Loading Video . . . Writer Laura Eve Engel brings us a piece in response Psalm 107:4-9. Psalms 107:4-9 I AM SMALL By Laura Eve Engel Credits: Curated by: Kent Shaw 2015 Poetry Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link I’m drawn, something like spiritually, to the vast landscapes–oceans, deserts–that seem to have the capacity, just by existing, just because we know they’re out there, to recall for us our smallness. One need not have been lost in the actual desert–though I have been, sort of–to come upon that feeling of relative size. In stuff-I-read-in-childhood terms, it’s Douglas Adams’ Total Perspective Vortex that is raised by the Biblical images of the desert wanderer: a reminder, among the galaxies, that YOU ARE HERE, and that “HERE” is imperceptible is an understatement. But this passage is, it seems to me, about expressions of gratitude, and when it comes to expressions of gratitude I’m a wanderer in the desert. I’m pummeled by a big wave. As a Jew when I offer a traditional prayer it’s often not in my native language and I feel relief at not always knowing what it is I’m saying. Where expressions of real spiritual depth are concerned I’m most comfortable when I’m a little bit confused, not able to catch all the language, and I can approach even my own ignorance with something like awe. I like feeling small in that way, I think. It’s a way of feeling part of a bigger and not always understandable arrangement, which has always seemed to me something like fact. But I also like feeling like a person, and sometimes boundless exaltation like the kind expressed in this psalm seems to me so much like the vastness of the desert, so calibrated to illustrate my individual human smallness, that it threatens to obliterate the self. That feels dangerous and, in the wrong hands, exploitable. I think I may be temperamentally averse to the pure exaltation this psalm and others prescribe. But it also strikes me that making a meaningful expression of gratitude is distinctly and necessarily not always about my own comfort. Reading and responding to these verses was an opportunity for me to consider smallness and the temptations and aversions that accompany one’s being faced with it, as well as how insisting on the boundaries and bigness of a self inside the infinite is an act that’s circumscribed by unclarity, and failure, and beauty. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection Laura Eve Engel is the author of Things That Go (Octopus Books). The recipient of fellowships from the Provincetown Fine Arts Work Center, the Wisconsin Institute for Creative Writing and the Helene Wurlitzer Foundation, her work can be found in The Awl , Best American Poetry , Boston Review , The Nation , PEN America , Tin House and elsewhere. She's in a band called The Old Year. Website Laura Eve Engel About the Artist WISHBONE Laura Eve Engel Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art And still unclear is the quality of my lostness View Full Written Work I AM SMALL by Laura Eve Engel And still unclear is the quality of my lostness to the visible stars more visible in the desert great literature love places its wanderers under a slow tongue where fear grows plantwild the dark makes forms unknowable I give thanks for not in this dry moment having to answer for myself forage for wheat beneath the sky 's great bravery I must be a nettle or else a tiny trophy bound by sand these feet from time to time displaced gathered up where I was found traversing my actual steps a length of its own brief name Close Loading Video . . . And still unclear is the quality of my lostness Download Full Written Work

Loading Video . . . Writer Zhubin Parang offers a comedic sketch in response to Luke 8:17 and the theme of "Lies." Luke 8:17 Lies By Zhubin Parang Credits: Curated by: Michael Markham 2013 Comedy Sketch Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link This sketch is inspired by Luke 8:17: "For nothing is secret, that shall not be made manifest; neither any thing hid, that shall not be known and come abroad" (KJV). A couple who is pressed to disclose all their financial assets for the sake of their son learns this the hard way. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection Zhubin Parang is an Emmy award-winning writer for The Daily Show With Jon Stewart. His writing has been featured in McSweeney’s, The Onion, and The Morning News, and can be found at www.zhubinparang.com . Website Zhubin Parang About the Artist Zhubin Parang Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art View Full Written Work Close Loading Video . . . Download Full Written Work

Loading Video . . . We are pleased to release a new composition by musician Meaghan Burke, a response to Jesus' foretelling of his second coming in Matthew 24 in which he describes to his the disciples that all the horrors of war and famine will be a mere prelude to the sorrows of the apocalypse - only "the beginning of birth pangs." Matthew 24:1-14 A few concerns concerning the second coming By Meaghan Burke Credits: Artist Location: Brooklyn, New York Curated by: James Hall 2012 Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link This image of birth led me to imagine the chagrin that earth must feel to be told that all the catastrophes it suffers, from earthquakes to civil war, are nothing in comparison to what will come. I envisoned the earth as a mother unable to believe that, after suffering over and over and over again, there is any suffering left to spare. The song alternates between the perspective of this weary world, forced to destroy the children it has borne, and that of a human being, with the very human concerns of being separated from those she loves (“what if I am taken and you are left?”) and being deceived by the so-called “false prophets” (“what if I see Him where I’m not supposed to?”). The final chorus asks, simply, in an anguished bluesy lament, why anyone or anything would build such a beautiful thing as this world, only to destroy it. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection Meaghan Burke ’s debut album Other People’s Ghosts (for cello and voice) sounds like what would happen if if Jacqueline Du Pré were raised on rock and roll, and folk, and cabaret, and blues, and free jazz, and spent too long in Vienna. Or if Tom Waits picked up the cello, drank several pots of coffee, and had a sex change. Whatever that means. Above all, Other People’s Ghosts is about stories – of bedbugs, of bedfellows, of things like love – and Burke’s rich yet vulnerable, smoky-toned voice and deep, growling cello keep these stories playing over and over in our heads long after the last track is finished. Website Meaghan Burke About the Artist Meaghan Burke Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art View Full Written Work Close Loading Video . . . Download Full Written Work

