nicora-gangi_2013-air-1_spirit-of-god-the-spirit-hovering.jpg Loading Video . . . A prolific artist, Nicora Gangi responds to the theme of "Light and Darkness" from Genesis 1:2 in her first work created for a collection inspired by each of the six themes for the year as a 2013 Artist in Residence. Genesis 1:2 Spirit of God-The Spirit Hovering By Nicora Gangi Credits: Curated by: Spark+Echo Arts, 2013 Artist in Residence 2013 19 x 25 inches Pastel on Canson Paper Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link The Spirit of God is the first mover; He moved upon the face of the waters. Herein is hope: the Spirit of God begins to work. And if he works who will hinder? God's Spirit moved upon the deep; He is the fountain of life and spring of motion. The first of all visible things the Lord God created was light. Not that He Himself needs to see in order to work, for the darkness and the light are the same to Him. Rather, He created it that by it we may see His works and His glory in them. "For the one that practices the truth, comes to the light that his deeds may be manifest as having been founded in God." (John 3:21) Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection Nicora Gangi was educated at Syracuse University, Syracuse, New York, USA (BFA 1974 and MFA 1976). She was a Professor of Art at Syracuse University for 29 years. Gangi has been awarded many Grand Prize and First Place awards and grants. She has been and continues to be published in numerous artist’s books on pastel paintings. She has lectured regionally and nationally as a visiting artist at universities and artist’s guilds. She is represented by: Edgewood Gallery (Syracuse, NY), and Gangi Studio (Winter Garden, FL ). Website Nicora Gangi About the Artist The Mountain of the House of The Lord I See Him but Not Now So Shall Your Descendants Be This One The Body without the Spirit | 1 The Body without the Spirit | 2 The Body without the Spirit | 3 The Sealed Ones Peace with God The Everlasting Protective Love of God Our Father When the Lord Gives Us The Land I See Him but Not Now The Mountain of the House of The Lord Paneled and Ruins Series The Harvest Memories Lies Fool Dance Your Truth from the Great Congregation Psalm 18 Sound of Their Wings Psalm 16 Kiss the Son EAST, WEST, NORTH & SOUTH AT HIS TABLE Nicora Gangi Other Works By Nicora Gangi created a collection of mixed media works in response to scripture and the six themes of the year as a 2013 Artist in Residence. Explore her works created throughout the year: Spirit of God – The Spirit Hovering (This piece) Light and Darkness (February 4, 2013) Fool Fools (April 13, 2013) Dance Dancing (June 13, 2013) Lies Lies (August 22, 2013) The Harvest Harvest (October 17, 2013) Memories Memory (December 12, 2013) Related Information View More Art Make More Art View Full Written Work Close Loading Video . . . Download Full Written Work

Loading Video . . . Poet John Fry explores the intersection of prophecy, the crucifixion of Christ, and the suffering present in current events within this stunning, visceral set of poems reflecting on Obadiah 1:2-4,10-18. Obadiah 1:2-4 Obadiah 1:10-18 If Obadiah walked the stations of the cross By John Fry Credits: Curated by: Rebecca Testrake 2018 Poetry Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link Artist Statement | Frontera Ofrenda About Obadiah we know little beyond what scholars can conjecture from the text of Obadiah’s book. The shortest of all the prophetic books in the Hebrew scriptures at 21 lines of verse, the words of Obadiah’s vision nevertheless thrums with the same intensity that readers/listeners of the books of Isaiah or Jeremiah call “prophetic.” The long poem I’ve written in response to—and in dialogue with—these verses from Obadiah’s vision attempts to recreate the intensity of that prophetic voice speaking to our nation’s fraught sociopolitical here and now. * I write this from the central Hill Country of the state that has more detention centers where immigrants of all ages crossing the nation’s southern border in search of asylum are being held than there are stars on our national flag. 184 such facilities as of this July, though the number may have increased since then. Some of these detention centers are operated by ICE in county jails, among other places, across the state. The detention centers that concern this long poem, however, are ones where not only adults but children have been detained—ranging in age from infancy to seventeen years—often after being separated from their parents or adult family members in ways more than dubious at best. And continue to be detained apart from adult family members who, we now know, have in some cases been deported back to their countries of origin. And, even after a judicial intervention, the federal government has struggled to rectify the humanitarian crisis it manufactured. The children who’ve been separated from their parents— thereby becoming “unaccompanied minors” according to the law—do not know where their family members are. The desperate adults, still in detention or now deported, likewise often don’t know where their children are. As of this Fall, 13,000 minors are still being held in detention centers (a number inclusive of those who entered the US unaccompanied and those who’ve been separated from their families). * What makes a prophet(ess) speak the way they do? What alchemy coalesces inside a person to produce what we recognize as the proverbial voice crying out in or from the wilderness? A prophet is someone who brings urgent but unpleasant news to their community. Unwelcome because a prophet speaks truth to the power of a community’s center from the edges of its margins. Disliked because truth often tastes more bitter than sweet. So much so that the Bible repeatedly recounts the kinds of violence telling the truth—in biblical terms, speaking with the authority of God’s own voice—invites. Jeremiah finds himself thrown into a pit by the very people to whom the Lord sends him to witness. John the Baptist loses his head. Prophets are not, of course, perfect and are subject to their own foibles. But to speak prophetic truth, the biblical exemplars make clear, requires a willingness to court potential personal disaster. (Who among us\ wouldn’t—at least for a moment—be as reluctant as Jonah?) Prophets know this. And prophets speak the truth anyway. * If you’ve followed the