I remember singing one of
my favorite songs from my four years of participation in the
University Choir at school. The piece, called “
Prayer” was a text
by Mother Teresa put to music by Rene Clausen. The intoxicating
choral arrangement began with a single line sung by the altos; a
unison descending fifth pierced the silence, embellishing the first
words of the text, “Help me.” On the second, third, and fourth
reiterations of the the same words, new voices joined the first,
weaving around each other and adding layer upon layer which finally
burst into the rest of the text:
Help me spread your fragrance wherever
I go
Flood my soul with your Spirit and life
Penetrate and possess my whole being so
utterly
That my life may be only a radiance of
yours
Shine through me and be so in me
That every soul I know will feel your
presence in my soul
Let them look up and see no longer me
But only you. Amen.
As the music journeyed through the
phrases, the voices became dissonant at times and sweet at others.
The beauty and truth of the text entered into a perfect marriage with
the expertly formed harmonies and melodies. Singing the song always
put a lump in my throat, rendering my voice mute when I was supposed
to be bringing forth sound.
Contrast this experience with that of
my first encounter with the piece
“In C” by Terry Riley. The
first time I heard this 40 minute composition, I also developed a
lump in my throat, but more out of the simultaneous desire to laugh
and urge to vomit. From the moment the piano began pinging a high C
with unforgivable sharpness and endless repetition, my senses were
offended from ears to aching tooth fillings. The “song” is
absolute noise from beginning to merciful end.
In one of my most influential classes
at CCU, Dr. Allen Schantz taught his students the incredibly
controversial lesson that aesthetic excellence in art is found in the
structure and form of the art rather than in the eye of the beholder.
In a world that idealizes, romanticizes, and even worships the
subjective, this view was highly irregular, and likely not shared by
many reading this blog. Dr. Schantz broke down what made a work of
art beautiful, even if it is not to the taste of the consumer.
Tension, climax, and release—all are needed to create aesthetic
excellence. This, along with the portrayal of truth, creates artistic
excellence.
The details of this view would take a
book to defend, but under this scrutiny, Riley's "In C" would probably
not have passed the test. It may have been mathematically
interesting, a modern curiosity, fascinating to watch live, and
theoretically perfect, but I am not sure it could be called
artistically excellent. Many other pieces (even pieces that I
personally dislike such as FΓΌr
Elise, Canon in D, or anything in the genres of jazz or classic rock) must be
acknowledged, despite personal leanings, to be crafted beautifully.
The class was a throw-away credit for
many of my classmates, but I realized several years later that the
things that Dr. Schantz taught in that class were not only crucial to
understanding my art, they were revolutionary when applied to life.
In order to be a life well-lived, it has to be a life crafted
purposefully by a master, full of beauty and truth. All of the
elements of life come together-- moments of rising tension and climax
followed by moments of quietness and peace. In life, textures thicken
whiles rests become active silences that propel the story to the next
phrase. Then the tension breaks, the dynamics of the tragedies and
triumphs soften, and rests become silences pregnant with the beauty
of the moment.
It would be naive and foolish of me to
say that there is no place for “busyness” in the Christian life.
A life that is too quiet can be just as lacking in artistic quality.
Like John Cage's “piece”
4'33, (during which the pianist does
nothing but sit silently at his instrument for four minutes and 33
seconds), a life that lacks melody, harmony, timbre, and form will
fall flat with little purpose or meaning. But in our culture
today, the word “busyness” has become a tired, overused, and
poorly understood word that could potentially be used to describe two
completely opposite states of being, which I hope to unravel with
clarity.
Life Saturation
The first state of
being has a negative connotation tinged with bitterness. Those who
are “busy” in this sense find themselves in a constant state of
life saturation in which the constant repetition of the words
“sure, I can do that,” leads to a schedule tightly packed with
well-meaning, but meaningless
activities.
This life looks more like the original
meaning of the word “busyness,” derived from the Old English word
bisig meaning “careful or
anxious.” If I were to define this type of busyness, I would say “a
state of continual activity that results in, and is fueled by,
anxiety. An obsession with saturating the silences with meaningless
noise.” We lead ourselves into this state by making decisions based
upon the demands of other people, by what we think our lives should
look like, or even by what we think God requires of us.
This
type of life is reminiscent of Terry Riley's “In C.” Rhythms and
textures overlap and are added one on top of another without any
rests to break up the noise until a cacophony of meaningless sound
falls upon everyone in the vicinity. A person viewing such a life
would not be able to find the focus or direction of all of the
activities because the activities exist only to fill the void.