John The Baptist Final3 Loading Video . . . Artist Maida Jaspersen explores the mixed feelings of people about John's words in this sketch responding to John 1:23. John 1:23 John the Baptist By Maida Jaspersen Credits: Curated by: Mathew Moore 2022 Paper Illustration Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link The people of the New Testament were familiar with the prophecies of the Old Testament. And so when John the Baptist identified himself as "a voice of one calling in the wilderness" everyone knew he was talking about the words of Isaiah (see Isaiah 40:3 ). Such a bold claim produced different reactions, some were appalled that John would give himself such a status. They couldn't comprehend the reality of the Savior coming. Others were ready and willing to accept the fulfillment of the prophecy. This illustration depicts the mixed feelings about John's words. Although the reactions are a key part of this piece, the focus remains on John. John is cast in sunlight from the Heavens. He rises in confidence, he knows his job is to point to Christ's coming, no matter how others receive the news. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection Maida Jaspersen is a studying illustrator and painter at Bethany Lutheran College. Her intense sketchbook-filling tendencies along with her classes have equipped her to communicate effectively on paper. Her first published work was a picture book about Queen Esther for Branches Band. Since then she has continued illustrating Biblical accounts with WELS Multi-Lingual productions. Website Maida Jaspersen About the Artist Gideon's Trust Maida Jaspersen Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art View Full Written Work Close Loading Video . . . Download Full Written Work

Frances Freyberg For This Child Iprayed Loading Video . . . Photographer Frances Freyberg captures an intimate moment between mother and child while reflecting on the nature of fear and trust in response to 1 Samuel 1:27-28. 1 Samuel 1:27-28 For this child I prayed By Frances Freyberg Credits: Curated by: Jonathon Roberts 2018 Photography Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link I was initially drawn to this verse because of my own long and petition-filled journey to motherhood. When God answered my prayers, I was left in awe of the depth of love, gratitude, and responsibility I felt for the beautiful baby boy he had given me. I was also terrified that something would happen to him. Babies look so fragile, and I had never been more afraid of losing someone. Over those first months, fear was slowly replaced by trust, as the other moms in my life circled around us and supported us, and taught me what they knew about motherhood. They cooked food, brought clothes, did laundry, babysat, and prayed for us. But most importantly to me, they shared openly about their misadventures in motherhood, and they reassured me about my own. They also shared their everyday joys, and we celebrated together in one another’s small triumphs. Even after years of faithfully answered prayers, I still find it hard sometimes to simply entrust my child to God and not live in a place of worry. Thanks to the honesty of other moms, I know that this struggle won’t get easier – and in fact, will probably get harder – as my child grows. But I also know that God has brought us together to support one another in motherhood and in our faith. This deeper bond with the women in my life has been a wonderful and unexpected joy of motherhood – God’s answer to a prayer I didn’t even know to ask. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection About Francis Freyburg: "Photographs have a unique ability to inspire reflection, hope and action. They hold the power to spark memories and encourage new adventures. They enable viewers to see familiar surroundings from a fresh perspective, or to explore uncharted territories for the very first time. Through my photography, I hope to educate people about our world, and to interest them in the natural beauty that surrounds us. I was born and raised in the San Francisco Bay Area, where I grew to love the great outdoors. Childhood trips to exotic locations fostered an early appreciation for different places and cultures, as well as a continuing passion for travel. In 2008, I left my job in high-tech communications to travel the world for a year, taking photographs and writing about my experiences. During that time, I built an educational travel weblog ( www.wheresfrances.blogspot.com ) with weekly photos, as well as historical and cultural information about the countries I visited. I specialize in portraits of people, wildlife, nature and architecture from my travels to more than 60 countries. I’m particularly drawn to scenes that express the beauty, excitement, humor and diversity of our world, whether through a brilliantly colored blossom or a poignant face in the crowd." Website Frances Freyberg About the Artist Labyrinth Tree of Life Frances Freyberg Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art View Full Written Work Close Loading Video . . . Download Full Written Work

Vesper Stamper Haman's Last Meal Loading Video . . . Illustrator and storyteller Vesper Stamper returns to Spark+Echo Arts with this beautiful new work in response to the theme of "meals" and Esther 7:1-10, in which Haman is taken away to be hanged during a banquet. Esther 7:1-10 Haman's Last Meal By Vesper Stamper Credits: Curated by: 2014 22"x15" Watercolor Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link Growing up in a nominally Jewish home, the story of Esther was one of my favorites. In the celebration of Purim, Esther is commemorated as the liberator of the exiled Jews of Persia from the genocidal plot of Haman. The plot is uncovered at a meal that Esther hosts for King Ahashuerus (Xerxes) and Haman. Meals can be occasions of either comfort or tension among family and friends. In this important meal, tensions are high between Esther and her husband, while Haman is settling into what he believes to be a comfortable position in the Queen’s favor. However, these roles are reversed in a moment—Esther regains her husband’s trust, and Haman is revealed and sentenced to death on his own gallows. Any meal has the potential to be revelatory: when people are about the vulnerability of needing to eat food, or if alcohol is being consumed and guards are down, anything can be brought into the light. How many times can we trace a moment of relational revelation to a meal? This was certainly true when Jesus walked the earth, and it is true of all of us. In this painting, I chose to portray the moment just after the actors have left the scene. The rush of air from dragging out the schemer Haman causes the curtains to blow; Haman’s wine glass, a moment ago a symbol of comfort and merriment, is overturned, foreshadowing his blood that will shortly be spilt; the candle that represents his life has been snuffed out, while a candle representing the Jewish nation remains lit—a situation which moments before could have been the reverse. In all of our lives, the daily and mundane have the potential at any time to become extraordinary, even history-changing. Think about this next time you roast a chicken. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection My work draws on mysticism, by which I mean any person’s reconciling of their tangible surroundings and doings with the (I would argue) universal inner pull toward God’s personality. I respond deeply to archetypical story as found in dark and complex fairy tales, and the disparate impressions we see in our own nighttime dreams. I believe these can be seen as a window into the mystical nature of man. As with Biblical narrative, certain cultural symbols resonate with meaning, and I believe that at thirty-seven I am only at the beginning of my own understanding of them. In this sense my work is evolving with a guiding principle that I am only one person in a continuum of storytellers, and that I will be pursuing the meanings of these symbols well into my twilight years. As an illustrator and storyteller, I feel a profound responsibility to communicate to my audience, beyond purely personal self-expression. This communication can be either on a visceral level or a clear exposition of subject matter, but as a Christian I believe I must be on guard against oversimplified dichotomies or propagandistic message-making. The best stories are those that have the most breathability—hence the fact that I am reinterpreting a passage which is around five thousand years old. Currently I am about to enter the Master of Fine Arts program in Illustration as Visual Essay at School of Visual Arts, and am seeking agency representation. I am working on two illustrated novels, both of which draw on Celtic and Anglo-Saxon myth as the reality of the lives of ordinary women and girls who are reconciling tragedy with their own agency and identity. Hopelessly lost among the wintry wardrobes of Pauline Baynes’ Narnia, Shaun Tan’s mysterious foreign lands, and the watery open spaces in Lisbeth Zwerger’s illustrations, Vesper Stamper’s calling as an illustrator began as soon as she cracked open Hilary Knight’s Cinderella and spent the rest of her childhood meticulously copying each graceful page. She earned an Honors degree in Illustration from Parsons School of Design, and, woven in with her visual work, Vesper is also a recording artist in the indie rock band Ben + Vesper, on the Sounds Familyre record label. Her career has spanned fifteen years, dozens of album covers, four picture books and countless other exciting projects. She brings a refined style and emotional depth to her work that goes beyond mere decoration to pay homage to the rich illustrative tradition from which she comes. Vesper was named the recipient of the 2012 Lincoln City Fellowship for her upcoming graphic novel "The Sea-King’s Children," which will take her to the Outer Hebrides of Scotland this spring (2013) to research the book’s setting and folklore, and to write and paint for the book at the “edge of the world.” She lives in Jersey City, NJ with her husband, filmmaker Ben Stamper, and her two fairy children, who are grabbing the baton and can take an urban backyard full of dirt and recreate it as a world of wonders. Website Vesper Stamper About the Artist This is Not My Vineyard Vesper Stamper Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art View Full Written Work Close Loading Video . . . 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emptiedconsumedpv-1.jpg Loading Video . . . Bay Area artist Marianne Lettieri's beautiful installation "Emptied and Consumed" is a response to 2 Corinthians 8:1-9 and the theme of "poverty." 2 Corinthians 8:1-9 Emptied and Consumed By Marianne Lettieri Credits: Photo Credit: Belinda Carr Location: Woodside Village Church in Woodside, CA Curated by: Janna Aliese 2014 Installation Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link This well-worn hutch was a permanent fixture in my grandmother's kitchen. It probably had been there during the Great Depression when she worked in a South Carolina textile mill. I remember it filled with home-canned peaches, tomatoes, and green beans that she picked from her garden and shared generously with neighbors. It is a symbol of hard times and giving joyfully out of poverty. In response to the scripture passage, I set the humble cupboard on the dais of a rural chapel built at the end of the 19th century in Northern California. Hundreds of common glass food jars, transformed with silvered interiors and candles, flow from the cabinet and down the aisle. The installation evokes an altar spilling forth its treasure of sacred vessels. Though Christ was rich, for our sakes he became poor, that through his poverty we might become rich. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection Marianne Lettieri creates art with everyday objects that reveal the passage of time through repetitive use and daily routines. Her mixed media constructions explore the preoccupations and temporality of life and investigate value systems associated with materials and artifacts. She lives and works in the San Francisco Bay Area. Her artwork is in the collections of the City of Palo Alto, California, Oracle Corporation, San Jose Museum of Quilts and Textiles, and International Museum of Collage, Assemblage and Construction. She has an M.F.A. in Spatial Arts from San Jose State University and B.F.A. in Drawing and Printmaking from University of Florida. Marianne is a member of the board of directors for Christians in the Visual Arts. www.mariannelettieri.com Website Marianne Lettieri About the Artist Marianne Lettieri Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art View Full Written Work Close Loading Video . . . Download Full Written Work