news in any medium this year, you already know some facet of the story of asylum-seeking immigrant families being separated at the border. You may also know that detaining children and adult immigrants has become a billion-dollar industry for the companies who receive the lucrative government contracts to do it (some of whom also run for-profit prisons). Two such agencies running such centers detaining children in Texas are Southwest Key and BCFS. Southwest Key is a national nonprofit with its headquarters in Austin whose mission is “opening doors to opportunity so individuals can achieve their dreams.” How detaining children separated from their parents opens doors stymies my faculties, and they have other programs in addition to the numerous “shelters” with rhetorically disingenuous names like “Casa Nueva Esperanza”—that’s House of New Hope—where these children have been (are being) kept. BCFS, which stands for Baptist Child and Family Services, is a Texas-based “global network of non-profit organizations operating health and human services programs” that aims to “meet the needs of at-risk populations.” Neither nonprofit pays its bills solely on the basis of this ongoing humanitarian catastrophe but, to be clear, they nevertheless financially benefit from the federal government’s logistical disasters. * I’ve always been struck (and, secretly, pleased) by the contiguity between prophecy and poetry. And, more generally, that so many of our world’s sacred scriptures also happen to be poems, although there’s nothing happenstance about this. (Of course I’d say this, being a poet myself.) The hymns to the Sumerian Inanna written by her priestess Enheduanna, who’s incidentally the earliest known poet by name in recorded history.The Dhammapada . The thousand plus hymns of of the Rigveda Samhita and the Bhagavad Gita . The Blessingway ceremony of the Diné. Maria Sabina’s healing chants. Poetry’s proximity to prophecy, like its origin in song, is as ancient as it’s storied. By no means am I unique in finding this coincidence—that’s anything but—endlessly inspiring, but it’s an autobiographical given that the Jewish and Christian scriptures, especially those that are also poems, are wells of water for this poet preacher’s son that never run dry. They also never fail to provide provocations. * The humanitarian crisis unfolding in Texas has routinely been described as an “invasion” by conservative pundits and politicians. As of the 2010 census, 38.2% of the state’s total population was of Latinx ancestry. Research suggests that, by 2020-2022, the majority of Texas residents will be Latinx and, as is the case now, primarily Mexican American. In certain parts of Texas, Latinx people dramatically outnumber Anglos, although those in municipal, county, state, and federal positions of leadership and power do not necessarily reflect these demographics. West Texas in and surrounding El Paso; all of the communities running the length of the Río Bravo/Rio Grande from Del Rio to Laredo; South Texas, by which I mean everything from San Antonio southward and eastward to the coast, including the Rio Grande Valley or El Valle. To those who haven’t traveled in these parts of Texas, including those who’re Texans themselves from elsewhere, any one of these areas may seem more “Mexican” than “Texan,” where the latter means white by another name. In any one of these areas of Texas, the likelihood of Spanish or one of its derivatives being the vernacular increases the closer to the border you are. * In her cantankerous and achingly beautiful love letter to American poetry that she calls a vigil, the late C.D. Wright describes her restlessly various aesthetic sense as “a way to vocalize, perform, act out, address the commonly felt crises of my time.” In book after book, she does exactly this. She also writes: “[t]hese are spiritual exercises.” So too was writing this poem for me both an attempt to find a language adequately electric and capable of delivering readers a shock of recognition—even if one of outrage or offense. It was also an exercise in searching for a form sturdy enough to contain the depth of my grief and anger over my country’s inhumane practices that was still supple enough to sing. A stereotypically brief lyric freezing an instant of time in place while flirting with eternity wouldn’t suffice. It needed to be long enough to gesture toward the catalog and capable of gaining intensity through accretion. Something approaching the series, sequence, or serial—but not, given the exigency of time, something going on without end (even though such a litany could). As I read and reread the book of Obadiah like a good monastic engaged in lectio divina and wondered where on earth, heaven, or hell I was supposed to begin, I remembered an observation of the poet Charles Wright that distilled what I aimed for when composing a poetic line for years: “Each line should be a station of the cross.” Once I began thinking about using the Catholic practice of walking the stations of the cross as a poetic structure, I knew its symbolic weight would be able to carry the theological and, yes, political argument of what I felt but had yet to find the words for. * This borderland area of Tejas/Texas, “la frontera” as the Tejana Gloria Anzaldúa theorizes it, is my home even though I currently write several hours north of it. Being a United Methodist preacher’s kid meant my family moved all over the state. And although I was born in Kentucky while my father finished seminary, I have lived in Texas all my life save for a four-year college sojourn in North Carolina. My parents moved to Alice, Texas, when I was roughly six months old, a small town about an hour from Corpus Christi. After childhood and early adolescence in central and west Texas, I graduated from high school in Kingsville, Texas, a half hour or so away from Alice and about an hour from Corpus Christi. Prior to the Treaty of Guadalupe Hidalgo in 1848, these places and everything south of the Nueces River was México. Kingsville, the seat of Kleberg County and the vast King Ranch, also lies half an hour north of a major Border Patrol checkpoint not far from Sarita, Texas, along the I-77 corridor into and out of El Valle. Depending on traffic, Kingsville sits 2 hours and 9 minutes from Matamoros, the sister city of Brownsville. I’d argue it’s the most underappreciated and unknown area of the state. A