I think I am going to go get his book, Serious Drawings, ASAP. I need to read more art anyway. I am definitely going to subscribe to his blog, huzzah!
Are there any artist who you are a particular fan of?
"In the early 1900s you might have heard "The Old Rugged Cross," a celebration of the atonement. By the 1980s you could have shared the Jesus-is-my-buddy intimacy of "Shine, Jesus, Shine." And today, more and more top songs feature a God who is very big, while we are...well, hark the David Crowder Band: "I am full of earth/ You are heaven's worth/ I am stained with dirt/ Prone to depravity."Now, I will admit, I am coming from the "New Calvinist" point of view, but the summary they provide for New Calvinism, "Our satisfaction — and our purpose — is fulfilled simply by "glorifying" him," seems like nothing but good Biblical exposition.
"I can't prove this, but I think Christians might be better at frisbee than non-Christians. I know that doesn't sound very scientific, but it feels right. Roughly 94% of the Christians I know can really throw the Frisbee well. They're good at ultimate frisbee, can play disc golf, and can even throw a pretty accurate flick or sidearm if you will. The Christians that can't throw the frisbee? Probably backsliding."I can agree. There are very few Christians I know who actually dislike tossing a frisbee around, and while not all of them are Carleton College's UPA team or Nate Doss, they often know their way around a frisbee.
"Be not wise in your own eyes;
fear the LORD, and turn away from evil.
It will be healing to your flesh
and refreshment to your bones."
--Proverbs 3:7-8 (ESV)
Sometimes literature just resonates with you. It takes your meager circumstances and elevates them or mirrors them in the higher plane of that which you are reading.
"When once he was within the cabin there was nothing to do but kiss. He avoided her mouth—the mouth reveals so much, but she wouldn't be content until she had pulled his face round a left the seal of her return on his lips. 'Oh my dear, here I am.'
'Here you are,' he said
...
Did my lies really start, he wondered, when I wrote that letter? Can I really love her more than Louise? Do I, in my heart of hearts, love either of them, or is it only that this automatic pity goes out to any human need—and makes it worse? Any victim demands allegiance.
...
'Missing Mass on Sunday's a mortal sin, just as much as adultery.'
'Adultery's more fun,' he said with attempted lightness.
...
...he felt his whole personality crumble with the disintegration of lies.
...
'Why do we go on like this—being unhappy?'
'It's a mistake to mix up the ideas of happiness and love,' Scobie said with desperate pedantry, as though, if he could turn the whole situation into a textbook case, as they had turned Pemberton, peace might return to both of them, a kind of resignation.
...
One ought not to lie to two people if it could be avoided—that way lay complete chaos, but he was tempted terribly to lie as he watched her face on the pillow. She seemed to him like one of those plants in nature films which you watch age under your eye.
...
'But I simply don't understand. If you believe in hell, why are you with me now?'
How often he though, lack of faith helps one to see more clearly than faith. He said, 'You are right, of course: it ought to prevent all this. But the villages on the slopes of Vesuvius go on...And then, against all the teaching of the Church, one has the conviction that love—any kind of love—does deserve a bit of mercy. One will pay, of course, pay terribly, but I don't believe on will pay for ever.
...
'I can regret the lies, the mess, the unhappiness, but if I were dying now I wouldn't know how to repent the love.'
...
'It's not much good confessing if I don't intend to try. . . .'
'Well then,' she said triumphantly, 'be hung for a sheep. You are in—what do you call it—mortal sin? now. What difference does it make?'
He thought: pious people, I suppose, would call this the devil speaking, but he knew that evil never spoke in these crude answerable terms: this was innocence."
From Book III, Part I, Chapter I of Graham Greene's novel The Heart of the Matter. Read. Buy.