Woe is me as I recall my time as an art teacher at Aurora Christian Elementary School.
Woe is me as I recall having 30 4th graders in one class as I tried to teach them about Surrealism.
Woe is me as I recall giving 28 5th graders National Geographic without checking for shocking nudity, Prozac adds, and nipple piercings. “What’s prooozac?” “Why are their boobs so looong?”
Woe is me as I recall Christians having little, little, little value for art, other than the cross (which can now be tragically deemed as Kitsch).
Sweeeet baby woeful Jebus.
Woe is us (the Church) as we recall our boring conventions in communicating, our trite “secular” appropriations for reinforcing certain dogma, and our utter terror for anything that may have provoked an uncensored, unorthodox experience.
Woe, Woe, Woe, Who? Whoa. Whoa.
Delight is me when I recall my time as an art teacher at Aurora Christian Elementary School.
Delight is me when I recall 30 4th graders atop of tables, on the floor, twirling about with ideas bursting with colors and hands crafting beauty through their own observatory lens.
Delight is me when I recall one 5th grade boy with apathy towards creativity, finding art in landscape after our Andy Goldsworthy project.
Delight is me when I recall various communities and people who are enthused with fervor in not becoming modernly ‘relevant’ in the world, but in becoming potent, innovative, nuanced, absurd for something eternally here.
Delight is us (the Church) as we recall Gesthemene, bloody sweat, betrayal, death, abandonment, ascension; as we recall the beauty of sex, anatomy, emotions, imaginations, relationships; as we recall agonizing hope-the only kind to bear, painful love-the only kind that endures through all things, birth-the only kind that is messy, ugly, uninhibited, prepossessing, and uniquely our own.
Woe, Whoa, Delight. Who? Delighting. Delighting in the woe.