landscape crisscrossed by languages and the histories of multiple countries and the inevitable violence of geopolitics and racism. Contrary to popular (see under: overridingly Anglo) opinion, South Tejas vibrates with art, music, and life like the bougainvillea that flourishes there. Nevertheless, it remains a liminal space between both countries with all the blessings and banes you’d expect, and this is one reason why Anzaldúa calls it “una herida abierta,” an open wound. * How then, poetically speaking, to try to craft a voice that might be a “throat of these hours,” as Muriel Rukeyser puts it? I read and reread a lot. The poetry of Latinx poets also from Tejas whose voices keep me honest like Anzaldúa, Emmy Pérez, ire’ne lara silva, and mónica teresa ortiz. Long poems and sequences by Rich, Rukeyser, Carolyn Forché, and C.D. Wright. And, for the first time in my writing life as a poet, I found myself combing through news article after article for the frequently elusive facts related to these detention centers. And, to the extent that this poem documents reality, it was important to be as accurate as possible. As I began to draft using each station as an anchor, I quickly realized several things. Conventional punctuation, the kind that parses syntax into easily digestible units, wouldn’t suffice. Perhaps with Charles Wright’s observation in the back of my head, I found myself composing where individual lines (longer than I usually write) stood as stanzas in and of themselves while the lack of punctuation caused them to enjamb with the frenetic rush of what a prophet talking might sound like. The Obadiah of the poem is an admittedly anachronistic fiction of poetic license on my part, a slippery “I” who addresses the “you” of the poem, which is simultaneously singular and plural. Equally objectionable, perhaps, is the allegorical way the poem responds to the book of Obadiah itself. Being a poet instead of a scholar of biblical hermeneutics, I felt completely justified in interpreting Obadiah in a way some might call eisegetical instead of exegetical. To those who might take issue with how the poem uses Obadiah and the Passion in the service of an allegorical argument, I would only point out, also being a scholar of medieval literature and culture, that no less than St. Thomas Aquinas believed that scripture signifies in more than a literal, or a historical, way. The longer I wrote, the more I realized that the actual stations of the cross in the poem weren’t the iconic moments leading up to and following the crucifixion. Rather, in the allegoresis the poem attempts, the detention centers were the real stations where—given that the crucifixion renders any divisions between American “us” and Latin American “them” irrelevant and illusory—the mystical Body of Christ is crucifying Christ again in time. In our here and now. * In the place I call home, and even more so south of where I’m from, you’re as likely to hear Spanish, Spanglish, and TexMex being spoken as often as English. Both languages sang in my ears as I formed my first words. Spanish is my second language and, even though I’m not quite a fluent speaker of it, does not feel like a “foreign” language to me at all. That is to say, Spanish sounds like home to me as much as English does. It is the first language of the man I love and am soon to marry, a first-generation Mexican American whose parents immigrated to the US from Monterrey, México, and the primary language we use when we spend time with his family. Because half of my family (given and chosen) are Mexican Americans because of my relationship with my beloved, to say nothing of the many Latinx women and men I’m lucky to call dear friends, I’m a gringo unusually sensitive to the linguistic imperialism still rife in Texas and in America more generally. The vilely racist and Mexiphobic rhetoric spouted on the campaign trail by our current president and after his election—and the degree to which it has enabled more of the same, in addition to an array of equally noxious rhetoric about other minority groups—offends me in the extreme because it aims to demonize many of the people I love, who I live beside, and with whom I align myself artistically, spiritually, and politically. This is why the Spanish quoted by Obadiah—the voices of Jeremiah, St. Teresa of Ávila and, most of all, Jesus of Nazareth—are neither italicized or, with one exception, translated into English. In this current political climate, it’s important to remind primarily or exclusively English-speaking readers that no one language has a monopoly on the sacred. And that words, as a kind of matter, matter. A recent case in point, of course, being the caravan of Central American asylum-seekers making their way through México that Trump, among others, calculatingly calls an “invasion” to justify deploying 5,200 active-duty troops to the border—crisis manufacturing, again. Conspiracy theories are spreading like kudzu vines about these beleaguered people and, to hear the most conservative media venues talk about it, you’d think every single one of them (grandmothers, mothers, fathers, children) are felons guilty of violent crimes. But these refugees currently making their way through México with the intent of seeking asylum in the United States are breaking no U.S. laws in doing so. Despite the fear-mongering of Trump & co., these migrants have every right to do so according to our laws. * In case it wasn’t already clear, this poem arises from my conviction that the crisis going on in Texas and other border states is unequivocally evil and, although undeniably complex in sociological terms, a crisis that has been unnecessarily compounded and worsened by our nation’s current administration. An evil, which a word I don’t use lightly, that flies directly in the face of the Christian commitments publicly and loudly espoused both by the majority of our elected officials and their constituents. I hope it reminds readers—especially those who identify themselves as Christians, and even more particularly white Christians—that scripture does not equivocate on how we should treat strangers, guests, and refugees. The Bible may speak in contradictory tongues about many things, but on this the Hebrew scriptures and the New Testament are reassuringly clear. As St. Benedict writes in his rule, guests are to be welcomed as Christ. Not as if. But as. A paradox, to