Loading Video . . . Musician Peter Mawanga brings his joyful signature sound to Acts 4:10-12 in this song exploring the person and role of Jesus Christ of Nazareth. Acts 4:10-12 Nambala Wani By Peter Mawanga Credits: Music + Lyrics by Peter Mawanga Vocals by Peter Mawanga Shakers by Peter Mawanga Nylon String Guitar by Peter Mawanga Acoustic Guitar by Obadia Taura Recorded + Produced by Amaravi Music Curated by: Spark+Echo Arts 2020 Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link "Nambala Wani" is Chichewa for "Number One." This song was inspired by the book of Acts — particularly chapter 4, verse 12 which reads: "Salvation is found in no one else, for there is no other name under heaven given to mankind by which we must be saved." (NIV) Therefore, Jesus remains the center of all the things we do and who we are. He is the beginning and the end: He is number one. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection Peter Mawanga has attracted worldwide acclaim with his music, the Nyanja vibes, performing on world stages in Africa, Europe and America. Not a stranger to the BBC and other media outlets, Mawanga has established himself as one of the living legends in Malawi and Africa. Blending traditional instruments as the Nyanja’s visekese, malimba , and kaligo , with contemporary instruments, he produces music that is fondly described by many as therapeutic, drawing from the Nyanja’s core values of peace and calm. The Nyanja are the most peaceful people in Africa and their country Malawi, which has never been at war, be it civil or otherwise, is known as the warm heart of Africa. Their instruments are deliberately designed to produce sounds that appeal to different feelings that aim at calming the nerves, celebrating life, pleading for peace and mostly merrymaking. It is from this source that Peter birthed the aMaravi movement and the celebrated Nyanja afro-vibes which mainly took off when he produced the now world renown album, Mawu A Malawi (The Voice of Malawi) , which featured stories of AIDS. For seven months Peter and colleagues had collected narratives from twenty-six of the most inspiring people they had ever met. They shared their loss, pain, joy, courage, and wisdom. The result of the project was Mawu a Malawi . The album was launched at the University of North Carolina and Department of State, making Peter Mawanga the first African musician to perform at the office of the Secretary of State. Since then, Peter’s performances have been holistic, characterized by song, film, dance, talks and sometimes dramatic monologues. His talks, among other things topics, are on: Malawian traditional sounds ; origins, use, relevance, relation to Africa and the world at large, the fusion with contemporary instruments, extinction, and preservation efforts. Music and dance in Malawi , the interplay of music in the social setup. Issues of identity, music as a people’s movement and a catalyst for life. Dance and tribal heritage. Talents of the Malawian Child Project Mawanga’s personal life (self-discovery) and involvement in projects for social change and economic empowerment. Peter, just like the Nyanjas of Malawi, believes that music goes beyond the ear, reaching out into the inner person to produce a healing power. It is one of the keys to a peaceful mind. Website Peter Mawanga About the Artist ULEMU NDAUPENYA ASAMALA Peter Mawanga Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art View Full Written Work Close Loading Video . . . Download Full Written Work

Loading Video . . . Author Lancelot Schaubert imaginatively brings to life the dire warning of the prophets in this fantastic short story written based off of Habakkuk 1:6-17. Habakkuk 1:6-17 As Waters Cover By Lancelot Schaubert Credits: Curated by: Rebecca Testrake 2018 Fantasy Short Story Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link By taking the core concepts and images of the pericope and transposing them into a fantasy fiction setting, I hoped to show how invading armies can, in a way, grow into a sort of judgement for one another which leaves the meek to — quite literally — inherit the earth. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection Lancelot has sold work to The New Haven Review (The Institute Library), The Anglican Theological Review, TOR (MacMillan), McSweeney's, The Poet's Market, Writer's Digest, and many, many similar markets. (His favorite, a rather risqué piece, illuminated bankroll management by prison inmates in the World Series Edition of Poker Pro). Publisher's Weekly called his debut novel BELL HAMMERS "a hoot." He has lectured on these at academic conferences, graduate classes, and nerd conventions in Nashville, Portland, Baltimore, Tarrytown, NYC, Joplin, and elsewhere. The Missouri Tourism Bureau, WRKR, Flying Treasure, 9art, The Brooklyn Film Festival, NYC Indie Film Fest, Spiva Center for the Arts, The Institute of the North in Alaska, and the Chicago Museum of Photography have all worked with him as a film producer and director in various capacities. Website Lancelot Schaubert About the Artist Artist in Residence 2019: Lancelot Schaubert - Part 3 Artist in Residence 2019: Lancelot Schaubert - Part 2 Artist in Residence 2019: Lancelot Schaubert - Part 1 Posh Girls Artist in Residence 2019: Lancelot Schaubert Dragonsmaw Daily | 1 Dragonsmaw Daily | 2 Dragonsmaw Daily | 3 Watchtower Stripped to the Bonemeal Metaphysical Insurance Claim 0075A: The Delphic Oracle Philadelphia Bloodlines Lancelot Schaubert Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art “Giving that scythe—” Mar said. He wasn’t listening. She was droopy-eyed and slouching, but beautiful: hoping to haggle for more time to surf. View Full Written Work As Waters Cover by Lancelot Schaubert “Giving that scythe—” Mar said. He wasn’t listening. She was droopy-eyed and slouching, but beautiful: hoping to haggle for more time to surf. Mourners got in the way of that. She cleared her throat. “Giving that scythe statue a present isn’t going to keep you from dying." “Of course it will,” Fard said, eyes still closed, head rising. “Theirs are the ones who slay us, theirs we must pacify.” He bowed towards the silver scythe again. She laughed and shook her head. “If God’s a scythe, we’re in trouble.” “If not, who will save us from invaders?” She asked, “Like when the Tilons finally come?” “Myths,” he said. The field of great stone sickles, a sculpture garden of tall and narrow idols, spread out before them grassy atop the white bonestone crag. “No they’re not,” she said, “they have long teeth and longer claws and pounce silently and fly like the great thunderbirds that swoop down and catch the young swimmers during their training lessons. They–” “Listen to you,” Fard said, “worried about some fairy tale and forbidding me my sacrifices.” He threw more food, more spare change, flung more incense smoke from out of that hanging chain meat smoker he wielded, flinging the growing fog towards the hand-carved representation of a scythe, of the sickleman. “Keep up your surfing and fairy tales if you think it will help our people with the sicklemen, but as for me and my house we will appease them and placate them by all means available to us.” She snorted at him. “You act like they’re demons.” He turned a worried glance her way. His brow darkened. Then he turned back and slung more incense towards the statue. “You think they’re demons?” she laughed. “Bro… this is rich. This is too rich, man. Really?” He muttered, “Do you have a better explanation for a hoard of man-sized creatures, robed