Rather than being a
season, texture, or movement, it is a never-ending lifestyle. It
stems from a place of self-trust and sufficiency, pride of personal
accomplishment, and a fear of dying before potential is reached. It
is a very great terror of encountering a moment of silence because
somehow we know, deep down, that when the silence comes it will
reveal how empty our lives really are. In my observation, our
response to this self-orchestrated life saturation is threefold:
Depression. Anxiety. Complaint.
I have noticed that
my generation, myself included, always answers the question “How
was your week?” with “It was busy.” It is always spoken with a
note of bitterness and a spirit of complaint. Yet oftentimes, the
activities which make us busy are entirely voluntary. We may choose
busyness from a desire to be a martyr for the sake of selfish
boastings and petty “my life is busier” competitions with others
around us. Or we are simply trapped in an endless cycle of “yes”
without the courage to say “no.” We saturate the silences because
we are afraid of missed experiences or we do not trust God to grant
us enough meaningful work with which to glorify him. Instead, we
trust in our own ability to conquer everything, and then complain
loudly to gain recognition and sympathy which is never forthcoming
because everyone else thinks they have it harder.
Nothing can be more
draining on the human soul than pointless work, meaningless exertion,
and constant complaint. As Solomon puts in in
Ecclesiastes 2:11,
“Then I considered all that my hands had done and the toil I had
expended in doing it, and behold, all was vanity and a striving after
wind, and there was nothing to be gained under the sun.”
Purposeful
God-led Labor
The
other (starkly different) type of busyness is a God-led season
of high activity that adds texture to a life lived purposefully. In
this definition, a person places their life in a posture of full
trust towards God with an attitude of “Here I am, send me!” It is
a life that recognizes God as the creator of beauty, art, and story,
and that gives God full liberty at last to be the master craftsman.
Such a life would be a thing of great intrinsic beauty, with trials,
temptations, excitements, and illustrious calms crafted to make it a
tale worth telling.
God-led activity
springs from a soul bowed before God in humility. It stems from a
place of His sufficiency, and our weakness. (
2 Corinthians 12:9)
Although these seasons may produce exhaustion in the body, the soul
becomes full of life. They, like other trials, are “granted to you
that for the sake of Christ you should not only believe in him but
also suffer for his sake.” (
Philippines 1:29) Lest we become
masochistic, these seasons are granted, not sought, and they produce
a contrasting threefold response: Joy. Peace. Thankfulness.
Thankfulness.
Christ's life was certainly not one of leisure and comfort, but
thankfulness and trust marked his times of suffering. Thankfulness is
the gem which Philippians 4:6-7 says dispels anxiety. It is no
accident that we are commanded to
rid ourselves of anxiety by lifting up our hearts in “prayer and
supplication with thanksgiving.” In
doing so, we do not gain the recognition of the world, be we do gain
the gift of “the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding.”
In this, we are no longer afraid of the silences because they are
filled, not with earthly things, but with joy, contentment, and a
deep and abiding sense of purpose.
Over the past five
years, God has provided me with drastic life changes which have led
me to a quieter schedule with occasional bursts of high activity, a
new ability to carefully choose the activities that I say “yes”
to, a daughter who reminds me to indulge in quiet moments, and a new
passion for obediently giving thanks when I am worried and afraid. I
am careful to not let myself shy away from activities that frighten
me, but neither do I go into them mindlessly or foolishly. I try,
every day, to replace complaint with thanksgiving because even in my
times of suffering, I am blessed beyond all reason.
For me, anxiety is
a special blessing that not everyone has the privilege to possess.
Because He has given me the thorn of anxiety, it is impossible for me
to even go on stage, teach a lesson, or go on vacation without
leaning entirely on His sufficiency. I lift my heart up in
thankfulness because “for the sake of Christ, I am content with
weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities. For
when I am weak, then I am strong.” (
2 Corinthians 12:10) It is
funny, though not altogether surprising, that since I have started
thanking God for my anxiety, it has had less and less of a grip on my
life.
Busy seasons will
happen. When they do, we must take the time to ask ourselves
whether they have come through our foolishness, or God's providence.
If the first, we must stop our lips from complaining and either
withstand the consequences, or de-clutter our schedules. If the
second, we have only, in the wise words of Gandalf, “to
decide...what to do with the time that is given us”1 and to entrust
our lives in thanksgiving to the one who gave us breath.
1. Tolkien, J. R. R. (2013). Chapter 2: The Shadow of the Past. In The Lord of the Rings (p. 51). Hachette Book Group USA.