be sure, but is Christianity not all paradox at its heart? For me this, in the language of the liturgy, is the mystery of the faith that won’t let me go anymore than I’d ever call its grasp comfortable. Paradox, after all, is where I live. The reasons why that’s so appear throughout these notes. I’m a gay man who grew up in the mainstream Christianity of the 1980’s and 90’s that told me I was both beloved by God and hell-bound for my orientation. Was raised resolutely Protestant and am a recent Roman Catholic convert for reasons only my poems can explain. Am a white man who became artistically, politically, and sexually active in a place where I was in the racial minority who, because of all of the above, has chosen to align myself with Latinx Americans (and other persons of color and minorities of all kinds) to challenge the systematic racism and Christo-fascism that has never not riddled this country. And, gringo though I am, I wrote this to speak out and stand up (as a gringo) for the place and the people who, as Benjamin Alire Sáenz so beautifully puts it, “are my heart, my heart .” Like him, “I do not say that for rhetorical effect” about the border. It’s my hope that this offering humanizes and particularizes a place and persons that our national discourse too often effaces to the point of abstraction in the service of a talking point. And even if the poem scandalizes or offends, my intent, to the extent that intent matters, will have been realized. * Postscript: December 7, 2018 | Since drafting this statement that seemed hell-bent on becoming an essay from the beginning, the litany of border- and Latinx refugee-related outrages grows longer before the recording angel of this particular moment in the violent history of these Americas. Teargas, outlawed by the U.S. on the battlefield, has been used against Central American asylum-seekers attempting to enter from Tijuana including tender-age children. News stories have circulated revealing that the staff working at the infamous Tornillo detention facility had not been subjected to an FBI background checks, a decision made by the former director of the federal Office of Refugee Resettlement. I write in the second week of Advent—only Lent do I love as much as—the liturgical season when Christians wait for God’s entrance into the wilds of embodiment in the form of Jesus of Nazareth born to the Virgin Mary. The Word made flesh. Light from light , reads the Nicene Creed in my missal, the light of the world coming into the world days after the winter solstice, the longest night of the solar year. And Christians, who collectively make up the body of Christ that the church is (for better and for worse), are waiting. Just as so many of us in the US are waiting for the American elected powers that be to recognize that the God in whom they profess belief became flesh in no Bethlehem inn room. In the least likely of circumstances for any divinity. And the easiest to overlook by anyone who forgets or misses the point that, as the medieval literature I study envisions it, Jesus was born in a humble manger. A Jewish child born to parents living under the oppression of Roman rule. Recently, I scrolled past a photograph on Facebook that stopped my index finger in its aimless tracking. The photo depicted a life-sized Nativity—Mary, Joseph, manger-laden Christ-child—set on a church lawn. To which the congregation had added chainlink fencing enclosing the Holy Family like every one of these recent families who’ve been placed behind the same. The families waiting at the authorized entry points at the mercy of every element. As the infant Jesus, however well-swaddled, was. I once wrote in a poem that “every city is Bethlehem on the solstice.” An ikon for this here and this now, the Holy Family detained (and potentially separated). And every refugee family, a holy— the Holy Family. References Anzaldúa, Gloria. Borderlands/La Frontera: The New Mestiza. San Francisco: Aunt Lute, 1987. BCFS. https://bcfs.ne t . Forché, Carolyn. The Angel of History. New York: Harper Perennial, 1995. Langford, Terri and Jessica Hamel. “Interactive: Federal Children’s Shelters in Texas.” The Texas Tribune , June 24, 2014. ortiz, mónica teresa. muted blood . Black Radish Books, 2018. Pérez, Emmy. With the River on Our Face. Tucson: University of Arizona Press, 2016. Rich, Adrienne. An Atlas for the Difficult World. New York: Norton, 1991. Rukeyser, Muriel. Collected Poems of Muriel Rukeyser. Pittsburgh: University of Pittsburgh Press, 2006. Sáenz, Benjamin Alire. Elegies in Blue. El Paso: Cinco Punto Press, 2002. silva, ire’ne lara. flesh to bone. San Francisco: Aunt Lute, 2013. Southwest Key. www.swkey.org . Walters, Edgar, Ryan Murphy, and Darla Cameron. “The number of migrant children in Texas shelters spikes again, reaching new high under Trump.” The Texas Tribune , October 18, 2018. Wright, C.D. Cooling Time: An American Poetry Vigil. Port Townsend: Copper Canyon, 2005. Wright, Charles. Half-Life: Improvisations and Interviews, 1977-1987. Ann Arbor: University of Michigan Press, 1988. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection Originally from South Texas, John Fry is the author of with the dogstar as my witness (Orison Books, 2018), which was a finalist for the Orison Poetry Prize, the Dorset Prize, and the Nightboat Poetry Prize. His poems and lyric essays have appeared or are forthcoming in West Branch , Colorado Review , Blackbird , Waxwing , and Denver Quarterly , among others, and the anthologies Imaniman: Poets Writing in the Anzaldúan Borderlands (Aunt Lute, 2016) and New Border Voices: An Anthology (Texas A&M UP, 2014). A graduate of Texas State University’s MFA program in Creative Writing, he’s currently a poetry editor for Newfound Journal and a doctoral candidate in English at the University of Texas at Austin, where he’s writing a dissertation on medieval English poetry, and an Assistant Program Coordinator in the University Writing Center. He lives in the Texas Hill Country. Website John Fry About the Artist John Fry Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art 1) Dilley, TX | South Texas Family Residential Center | Capacity: 2,400 [Jesus is condemned to death] you pledged allegiance to the Lamb View Full Written Work If Obadiah walked the stations of the cross By John Fry “When a stranger sojourns with you in your land, you shall not do him wrong. The stranger who sojourns with you shall be to you as the native among you, and you shall love him as yourself; for you were strangers in the land of Egypt: I am the Lord your God.”