in shadow, carrying harvest blades to cut us down and nothing sticking out beneath those black curtains covering them but the tiniest thousands of legs?” One passed by in the overhang. Mar and Fard froze. It passed on to inspect someone else, no sound but the soft fluttering of the blackened cloak like the soft fluttering of the skirt under a king’s long table at a queen’s quiet funeral. “See,” Fard said. “You fear them too. All I want is to liberate our people towards a good life by giving gifts their tyrants desire.” “Sounds boring,” she said. “I’m fine without any of that.” “You have no farm,” he said. “So?” “You don’t have your harvests interrupted by these creatures,” Fard said. “You don’t have entire years wiped out in a moment so that you have to scrape by, year after year, hoping that the collectors won’t come and claim your work, debts called in, leagues and leagues of farmwaves repossessed, and then no money left for… for…” he started to cry a little and tried not to. He started to weep a little and tried to make it a cry. He lost control and it was a messy thing to watch. She remembered his daughter, the great bellowing cough that had developed like the bark of the whale spiders, how much the medicine ran. She’d never connected it before. “Fard, I…” “Don’t,” he said. “One year. One year of uninterrupted harvest and everything will be alright.” “You just need to rest, man. This whole damn planet needs to just relax more: we literally live on or near the largest waves in the known universe and here you’re worried about growing berries on them.” “It’s not the berries. It’s the freedom berries could bring.” She remembered how her mom had come in from the tiger island (each island on their planet was named for a different species of animal – some common to The Vale, some uncommon) and married her father from the ant island. Neither of them knew how to have a good time, at least not in Mar’s experience. Her mother spent most of her time telling stories of how she’d once been the nanny of some famous sea captain who had passed a recommendation along so that she could work on dry land, a recommendation to one of the famous chestdancers, where she worked also as a nanny taking care of those kids and her various household chores and the administrative duties that come with helping the lead of a major island show – all of the logistics of moving sets and costumes by longboat from island to island, it was quite the ordeal. Her father had been no different, though he appeared drastically different. Systems engineer, businessman, the kind of nerdy monotone you only expected from bad actors employing stereotypes about accountants from the ant island. Turns out sometimes stereotypes exist for a reason: a quick representation of realities that do, more or less, exist in the majority of a given demographic. In his case, number scratchers and tallymen from the isle of ants. Mom and dad had married, seemingly different, but ultimately mutually convinced that the best way to raise their daughter was away from a moment’s peace or relaxation. Combined with her naturally phlegmatic persona and rebellious streak, the overenforced environment turned Mar into a runner early on. She never ran far: only towards the nearest breakers and boomers. She wanted to get the rest of the planet to enjoy what she enjoyed: that kind of abiding rest. Not the uncreative idleness of her father — the ant who worked diligently and yet mindlessly. Not the slavish workaholism of her mother. The two had collided enough to separate and she needed not something else, a third way. True rest. And she wondered if the thing she’d seen a year back was an omen. Or a key. “You going to just stand there staring at my worship or are you going to make a sacrifice?” Fard asked. She’d never noticed his muscles before, the scars on his arms. Stronger and more cut up than a farmer. Strong and scarred like the humanoid arms of whatever those insectoid sicklemen looked like beneath. She turned and looked out over the crags, the high places where folks left their best (or lied and said they left their best) for the sicklemen to come and claim. “Well?” he asked again. “Shh,” she said, “something’s moving on the horizon.” He turned from the altar and looked the way that she peered. They both watched as a swarm of something – of many thousands of somethings – descended in the east and sped towards them in a very detail-laden cloud: these were not insects, but monsters. Some sort of large monsters and thousands of them. Fard said, “What in the cutting name of–” “We have to get them into the seacaves,” Mar said and she took off running without waiting for him to respond. “To the caves!” she shouted at a crowd of hilltop shepherds. “Run to the seacaves” she shouted at a group of young women who, until then, had gossiped about suitors and styles and search parties for drowned children. Some glanced her way and scoffed. Others perked up for a moment and then returned to their business. Finally she climbed up on top of a rounded off bonestone and shouted “THEY ARE COMING TO EAT YOU ALL!” while pointing towards the swarms and swarms of winged monster things that had now descended upon them all: massive men and women with hair like antennae and tentacles and red tattoos of cave drawings all over their half-naked forms riding the backs of great red and black-spotted leopards with wings. The leopards dove down to move among them and started grasping up small children within their jaws, the bones and blood of which slathered over the field in a red and debris-ridden foam. The people screamed and moved to hide in the caves in the rocks and holes in the ground, and followed Mar into the seacaves along the great spire of bonestone like a great hornet’s or parrot’s nest, the sort that betrays its hollowness on its porous surface, the sort that normally can only be accessed from the bottom. They dove in as higher and higher up the great bone stone crag, the winged leopard beasts landed to hunt them. They chased them, followed them into the rocks and into the holes in the ground and they left great piles of clothes and limbs in their wake, a ruthless force, and Mar did what she could to get the women and the children and the wimpy men into a safe haven, rally as many of the fighters as she could (there were spare few with the people due to the decade of sickleman oppression) and then went to find Fard. Who was hiding in the shadow of the same statue, praying all the more fervently and sacrificing there on the top of the great crag with the shadows of great winged leopards diving around him to take and eat as they pleased from the flesh of Mar and Fard’s people. Mar opened her mouth but was cut off by Fard. “You’re lazy,” Fard said. He did not rise. “What are you talking about? The Tilons