The Art of Transformation: Three Things Churches Do That Change Everything
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The Art of Transformation: Three Things Churches Do That Change Everything
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Overview
Everyday actions work to transform life personally and in community
It's all too common for Christians to wonder, if Jesus came to bring transformation and wholeness, why do I still feel like the same old me and struggle with the same issues as always? Paul Fromberg, rector of St. Gregory of Nyssa Episcopal Church in San Francisco, offers a practical approach to life transformation that proves that church, if done right, can be the catalyst for bringing about real change in people's lives.
For those frustrated that they haven't had real experiences of transformation in their churches and for church leaders who are frustrated that members aren't being transformed by their experiences in church. Fromberg presents a way to move beyond cynicism, sadness, and alienation and reconnect with the deep, passionate, beautiful life that God has in mind for us. The first step is to question assumptions, but it takes relationships to make this change and courage to risk what you know for the sake of being made new. The intersection between beauty, justice, and friendship is the place where people can dare to be transformed. The best gift the church can give is to make transformation a real part of people's lives.
Product Details
| ISBN-13: | 9780819233752 |
|---|---|
| Publisher: | Church Publishing |
| Publication date: | 05/01/2017 |
| Sold by: | Barnes & Noble |
| Format: | eBook |
| Pages: | 176 |
| File size: | 2 MB |
About the Author
Read an Excerpt
The Art of Transformation
Three Things Churches Do That Change Everything
By Paul Fromberg
Church Publishing Incorporated
Copyright © 2017 Paul FrombergAll rights reserved.
ISBN: 978-0-8192-3375-2
CHAPTER 1
The Strange Necessity for Beauty
The person who removes himself from all hatred and fleshly odor and rises above all low and earthbound things, having ascended higher than the whole earth in his aforementioned flight, will find the only thing that is worth longing for, and, having come close to beauty, will become beautiful himself.
— Gregory of Nyssa
I didn't think about the dangers of creating a beautiful space for our Maundy Thursday service; I was simply delighting in making beauty with others, as we shared the work of dressing the church for Holy Week. What I remember is one of our heavy, metal, Ethiopian crosses, mounted on a stave, leaning against a wall. I recall moving the ladder into place to pull down supplies for the evening foot washing. What happened next was so quick: the ladder kicked the base of the cross, causing it to swing down like a scythe into my face. I hardly felt it when the cross hit me, but instinctively I pressed my palm against my right cheek. I turned to the tall mirror that hangs on the wall of the vestry, pulled my hand away, and saw a gaping wound less than an inch beneath my eye. "Stay calm. You have to lead the liturgy tonight," I said to myself as I walked to the tiny bathroom in the vestry. I pulled a wad of paper towels out of the dispenser and quickly pressed them against the wound.
I walked out of the vestry, as calmly as I could. About a half-dozen parishioners were busily working to transform the space around the altar into a dining room for our liturgy, spreading colorful tablecloths and arranging spring flowers. I found my coworker Sara Miles in the kitchen. "You need to drive me to the hospital; I think I need stitches." What I didn't say was, "Oh, and by the way, if the cross had been an inch taller I would have lost my eye." The thought filled me with nausea. Sara got behind the wheel of my car. I sat next to her, pressing my hand to my cheek, hoping that everything would get sewn up before the six o'clock service. I wanted the service to be beautiful. I wanted to keep making that beauty, and be there to see the cross that made me bleed, gleaming by the altar in the evening light. Talking non-stop to ease my anxiety I wise-cracked, "You have to suffer for beauty."
When we arrived at the emergency department, I stepped to the admission window where the charge nurse asked if mine was a workplace injury. "Not exactly. I mean — no. I was just getting ready for church." I phoned my husband, Grant, at his office and tried to explain what happened. "Are you okay?" What do you tell your beloved about a cross hitting you in the face and slashing it open during Holy Week? "I'll be fine." Later, Grant told me that his boss's response to the news was perfect San Francisco irony: "He got hit in the face with a cross? On Maundy Thursday? That's awesome!"