— Leviticus 19:33-34 “this is not somewhere else but here” —Adrienne Rich 1) Dilley, TX | South Texas Family Residential Center | Capacity: 2,400 [Jesus is condemned to death] you pledged allegiance to the Lamb like life liberty & the pursuit of happiness one nation under God indivisibly with the liberty I already said justice for all but I’m walking around the roads this country this state signified by a lone star like the star everyone hung their hopes upon two millenia isn’t really so long ago if you think about it I shouldn’t even be here where not one of them should sisters brothers you no longer know as how have you forgotten so much when there’s so much farther to walk Lord knows I’ve my doubts about whether the eyes of your heart are open but I’ve come a long way to remind you that you pledged allegiance to the Lamb my God my God you’re killing Him 2) Raymondville, TX | BCFS HHS International Emergency Children’s Shelter | Capacity: 48 [Jesus carries his cross] so easily you can’t remember the words of that holy book you brandish everywhere made into a graven image worshipped chiseled from the hardest of heartstone an idol fashioned of sharp edges only unable to see or hear or touch or taste did Elijah teach you nothing at all with the charred end of a scapula pulled from the pyre your imaginary enemies are smoke bothers your eyes no longer able to read what words actually say now that they wait in chainlink cages from 8 months to 17 years of age you name them “enemies” cannot conceive violence leaves everyone a refugee some of them arriving unaccompanied others with adults you’ve removed them from because jail is no place for children detention facilities reclassified as childcare centers that the law be faithfully upheld with space blankets that feel like tinfoil 3) San Benito, TX | Southwest Key Casa Antigua | Capacity: 260 [Jesus falls the first time] will you hear that still small voice one gutter above a whisper I’m sorry I cannot help stop what’s coming the story’s already written everyone knows how it ends so why am I here tasked to tell something just God alone knows our feet remember as we walk on this Via Dolorosa road yes understand you’re writing it all over again you don’t seem to realize true Texas isn’t the Jerusalem of old by your dim lights but to God’s always every then is now & now then again 4) San Antonio, TX | BCFS Region Children’s Assessment Center | Capacity: 152 [Jesus meets his mother] now wait a damn minute you say was that Spanish this isn’t who we are say this bristling now angry you’re happy no longer walking here that you brought your children to something supposed to be about religion no less than the Passion Catholicism not at all required but not politics Lord anything else yet what did you think this was says the Lord why are we here if not to shelter each other clearly you’ve yet to learn the sun has never set where 5) Karnes City, TX | Karnes City Residential Center | Capacity: 1,158 [Simon of Cyrene helps Jesus carry his cross] what’s so very hard to understand are the gospels not your daily bread maybe one of the saints can help Cristo no tiene cuerpo sino el tuyo no tiene manos o pies en la tierra sino los tuyos tuyos son los ojos con los que ve la compasión en este mundo tuyos son los pies con los que camina para hacer el bien tuyas son las manos con el que bendice todo el mundo do you know what this means O people no translating isn’t a prophet’s job 6) Harlingen, TX | BCFS International Children’s Shelter | Capacity: 290 [Veronica wipes the face of Jesus] you won’t like it but it bears repeating the Lamb says En verdad les digo que en cuando ustedes no lo hicieron a uno de los mas pequeños de éstos tampoco a mi lo hicieron 7) Conroe, TX | Southwest Key Conroe | Capacity: 120 [Jesus falls the second time] look if you accepted the Lamb as your Lord this shouldn’t be so difficult if the water’s invisibly marked your forehead forever as God’s O my people why do your ears not see who’s weeping do your eyes not hear who’s weeping once twice three times a rooster’s crowed you look nothing like Peter but are like the disciples dreaming in Gethsemane as someone without dignity denies less than a goodbye kiss for her-his children while you wring your hands as if asleep do not look away you pale of face says the Lord it’s time to wake it’s time to wake the fuck up 8) Manvel, TX | Shiloh Treatment Center | Capacity: 43 [Jesus meets the women of Jerusalem] maybe this will rattle your memory loose así dice el Señor se oye una voz en Ramá lamento y llanto amargo Raquel llora por sus hijos I will translate only once for you Rachel weeps for her children words indeed spoken by another prophetic speech is never welcome mothers fathers aunts uncles cousins sisters brothers weep refusing to eat cannot call or write do not know where their children are can you imagine such a hell at all could you abide the Sheol of it knowing your child yes the littlest one must be crying not knowing if is anyone going to wipe her wet face will someone hold his crying head 9) Clint, TX | Southwest Key Casita Del Valle | Capacity: 97 [Jesus falls a third time] feeling personally attacked you yell such a predictable litany of protestations say I didn’t do this am not responsible it puts one in mind of that parable you know I am not who you should be blaming that makes believers break out in hives these people should have crossed legally on Sundays when in the gospel according to obey the law or suffer the consequences ever ask yourself which one of them you are can’t believe they brought their children anyway are you the priest or perhaps you’re the Levite whatever is going on in Mexico Central America good Samaritans are nowhere to be found things can’t possibly be as bad as they’re saying 10) Brownsville, TX | Southwest Key Casa Padre | Capacity: 1,500 (approximately) [Jesus’ clothes are taken away] to avoid getting punished or receiving “vitamin” cocktails against their will Klonopin Geodon Zyprexa etcetera children observe the following or else — do not misbehave — do not sit on the floor — do not share your food — do not use nicknames — lights out at 9pm — crying may hurt your asylum case — lights on at dawn — make your bed — wash