are here, we–” “You’re lazy in your devotion to the sicklemen. They can stop this pain.” “By making more pain.” “Their pain brings the rest we deserve.” “Really?” she asked. “This is not my idea of rest either, Fardome Renoirpe.” “Death is a kind of rest.” “Death is a kind of judgement. “Yes,” he said, “but which of God’s judgements are not also gifts?” The sky cleared around them as the majority of the winged leopards and their riders took to running and hunting and rooting. They had mostly passed over Mar and Fard and the field of the scythe idols. Mar said, “I feel like my mind might break.” “So let it break or go escape to your waves. Or maybe help me bring about liberality to the people with our idols.” “ Your idols. I don’t worship stone.” “Yeah, you just try to manipulate spirits in vain. Enough food and the sicklemen will be gracious — see how they’ve abandoned their homes and storehouses?” “The sicklmen,” she said. “That’s it . How do you know so much about the sicklemen, Fard?” “I know very little.” “Don’t feed me that.” “I know more than some from a more devout devotion, a long obedience in the same direction, that is all.” She picked up his forearms with delicate little hands, surfer hands that had been well seasoned by sun and saltwater and board wax brine. “Then how did these get bigger than a farmer’s in all the weird places? And how did you get scars like theirs?” He eyed her. “Fard?” The noise in the distance of his people dying awoke him. “My father went through the rite early and became a sickleman. He’s one of them and I nearly joined too, but reformed after witnessing what they did to our people.” “And you give money and food to them?!” “I have hope for my father and loyalty to him and hope he has enough sway to have mercy on me and mine. And maybe to free us one day.” “But your mind changes to run like theirs when you go over to them. You become like a giant bug, I hear. Like the giant ants of the island of my father’s youth.” “A man can hope for his father’s redemption. Can’t even a wayward elder change? Can’t God change a leopard’s spots?” She didn’t know if God could change a fingerprint, a snowflake, the spots on a leopard. But these leopards needed a change and quickly. “I don’t know, she said, but I know how to kill these.” “How?” She thought of the omen, the key. “I once saw two sicklemen take two of these down. One with the scythe, one with a mutesheer.” “A mutesheer?” “He cut out the leopard’s tongue when it went to bite him and the thing either bled out or drowned on its own blood, but it wasn’t able to bite. Tell me, where do the sicklemen live?” “We are not to say.” “Where? Fard if you care about freedom for your people, you’ll let me unleash the sicklemen on these things.” “In the deep of the mountain where we ought not to go.” “In the third strata?” “Yes. Beyond the sphere door.” “Help me open it,” she said. “No.” “Fard.” “I won’t. It’ll be the death of us.” “It already is,” she said, “Look around you.” The last of their people were falling every which way. “There’s only one way into the lock antechamber. You won’t be able to steer the people.” “I’ll talk to our captains. What is the way?” He pointed out to sea where a great boomer was forming, massive in scale. It would collide halfway up the towering crags of the island: a wave the size of the mountain. Mar grinned. “At least the tide is high.” “You must thread the needle. Too high or low and it will crush you.” “I’ll be fine. And you?” “I do it nightly, my dear.” They told the plan to the captain and then had the longboats bring them around to the spawning zone where the waves would form. They could read waves well, most of the folk from their nation, and knew the difference between the seedbed of a small wave and the seedbed of something gargantuan. Three waves deep, it rumbled beneath them in a way only a currentseer could understand. They paddled and got ahead of it with their boards and caught it, riding it like a snow skier might ride a mountain’s ever-renewing avalanche. The thing moved them at breakneck speeds – faster than anything Mar had caught before, pulling them on and over with an inertia sure to squash them flat and turn their bodies to pomace from sea and stone turned cider press. “YOU WILL HAVE TO JUMP AND SWIM FOR IT!” he shouted over the roar, pointing towards a tiny hole in the wall. “I’M NOT AS TALL AS YOU!” she shouted back. The opening came before them, a great mouth in the wall of white bonestone, and he jumped off his board and into the hole and swam along inside the airborne current that blasted in, his flesh like fire in the water in the sky in the stone. She had caught the wave at a perfect crest and had surfed through the mouth, through the tunnel-turned estuary, and right up beside the inner shore near the control booth near the spheredoor. She pressed on the primitive controls and could see along the inner tracks the door mechanism begin to move, ball and track. Through the porthole in the wall that allowed watchers to guard the entrance to the door, she could see the captains shepherding her people to the left and right to the tunnels that turned to either side of the door of the deep, turned to loop into deeper hideouts and boltholes. They sprinted along quite quickly and cleared the door – all but a few – while the hordes and hordes of winged leopards and alien riders climbed down the walls as quickly as would mountain goats, darting a bit slower than they had from the air after the well-adapted people. Fard had come behind Mar and moved a series of levers so that the inner track of the spheredoor shifted. The great ball rolled down the inner hill in the space between the inner and outer walls, opening that which should not be opened in the place they ought not have gone. Then the sicklemen came forth – hundreds and hundreds of centipeded or milipeded bodies hiding behind those old and dark-veiled shadowcloaks, drawing up scythes as one might draw ten thousand slings and tearing into the leopards and riders as the leopards and riders tore into them. Great mutesheers came out and they began to cut out the tongues of the monsters even as the riders moved to ride and strangle the sicklemen. The voices of ten thousand demiurges and elder gods went silent as more piled in to war. “It’s foolish to wait to see how this ends,” Fard said. “To watch them eat each other.” “I find it entertaining,” she pulled out some peanuts from a pocket. They were soggy. “Until they turn on the audience,” he said. The realization hit her. She looked at him. His expression practically begged her to get out of there as quickly as possible, to leave before the devils knew they were there. “Where can we go?” she asked. “You mentioned your parents.” “My mother’s slavery is as bad or worse.” “Then with your father.” “He’s