* * *
Beauty animates us. The very first time I visited St. Gregory's was on a Saturday afternoon in 1997. I walked into the building, surprised to find it wide open, and was greeted by a member of the congregation, who explained that they'd just finished a wedding and were preparing for an evening event. My first impression of the building was of light and space; it was radiant in the afternoon light. My friend Andy took my picture, standing in front of the huge icon behind the presider's chair. In the photo, you can see a look on my face that speaks to the experience of beauty: I was flabbergasted, eyes and smile wide. I was in a place that was beautiful in a way I'd never seen, only imagined a church could be. Later, I learned that the building was designed to amplify the experience of beauty.
St. Gregory's building is divided into two areas, one for the Liturgy of the Word of God and the other for the Liturgy of the Table. The arrangement of each room is based on both a functional and a theological expectation of the liturgy. You walk through the great wooden doors of the church building into the area set aside for the altar. It sits alone in the center of the room, an octagonal space filled with sunlight, some sixty feet across and three stories tall. On the base of the altar, facing the entrance, is carved and gilded a verse in Greek from the fifteenth chapter of Luke's gospel: "This guy welcomes sinners and dines with them." On the opposite side of the altar, facing the doors to the outdoor baptismal font, are similarly carved words from the seventh-century bishop and theologian Isaac of Nineveh: "Did not our Lord share his table with tax collectors and harlots? So then, do not distinguish between worthy and unworthy, all must be equal in your eyes to love and serve." These two inscriptions told me everything that I needed to know about the congregation's dedication to disruption for the sake of the gospel. The beauty that I first encountered continues to dazzle me today. Every time I walk into the church, it is just like that first time: I'm overcome by beauty. As I gaze on the beauty that surrounds me, I am aware of the fact that I am made more beautiful by my presence in that space. All I have to do is look at it, and I am changed.
Beauty approaches us in what is familiar and in what is strange. Welcoming what is beautiful opens us to the presence of God. It's like a dance: God comes to us with promises of love, and we turn to God trusting the truth of that promise. In this dance, a new intelligence is created in us; a new way of knowing the world is born in us. As we are turned into the beauty that we behold, we begin to see the world as a place where the struggle for beauty is worth the trouble. We recognize a responsibility to work for the sake of what is not already beautiful in the world. We are moved to act for the sake of beauty in the world, experiencing transformation along the way.
At St. Gregory's, we use real stuff to adorn the building: textiles from West Africa, vestments made by members, icons painted by hand. We strive to show the universal nature of the Church by using cultural objects from many different places, traditions, and faiths. Instead of following some church supply catalog's idea of appropriate canonical décor, we choose what appeals to our senses. Sometimes this results in an over-the-top aesthetic that challenges a received sense of what churches should use, like the time we choose a Bollywood theme for Christmas. Looking at the yards of bright sari fabric, processional umbrellas from the Church of South India, and mirrored disco ball over the crèche, my colleague Sara Miles beamed, "God loves tacky!" More often, we keep the disco ball safely stored away. Nevertheless, striving for beauty — even when it goes slightly off the rails — is always worth the risk of tacky. God's presence is revealed in a broad range of beauty. This is the value of beauty in the church: it reveals God in ways that are utterly disarming. We enjoy the presence of beauty in both the liturgy and the material culture of our building, and we seek to express beauty in ways that are authentic to our community. I have learned the power of beauty by sharing ministry with the people of St. Gregory's.
Megan is a young attorney, raised in a conservative Evangelical denomination. Megan's youth was spent with a medical missionary team in Central America. Her cradle denomination emphasized a rationalistic approach to God; beauty took the back seat in matters of faith. She says that St. Gregory's role in her transformation has been opening her to receive new experiences: "St. Gregory's has made me more open-minded, more tolerant." Before coming to St. Gregory's, Megan had already experienced the Episcopal Church's historic emphasis on beautiful liturgy, worship that uses all of our senses, but she told me that she didn't fully appreciate the power of beauty in her life until she came to worship with us. "I had studied art. I had bought into the Episcopalian theory of using all your senses and emotions. But St. Gregory's made that more real, and it was around all the time." Beauty is an everyday kind of thing for us; it is expected, and generously shared with everyone who walks through our doors. The ubiquity of beauty transforms us as it reveals God to us. Beauty isn't something reserved for an elite class of parishioners; everyone gets to make beauty, enjoy beauty, share beauty and learn from beauty. And sometimes beauty pushes us in a way that discomforts us. Beauty raises questions about our faith, our values, and our image of God. The approach of beauty is usually not as dangerous as my Maundy Thursday experience — but beauty has the power to disrupt our preconceptions.