mop bathrooms scrub sinks toilets — do not touch each other even to comfort a sibling — absolutely no running — absolutely no horseplay — no letter writing no phone calls — several hours of schooling — if you’re good you can play videogames — if you’re good you can make friendship bracelets one by one moo after the flourescents wink out like a herd of cattle spangled by the night sky instead of more than a thousand young boys mooing in a once-Walmart renamed Casa Padre as if it were any kind of father’s house 11) Baytown, TX | BCFS HHS International Children’s Services Emergency Shelter | Capacity: 168 [Jesus is nailed to the cross] I could have sworn you called this a Christian nation following your founding fathers do you not declare wait now the separation of church & state applies when beholding the faces of desperate women men children those founding families fled persecution violence that they then visited a thousandfold here understand Golgotha isn’t a place of the past it is wherever the body of Christ has been broken if we refuse the responsibility to suffer with sandpaper throats blisters for soles sunburn like you can’t even believe the only signs of life a cow gone to skull buzzards circling around water jugs emptied on video by the Border Patrol death has a body here in the Wild Horse Desert so exactly what kind of Christianity is this again every day Good Friday when Golgotha’s where you live 12) Fabens, TX | Tornillo Detention Facility | Capacity: 4,000 (approximately) [Jesus dies on the cross] not just at the sky-darkening hour heaven’s endless light-years witness every star breathed then named by the Lord neither slumbers nor sleeps says though your nest is set among the stars from there I will bring you down for you gloated over your brother on the day of his misfortune it shall be done to you on this day when you stand idly aside beneath the desert sun’s implacable eye children walk single-file in an internment camp 13) Falfurrias, TX | Sacred Heart Burial Park [The body of Jesus is taken down from the cross] Lord whose mercy remembers the forgotten los desaparecidos Brooks County buried en masse plots named after the most sacred of hearts without respect for the dead found in chaparral more than 160 persons whose remains were dumped in mass graves multiple bodies in one body bag skulls stashed between coffins worst of all in shopping & trash bags bones jumbled together no way to notify next of kin unless she or he left a name telephone number in ink that can withstand what happens when a body begins to decompose in case you were wondering how this could happen at all is it even legal according to the Texas Rangers no law as yet exists to prevent this desecration 14) Corpus Christi, TX | Bokencamp Corpus Christi Lutheran Social Services | Capacity: 120 [Jesus is laid in the tomb] Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world do not have mercy on us Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world do not have mercy on us Lamb of God who takes away the sins of the world do not grant us peace Close Loading Video . . . 1) Dilley, TX | South Texas Family Residential Center | Capacity: 2,400 [Jesus is condemned to death] you pledged allegiance to the Lamb Download Full Written Work

Loading Video . . . Improvising cellist Matt Turner brings us this haunting piece in response to the theme of "poverty" and two verses from the Psalms. Psalms 102:17 Psalms 140:12 Two Prayers By Matt Turner Credits: Composer and Recorded By Matt Turner Artist Location: Wisconsin Artist Photo: John Beaver Curated by: Jonathon Roberts 2014 Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link "Two Prayers" is an improvisation for multi-tracked electric cello. The piece consists of two distinct sections with each part representing a prayer, hence the title. The first prayer is one of anguish and questioning. The second prayer is a desperate plea. As a child, I remember reading the Psalms and being drawn to the imagery and colors of each psalm. Concise and powerful, these writings are full and vibrant much like this verse. In this verse, destituteness means more than being poverty-stricken. Here it represents those who are grieving, suffering, or lost, and I have attempted to capture this in "Two Prayers" as a lamentation transforming into resolution. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection Matt Turner is widely regarded as one of the world’s leading improvising cellists. Equally skilled as a pianist, Turner performs in myriad of styles and has shared the stage with Cape Breton fiddle sensation Natalie MacMaster, avant-garde musicians Marilyn Crispell, Peter Kowald, Guillermo Gregorio, Scott Fields, and John Butcher, country musician Wanda Vick, singer-songwriter LJ Booth, and jazz musician Bobby McFerrin to name a few and has performed in Canada, Europe and Asia. He appears on over 100 recordings on Sketch/Harmonia Mundi, Nato /Hope Street, Ayler, Illusions, Music and Arts, Accurate, Polyvinyl, Cadence Jazz and others and has recorded with jazz violinist Randy Sabien, goth vocalist/pianist Jo Gabriel, singer-songwriters Mark Croft and Tret Fure, punk artist Kyle Fischer, Kitty Brazelton’s chamber rockestra Dadadah, alt-country band Heller Mason and with the Pointless Orchestra. Turner completed his undergraduate studies at Lawrence University and his Master of Music degree in Third Stream Studies (now the Contemporary Improvisation program) at the New England Conservatory of Music, where he studied with Dave Holland, Geri Allen and Joe Maneri, and where he was the recipient of a Distinction in Performance Award. As a leader, Turner’s recordings appear on Illusions, Stellar, O.O. Discs, Asian Improv, Penumbra, Fever Pitch, Geode, Tautology, and Meniscus Records. His music is published by Carl Fischer, Alfred Music, Latham, and Alliance. Turner is a Yamaha Performing Artist, teaches improvisation at Lawrence University and currently performs and records with Bill Carrothers, Randy Sabien, Karmadog and with the Jean-Marc Foltz Trio. (Photo by John Beaver) Website Matt Turner About the Artist Matt Turner Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art View Full Written Work Close Loading Video . . . Download Full Written Work

