Original works of art.

A few years ago, I painted a scene I really liked. I found the picture of a painting in a magazine and set off to see if I could paint it as well. The result was better than any painting I had done up to that point in my artistic life, and I was not surprised when it sold quickly. Since then, however, I have thought about the painting and recently decided to try and recreate it. The problem was, I no longer had the picture from the magazine, only a pictures of my version.

It was clear to me early on in the process that I was yet another step away from the original. First, there was the scene itself, then the original painting, then the photograph of the painting in the magazine, then my rendition, and now there was going to be another layer of artistic interpretation. This version of artistic whisper-down-the-lane made me realize that with every layer comes distance from the original and, in the end, we will hardly recognize the original interpretation. 

I fear we often try the same things with our lives. One generation is named after another, and another, leaving only roman numerals to keep track. A mother tries to be like her mother, who tried to be like her mother, before the most recent translation bares no resemblance to the original. Examples are everywhere and remind me of something I recently read: We are born unique but end up like everybody else.

How sad.

I am reading a book about how our lives are works of art. Whether we are lawyers, plumbers, waitresses or writers . . . mothers, fathers, sons or daughters, we have the opportunity to be unique. Not unique for the sake of being unique, or to get people to notice us, but unique because there is literally no one like us. How dare we squander the gift by creating reproductions? How dare we create a version of someone who has already been?

In the movie, “Dead Poets Society”, the teacher takes his class outside and tells them to walk freely. They begin with wild and unique gates, only to fall into a military march of conformity. Monet, on the other hand, was told to develop his talents by going to the Louvre and imitating the masters. Instead, he chose to look out the window and the art world has never been the same. 

Church Faces

The clothes in the drier were still damp, there wasn’t enough milk for both of her children to have cereal, and, because the car needed gas, they arrived late to church. Applying lipstick, she said to her disgruntled children:  “It’s time to put on our church faces.”

The notion would be funny, if it wasn’t so sad. The idea of putting on a church face goes against everything the church should be, but this family felt such faces were necessary. They aren't alone. In church, we speak of loving our neighbor, but it’s easier to offer that love to those whose church faces are in place. Coffee hour conversations go so much smoother when faces are on, marriages are glistening, and the children are on the honor role. (In fact, sometimes it’s also easier to love ourselves when we look at our church face and not the one we carry with us wherever we go.)

Of course, this has nothing to do with churches, and everything to do with faces . . .  Yours, and mine . . . The real ones and the fake.

Just ask the gay man who remains locked in a closet that looks like a business suit because he comes from a respectable family and lives in a part of the world where he will be judged.

Ask the woman whose credit card was declined after six months of unemployment when she tried to buy a new pair of shoes for a dinner with a college friend.

Ask the child who got a D on his social studies test when all his classmates were talking about how easy the test was.

Ask the priest who is well thought of everywhere in the community except his own home.

The “churches” come in all shapes and sizes, just like the faces we feel we need to wear. If there’s a hell, it’s wearing our “church faces” all day long. If there’s a heaven, it’s taking them off and showing the world who we truly are.

It seems we have a choice at to where we live our lives.

The power of a preposition.

On the anniversary of my choosing to live a sober life, I attended a 12 Step meeting and asked people to discuss what it’s like to “trudge the road to happy destiny.” This familiar line from the Big Book of AA has always been a favorite, but it was pointed out that it is not the road to happy destiny, but the road of happy destiny.  Suddenly I had to rethink this favorite line. The change in preposition changed the very nature of recovery  . . . and faith.

When I first came into the rooms of AA, I have to confess I focused on what I would get out of not drinking: Think of all the sugar and calories I'll save, surely I'll be thin! Think how much healthier I’ll be! Think about all the money I’ll save! As wonderful as it all would be, none of it has come true in 9 ½ years.

Measuring recovery in such ways is misleading. I now know I was thinking of the journey as one to some place . . . to fitness, to health, to financial security. The changing of the preposition, however, reminds me that recovery itself is the happy destiny. Regardless of what has or has not changed in my life, the life I now lead is the gift itself. Yes, there are days when the trudging is all I see, but other times it's the happy destiny surrounding me.

I have often made the same mistake thinking of the life of faith. Like many, I sometimes focus only on the future, thinking of faith as a road leading to a happy destiny beyond, or mistakenly think the life of faith will spare me from life’s trudging. At such times, I need to remember the power of a preposition. The life of faith is the gift, that happy destiny is here and now, just as it will be known fully one day.

It all comes down to the preposition.