Our congregation is dedicated to a fourth-century bishop who lived in what is now Cappadocia in Turkey. He helped to write the Nicene Creed. He was deposed for a time because he was a terrible business manager. And he was a mystic. He looked deeply into the spiritual life, and saw something that changed him: at the very center of reality is a dazzling, dark beauty. This, Gregory taught, is the destination of all human striving for God. When we look for God, we don't receive a clear picture as much as a luminous darkness. God's shape is a mystery, always approaching us. Beauty is how God chooses to be known. Gregory taught that God is generous in beauty; God doesn't hoard divine beauty. God uses beauty to reveal the truth of our identity. God's beauty stirs within our hearts and minds, transforming us into beauty. It is God's will that we become beautiful, just as God is beautiful. This is our natural state: we are God's creatures, made in God's image, destined for beauty.
In our congregation, we strive to see God in what is beautiful, recognizing that it is in our striving that we will catch the same vision that Gregory saw. We experience beauty doing the same kinds of things that most congregations do: singing in worship, looking at liturgical art, admiring the giftedness of each other, laughing over familiar stories, serving people who are close to death. But we also experience beauty in unique ways: our singing is all unaccompanied, which means that harmony matters to us. We make a lot of the art that we use for worship and to adorn the building. We also look for beauty in the faces of strangers who come through our doors, not just well- loved friends. We recognize that everyone, regardless of age, has a part to play in bringing beauty to birth. We sing to newborns and gather to sing at the deathbeds of our beloved. In all of this, we look for beauty with a sense of delight and wonder. We press into the promise that God longs to take what we offer and use it to reveal just how beautiful the world can be, even when it isn't the most obvious thing in the world.
I have pretty obnoxious habits in museums; I like to start at the end of the exhibition instead of following the recommended route. I love to stare at a single painting for an uncomfortably long time. A few years ago I was at the Louvre in Paris and had that experience of watching people looking at famous works of art through their cell phones. Everyone was crammed together in front of Mona Lisa, trying to get as close as they could, even taking selfies in front of the silently smiling face. I guess you can see a work of art while taking a picture of it through your cell phone, but you'll never really see it. I doubt that a casual, unthinking glance can show us beauty. Beauty is complex, not always pleasant, and frequently challenges us to reconsider our self-understanding. The beauty of God revealed in the world sometimes isn't all that pretty. As a fellow student once told me, "Art doesn't match your sofa." The unreflective admiration of beautiful objects can't take us very deeply into transformation. We have to lose ourselves to see beauty.
On the same trip to Paris, Grant and I met my friend Alice and her family at the Grand Palais to see an installation about light and motion entitled Dynamo. There were pieces that you just looked at as well as interactive pieces. One of these interactive pieces was an enclosure, set up in the middle of a bright gallery. You entered the enclosure through a long passageway — covered on all four sides. The further along you went, the dimmer the light became. Then the corridor made a sharp right turn, and then a sharp left turn — like a maze. The light continued to dim until there was no light at all. There were no instructions on this art installation, just a title in French that I couldn't read. The enclosure was full of people — I assume it was full of people, I could hear them even if I couldn't see them. Grant was in front of me, and I kept my hand on his shoulder. I decided that the way to experience this dark space was to stay right next to the wall and follow it around until I came to the corridor that had brought me into the darkness.
