makes me ponder the possibilities for the next chord progression slated to become a piano piece by Ryan Heimann? Faith, hope, love: necessary, but not intuitively apparent in this situation.

I press on because through my inability God chooses to shine His ability; He is faithful in transforming my ugliness to beauty and my weakness to strength. The Lord can use anything, from a sculpture by a genius to a conversation with a nobody to a text by an wavering college boy to faithfully mold the ones for whom He already gave His life.

I press on because the counterculturalness gives me joy: I leave behind the desires to be effective and accomplish much and earn success, because I’m not the most talented or most intelligent or most attractive. No deadlines or guidelines or queue lines exist here – only composing an expression of emotion that originates in the deepest part of my life and desires to serve and touch others in ways that anything outside art can’t.

And, as I’ve most recently realized, I press on because God presses on. I am His workmanship, and I can’t thank Him enough for not giving up on me, for not throwing in the towel in frustration at this hard clay that simply refuses to adopt that beautiful position that He had planned. Among billions of more beautiful pieces of art, the Potter continues to choose to work on me. Because in me He somehow still sees beauty.

So I conclude that the ideas He provides for me are more than worth considering. And knowing. And loving. And perfecting. Because as I’m faithful, I grow, and they grow alongside me. And by His grace we can continually offer others more than we ever could before. May the art in the form of poems and plays, songs and soliloquies, essays and expressions reveal God’s truth, unloose His passion, and transform His world.