boring.” “Boring’s a nice change from this,” Fard said, “especially for my daughter.” “Good point,” Mar said. “Plus with our people, we can teach them how to have a good time.” “You’ll never get that old accountant on a surfboard, but I’ll cheer you on if you try.” “It’s better than trying to stay here and respond to the violence of either side. It’s a binding, for sure, to commit to your father’s island.” “Especially if my mother hasn’t died yet,” she said, “and they’re still together.” Fard said, “But it’s the sort of binding vow that might free even me.” “At least you won’t have to waste smoked meat anymore. How do we get down?” He pointed to surfboards and wakeboards lying all along the inside of the control room. “Same way we came in.” It took them a moment to redirect the people, but they did it quickly and the islanders — even the children — had prepared just for this. How many have ever seen a city of paupers cover the waves of the deep with their boards as waters cover the sea? Close Loading Video . . . “Giving that scythe—” Mar said. He wasn’t listening. She was droopy-eyed and slouching, but beautiful: hoping to haggle for more time to surf. Download Full Written Work

Loading Video . . . This work comes from poet and performer Warren Jackson in response to the theme of "Joy" and Proverbs 3:5-6. Proverbs 3:5-6 Trust By Warren Jackson Credits: Curated by: Andrew Nemr 2012 Poetry / Spoken Word Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link Grounded in Proverbs 3:5-6, with other inspiration by the latter parts of Ephesians 6, TRUST is a reflection of my experience as an artist, and my struggle to wrestle with the reality of a precarious, but promising life, through faith. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection Warren Jackson , known lovingly to many simply as, Ren, hails from Indianapolis. This Midwest kid was reared in the Baptist church rooted in the tradition of home-folks from South Carolina and Alabama, and sprinkled with a bit of A.M.E. He grew up in the church with strong examples from his family members who served in several ways. Fostered by an enriching Sunday school experience, coupled with the supportive environment of attending a small primary and secondary school, led to opportunities to publish poems in University publications, a text book, and engage in spoken-word forums. Since arriving in New York via Chicago, Ren has focused on his theater career, becoming a company member of Brave New World Repertory. He is currently in an original piece at Premiere Stages and will also be seen in a revival of Thornton Wilder’s THE LONG CHRISTMAS DINNER this winter. He received nominations for his work from the Black Theater of Alliance of Chicago for Best Featured Actor, in Victory Garden’s world premiere of SHOES, and from the regional Emmy board for his ensemble work on Chicago children’s television show, GREEN SCREEN ADVENTURES. He earned his MFA at the University of Arizona. Website Warren Jackson About the Artist Warren Jackson Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art I am going to trust in the Lord; for the slings and arrows of this outrageous life will be doused, and careen off my armament of faith. View Full Written Work Trust by Warren Jackson I am going to trust in the Lord. I am going to tru-ust in the Lord. I am going to trust in the Lord… for the slings and arrows of this outrageous life will be doused, and careen off my armament of faith. I shall not be moved! Waters will rise; Winds will blow; My neighbor’s talk lashes a yoke upon me before I can run. And still, I trod on in preparation of peace. I am goin’ to trust… See, trust, is a five letter word that leads to a five word sentence: I will trust in Him. Not with a half heart, but a whole heart; not with lip service but with a chorus of gratitude that starts with: Thank you, Jesus. For, it is His understanding upon which I must lean. He laid in a grave, took a short nap, but got up to descend from that cave on Death’s door. With keys swingin’ He got to jinglin’ and He popped that lock – pulled out all the stops and was back top-side by the break of dawn. I am going to tru-ust In the Lord that the helmet of salvation He has given me will guard my thirsty thoughts and guide my jealous tongue; that the weapon of the Word I wield will cleave vices and counter the coldness, that my admission will be taken as submission and He will make a way somehow. For, at the end of days, the S on my breast won’t read from the comic novel nor slander me in the dust but mark me as His righteous own. I am goin’ to trust, in the Lord till I die… Close Loading Video . . . I am going to trust in the Lord; for the slings and arrows of this outrageous life will be doused, and careen off my armament of faith. Download Full Written Work

Loading Video . . . Part 1: Follow the process for creating this piece for Artist in Residence 2016 Romans 9:20-26 Artist in Residence 2016, Ebitenyefa Baralaye – Part 1 By Ebitenyefa Baralaye Credits: Curated by: Spark & Echo Arts, Artist in Residence 2016 2016 Ceramic Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link God takes the prerogative of having a sovereign hand over what we see as good and bad, over wrath and mercy. He also operates omnipotently outside of our relativistic justifications of which things, including ourselves, exist under those judgements. He alone ordains what is deemed for glory or destruction for the purpose of magnifying his greatness in the scope of existence and our personal lives. I am fascinated by how God can be glorified in destruction and objects of wrath, prime among these being the body of Christ on the cross. I’m humbled by the fact that God chooses those things deemed condemned as the recipients of his mercy, thinking specifically of myself and the body of his church. Being a ceramicist I am drawn to the metaphor of pottery used in this scripture passage. I am familiar with the experience of making from the same material of clay a piece that gets ushered into my art portfolio and another that lands in the reclaim bucket or trash purely on the whims of my judgement for the advancement of my creative practice. The qualities that makes something worthy or condemned exists within the eye of the beholder and the hand of the maker. God’s perspective molds the state of everything’s existence. Interestingly God turns on its head the patterns that we would expect in this perspective: the first becomes the last, the least becomes the greatest, outsiders and slaves become heirs. I am starting off my commission by exploring formal metaphors of God’s inversion of grace and material embodiments of grace. I am planning to make large twin sets of ceramic vessel/bowl forms. These will be press-molded in clay capturing the imprints of my hands and the kinetics of gesture as their texture. My fist step is creating the armature for a model. This model will then be used to produce a plaster mold from which I will cast the clay pieces. – The model starts off as an upside down armature; the final form will be flipped. The base armature is made of plywood and chicken wire. The wood and wire then gets covered with strips of burlap and plaster. The plaster then gets an initial covering of clay as I model the form and surface. All materials are copyrighted by the artist and used here by permission. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection Ebitenyefa Baralaye is a ceramicist, sculptor and designer. He was born in Lagos, Nigeria, raised in Antigua and lives in the United States. Ebitenyefa received his BFA in Ceramics from the Rhode Island School of Design. His studio bases have included Long Island City, Queens; the Elizabeth Foundation for the Arts in New York City; and Bloomfield Hills, MI where he is currently enrolled as a Ceramics MFA candidate at the Cranbrook Academy of Art. He has exhibited in various solo and group shows domestically and internationally including the 2011 Gyeonggi International Ceramix Biennale in Icheon, South Korea and the 2016 Toronto Design Festival. He has held residencies at the Peters Valley Crafts Center in Layton, NJ and most recently, Talking Dolls in Detroit, MI. Website Ebitenyefa Baralaye About the Artist Artist in Residence 2016, Ebitenyefa Baralaye – Part 3 Artist in Residence 2016, Ebitenyefa Baralaye – Part 2 David Abram Artist in Residence 2016: Ebitenyefa Baralaye – "Bam Bam" Ebitenyefa Baralaye Other Works By Follow the developmental journey of Ebitenyefa’s project by reading his FIRST , SECOND , THIRD and FINAL posts written as a 2016 Artist in Residence. Related Information View More Art Make More Art View Full Written Work Close Loading Video . . . Download Full Written Work

Loading Video . . . Trumpet player John Raymond explores Psalm 23 and the theme of "Lies" in his beautiful and moving jazz quartet. Psalms 23 The Forgotten One By John Raymond Credits: Flugelhorn by John Raymond Guitar by Gilad Hekselman Bass by Aidan Carroll Drums by Austin Walker Curated by: Benje 2013 Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link It’s funny. We never seem to doubt God’s presence with us when things are going well. But when things get tough, what happens? We worry. We fear. We are gripped with inner anguish at our circumstances and at what their effect is on us. During these times, we would never say that we don’t believe God is with us. Not for a second. But our worry and fear and anguish all reveal to us that something has certainly gone awry - we’ve subtly believed the lie that God is not there. Psalm 23 expounds on this theme, but comes at it through the back door. Throughout the entire psalm we sense the rest, the peace and the contentment David has because of God’s presence with him. But the question is… why are we so comforted by this? Why do we feel such peace? Isn’t it because we know that we often fall into feeling the opposite of what David feels when we go through trials? When David proclaims, “I will fear no evil, for you are with me,” he’s telling us something about where the source of comfort is found (in the steadfast presence of God with us, no matter what the circumstances). But on the flip side, he’s also telling us something about where the root of our fears and anxieties are found: in our forgetfulness and unbelief of God’s promised presence with us. This unbelief (which is ultimately belief in a lie) makes us mourn and lack peace in our hearts. However, while we fall into believing these lies all the time and thus ultimately deserve nothing but separation from God, the amazing reality is that we are nevertheless near to Him because of what Jesus endured on the cross. While Jesus never believed this lie, he took the punishment we deserve for believing it ourselves. In return, we are able to be confident in the reality that God will always be with us until we meet Him in eternity one day. What an amazing truth! This composition – “The Forgotten One” – seeks to display the pain that comes from believing lies about God’s presence, the realization that He is yet near to us because of Christ, and the humble rejoicing that comes with His continued presence with us. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection John Raymond “Creative, unpredictable and compelling. John has a unique voice, and he is definitely saying something that is worth listening to” (Jon Faddis). Labeled “a prepossessing young trumpet player…” (Nate Chinen, New York Times), John Raymond is quickly making a name for himself as an up-andcoming artist to keep an eye on. A featured artist at the 2012 10th Annual FONT Festival (Festival of New Trumpet) and the 2013 Winter Jazz Festival, Raymond has already performed as a leader at some the nation’s top venues including Dizzy’s Club Coca-Cola, the Dakota Jazz Club, the Jazz Showcase, Smalls Jazz Club and the Blue Note Jazz Club. He has collaborated or performed with musicians such as John Abercrombie, Chris Potter, Ben Williams, Maria Schneider, Gilad Hekselman, Linda Oh and Otis Brown III among others. John has performed at notable events such as the Austin City Limits Music Festival and on NPR’s Toast of the Nation New Year’s Eve celebration, and he has toured internationally in China, the UK and the Dominican Republic. Raymond has also distinguished himself as an elite horn arranger, working with top gospel and R&B artists across the country and most clearly evidenced by the three GRAMMY-nominated songs that he has arranged and recorded horns for. His debut album “Strength & Song,” released in February 2012 and produced by legendary trumpeter Jon Faddis, has already attracted national and international attention (“Soaring. A strong early work…very complete and well intentioned” – NextBop.com ). The album features Raymond’s carefully-crafted original compositions that draw on jazz, rock and hip-hop influences, creating emotionally engaging music with affecting, memorable melodies. Raymond’s voice on the trumpet is equally as notable – his expressive sound, intricately-woven melodies and story-like phrasing come together to lead the band to routinely transcend to new heights. Combined with the interplay from a cast of “who’s who” of rising star musicians, Raymond is proving that he is well on his way to becoming a major force in the music industry. “Possessing a forte that few seasoned musicians have attained…a brilliant talent whose luminosity is endless” (Birmingham Times). www.johnraymondmusic.net Website John Raymond About the Artist John Raymond Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art View Full Written Work Close Loading Video . . . Download Full Written Work