But the installation seems to have been designed to make this difficult; there were irregular angles and different lengths of wall. As I walked — somehow — I had the distinct experience of being lost. I couldn't tell where I was, how far from the entrance, it was completely dark. At some point, I took my hand off Grant's shoulder, and when I reached out again, he wasn't there. Now, I'm the kind of person with a remarkably good sense of direction and space. If I look at a map once, I'm usually good finding my destination. But in the dark, twisting enclosure I had no idea where I was. I just surrendered to the darkness. In that darkness, I had no mental map. I had to give up on my self-understanding and ability to control circumstances. Instead of being certain of where I was going or how it was all going to turn out, I simply had to be in the moment, in the dark, trusting that a way would open. It was a very well- designed art installation.
I kept walking in the dark enclosure — trying not to bump into anyone — listening to people speaking French. I was calm, as mindful as I could be. I knew a way would open. After a time that I couldn't gauge, I came at last to a point where the darkness seemed less dim, which led me to more light until I found my way out of the enclosure. There were Grant and Alice and her family, patiently waiting for me. "What took you so long?" Alice asked. "I couldn't find my way," I replied. That was the truth — I couldn't find my way, but the way found me. And although I had felt at ease being present in the darkness, having little control, trusting that a way would open, in the light I could feel my need to stay in control quickly return. In that slightly scary, fully disorienting darkness I was found by beauty. I became the object that beauty wanted to uncover.
God's revelation brings beauty. This is more than a claim about the meaning of beauty, more than an aesthetic hope. The encounter with beauty is not only a gift from God; it is an experience of God. Beauty is the glory of God, not only a way that we talk about God's glory. Whenever and wherever God is present, there is beauty. Along with this coming of beauty, there is the promise of transformation. God is making a new creation, and it is always beautiful. When we respond to beauty, we find once again that we are destined for beauty.
* * *
Artists point us to beauty. My earliest calling was to making beauty. I took my first painting class when I was ten years old. Making beauty was a quiet place for me in the midst of a busy, chaotic, happy family. It wasn't only while painting that I sensed this quiet. I would busy myself during worship at my childhood church by endlessly drawing on the back of the bulletin. I would doodle in the margins of my schoolbooks and come home from class only to spend more time drawing. While my peers would play football in the yard, I would create dollhouses for my sisters. I would invent things that had no purpose but to be beautiful. I kept going because the stillness of making beauty was an access point for God. But it wasn't only making beauty that connected me to God; being in the presence of beauty drew me to the divine. Whether it was found in nature, or art, or music, beauty led me into the mystery of God. I didn't realize it at the time, but beauty taught me to pray. Beauty transformed my life.
(Continues...)
Excerpted from The Art of Transformation by Paul Fromberg. Copyright © 2017 Paul Fromberg. Excerpted by permission of Church Publishing Incorporated.
All rights reserved. No part of this excerpt may be reproduced or reprinted without permission in writing from the publisher.
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Table of Contents
Contents
Introduction: Why Transformation?,chapter 1 The Strange Necessity for Beauty,
chapter 2 Social Engagement: Overcoming Alienation with Love,
chapter 3 Friendship: The One Thing Truly Worthwhile,
chapter 4 Worship: Speaking the Truth to God,
chapter 5 Singing: Having Music Within,
chapter 6 Making: Permission to Create Beauty,
chapter 7 Welcoming the Stranger: Seeing God through Other Eyes,
chapter 8 Conclusion: What Do You Want to Become?,
What People are Saying About This
"The Art of Transformation will introduce you to a gifted writer, a profound message, and a truly beautiful congregation. And if you let it, it will inspire you to practice the art of transformation wherever you are."
—Brian D. McLaren, author/speaker/activist
"Challenging, thoughtful, and inviting, Fromberg speaks to the tenderness, harmony, and messy beauty of spiritual transformation in community. Inhale this book deeply and discover your own beauty, which can only be found in a life animated by community."
—The Rt. Rev. C. Andrew Doyle, D.D. Bishop, Episcopal Diocese of Texas
"In this beautiful book, full of compassion and humanity, Paul Fromberg invites us to practice the art of transformation through beauty, art, story, worship, engagement with others, and friendship, and to embrace a relationship with God who 'delights in our striving to be made new.'"
—Jane Shaw, Dean for Religious Life and Professor of Religious Studies, Stanford University