Loading Video . . . This work of poet and Christian theologian Jerome Blanco holds the tension of devastation in the world with the promise of God's restoration from Joel 3. Joel 3 The Day of the Lord By Jerome Blanco Credits: Photo by Matthew Jones Curated by: Rebecca Testrake 2017 Poetry Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link Prophetic passages on God's eventual judgment and restoration of the world can feel very distant for me. As I wrestled with the third chapter of Joel, I couldn't help but think these coming mysteries were lifetimes away, especially considering all the weight of what is happening in the world today. Despite God's dual promises of vengeance and restoration, I wonder about what good those promises have for those suffering now. Are the promises of abundant milk and wine (3:18) satisfying enough? What about the promises of God's vengeance on the wicked (3:21)? The prophecies of Joel certainly deliver a sense of hope, but that hope that comes from a promised future sits in tension with the painful realities of the present. In this poem, I recall the refugees that I met during a brief time I spent in Europe. Many expressed a hope in God despite terrible circumstances, but who were of course also weighed down with unimaginable despair. God was often what kept them going, but they weren't without fear. In the text, I specifically refer to a man I met from Homs, Syria, who spoke to me about both these things. The poem's form is modeled on this not-yet-ness of God's restoration. Excluding the final line, the poem is written in six stanzas of six lines each. Six, here, exemplifies that longing for completion‚ seven being the satisfying number of wholeness in God's creation. The final line acts as a promised seventh line to the final stanza, and as a promised seventh stanza to the poem as a whole. The prophecies in Joel are already in our hands. Christians can hold to the truth that God's promises will be fulfilled. And yet we are forced to wait restlessly for them in the meantime, as we wait for the day of the Lord‚ the day of judgment and restoration that is yet to come. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection Jerome Blanco is a graduate of Fuller Theological Seminary and is an MFA candidate at New York University’s Writers Workshop in Paris, where he is studying fiction writing. He was born in Manila but currently calls Southern California home. Website Jerome Blanco About the Artist Jerome Blanco Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art As for the sinners, so they say, the hand of God will someday descend from heaven to pick hem off like forked lightning. View Full Written Work The Day of the Lord Jerome Blanco As for the sinners, so they say, the hand of God will someday descend from heaven to pick them off like forked lightning. The promise for saints: streams of wine, water for life, a heaven-land of flowing milk—but all this a long time from now. Today, we watch good men murdered in the streets, hear cries of wounded women wrecked, see children made orphans at the bomb’s thunderclap. Once, I met a man who feared the Lord, who hailed from hell-torn Syria and showed me pictures of his rubble home—nothing left but stones on stones. I trust in God, he said with hope in the words of the prophets. But the weight of exile can bring a man’s shoulders low, pull his head down towards the foreign ground—like he might sink into the earth, slowly first, then suddenly, like a shot. When I go, I swear, he is ankle-deep. What good the promised justice eternities away, that a man’s short life cannot stretch to reach? What help is heaven milk while killers dance in dusty Homs? If God withholds the wine, then it had better be sweet, overflowing so that it pours back in waves, cascading over all the years that my friend is made to wait. When God smites with his left, I’d like to see his right dig deep, pulling the buried from the dirt, raising them high like the acacias in the Lord’s green valley Close Loading Video . . . As for the sinners, so they say, the hand of God will someday descend from heaven to pick hem off like forked lightning. Download Full Written Work

Loading Video . . . Author Jeff Martin shares his short story, “Winebibber,” crafted with forty passages interwoven from the book of Proverbs. Proverbs 1:10 Proverbs 1:15-16 Proverbs 1:22 Proverbs 2:7 Proverbs 3:13 Proverbs 3:25 Proverbs 3:33 Proverbs 5:16 Proverbs 8:7 Proverbs 8:10 Proverbs 9:10-11 Proverbs 10:27-30 Winebibber By Jeff Martin Credits: Curated by: Laura Eve Engel 2016 Short Story Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link As a fiction writer, the wisdom books of the Bible often frustrate me because of their lack of narrative—that is, there’s no story to be found in Proverbs, just as there isn’t any to be had in Wisdom or Sirach or the Psalms. If you want a plot in this stretch of the Old Testament, your best bet is Job, which has cause and effect, even if the causes are ultimately inexplicable. If you’re willing to scrap a bit more for your plot or like unusual narrative structures, you might be able to do something with Song of Songs or Ecclesiastes. But for the most part, what you’ll be reading is lists, many of which, as in Proverbs, are happy to repeat their ideas ceaselessly and with only the slightest variations. Nor are those repetitions necessarily profound—in some ways, Proverbs could be whittled down to this: “The righteous and the just will be okay. But the wicked and the slothful are up the creek.” This drove me nuts. Why spend 920 verses making the same few generic points? So it interested me to learn that Hebrew has a number of variations for the term “byword”—a word or phrase (like a proverb) that we use frequently. Of course one of those variations can be translated as “proverb.” But another can be translated as “taunt.” And that’s what struck me the most about Proverbs—that the overabundance of generic advice felt like a taunt to the reader. Once I had that focus, the challenge was to herd the 40 verses I chose into a short story, i.e, a narrative, which is not their natural environment. Doing so was a blast. Lastly, I’ll say this: the story’s engine runs almost entirely on taking the verses literally, which is probably the worst way to read any kind of religious text. But I also think there’s something to be gained from exploring how these sayings would fare when dropped into the living world. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection Jeff Martin co-directs the UVA Young Writers Workshop and has been published in New England Review , Alaska Quarterly Review , and No Tokens Journal , among others. Find more of his work online at readjeffmartin.com . Website Jeff Martin About the Artist Slow Belly Jeff Martin Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art There was a great deal of consternation and much protest at the announcement of the quiz. It can 't be helped, I said. View Full Written Work WINEBIBBER By Jeff Martin There was a great deal of consternation and much protest at the announcement of the quiz. It can’t be helped, I said. Put away everything but a piece of paper and something to write with. C’mon, Winebibber said, they’d just had a quiz yesterday, and I hadn’t even graded that one yet. How could I give another one today? Winebibber always noticed things like this. I’d sat him by the window hoping someday he might fall out of it. Yeah, Buckler said, that’s not fair at all. A couple of the backdwellers started chanting Not fair! Not fair! as they often did. They didn’t look up from their phones. Besides, Winebibber said, it’s not a good day for Quan. Quan is having a bad day. I’m fine, Quan muttered. He sat behind Winebibber and he looked sick. It can’t be helped, I said again. We cannot choose the day we are tested. But you can, Winebibber said. You can choose the day. You chose it yesterday. I shrugged. What’s the quiz even on ? Buckler asked. We didn’t have any reading last night. Seriously, Winebibber said, it’s not a good day for Quan. We have to take it, fine, but leave Quan out of it. I’ll take it, Quan mumbled. Hang on, said the backdwellers. They looked up from their phones. If we have to take it, everyone has to take it. Yeah, Buckler said, that’s true. Let us quiz on Gadiformes, I said. Quan raised his hand and asked to go to the bathroom. He did not look good. After the quiz, I said. The backdwellers were in an uproar. What in hell was a Gadiforme? Come on , Winebibber said, even he didn’t know what a Gadiforme was, and he’d already taken two PSAT prep courses. Is this a punishment? Buckler asked. Are you just mad again? Not fair! the backdwellers were chanting. Not fair! Not fair! No, I said, this is not a punishment. The backdwellers demanded to know what a Gadiforme was. They had their rights, they said. They had the right to know. I silenced them with the air horn. How long? I said. How long will you love simplicity and hate knowledge? Quan got to the trashcan at the front of the room before he threw up. The whole room yelled. Then don’t look, I said. It’s just the inside of a stomach. It’s no different than the inside of a building. No, it’s different, the backdwellers moaned, covering their eyes. It’s way different. Someone yelled to open a window and someone else did so. I helped Quan lie down on the floor behind my desk. He did not look good. His black hair was stuck to his temple with sweat and his chest rose quickly up and down. He stared at me with wide dark eyes. Shouldn’t he go to the nurse? Winebibber asked. He was standing by the open window as if ready for some kind of action. He’ll be fine, I said. I looked down at Quan. You’ll be fine, I said. A little sleep, I said to him, a little slumber. A little folding of the hands to sleep. I told you he was having a bad day, Winebibber said. You were right, I said. Good for you. Happy is the man who findeth wisdom, and the man who getteth understanding. The backdwellers wanted to know if we could getteth that trashcan out of there. I sat the trashcan in the hall and closed the door. It wasn’t even that much, I said to them. To Quan I said, Quan, if it’s going to happen again, you are welcome to use my hat. I reminded him that my hat was hanging on the chair above him. Okay, Quan said. It was hard to hear him and we could see only his legs sticking out from behind the desk. Buckler asked if we were still taking the quiz, and the backdwellers told him to shut up, why would he remind me? And I said, Why would I forget? Yes, I said, we were still taking the quiz. But we don’t know anything about Gettysburg, the backdwellers said. Gad iformes, Buckler said. He didn’t say Gettysburg . Jesus. We’re going to wreck you after class, the backdwellers said to Buckler. To me they said, We don’t know anything about Gadiformes, either. You can’t quiz us on what we don’t know. It’s unconstitutional. Then receive my instruction instead of silver, I said, and knowledge instead of choice gold. This really is a pretty bad class, Winebibber said. He was still standing by the window. And be not among winebibbers, I said, among riotous eaters of flesh. What is going on ? Winebibber said. He just called you a flesh eater, the backdwellers said. That means you’re gay. Buckler disagreed. He called him a cannibal, he said. But I don’t know why. What is going on? Look at your phones, I said. Look up Gadiforme on your phones. The backdwellers said they didn’t know how to spell it and sat back to complain to each other of their plight. I asked Quan how he was doing. His eyes were closed and he said he was afraid. Oh, I said, don’t be afraid of sudden fear. But I am afraid, he said. Well, I said, just don’t be. Winebibber waved his phone. It’s cod, he said. A Gadiforme is just a cod. Yes, I said, good. There is gold, and a multitude of rubies, but the lips of knowledge are a precious jewel. That’s a gay joke, the backdwellers told Winebibber. Lips of knowledge. You can sue him for that after we beat the shit out of you. There, I said to Winebibber. See? The simple inherit folly, but the prudent are crowned with knowledge. You should feel crowned. I don’t get it, Winebibber said. We’re reading Lord of the Flies. Yes, I said. What does cod have to do with Lord of the Flies? I reminded them that the quiz would be like all quizzes. Five questions, two points apiece. The backdwellers and Buckler cried foul. You may use your phones, I said. Finally, Buckler said. To Quan I said, Quan, you don’t need to write down your answers, but I want you to think about the questions. Quan made a sound I couldn’t understand. Some of the backdwellers decided they wouldn’t take the quiz. They were going to fail, so what was the point? You can use your phones, I said. Don’t be slothful. The slothful man says, There is a lion in the way; there is a lion in the streets. Quan made another sound. But, I said, there isn’t a lion in the way. There is only a quiz, and it’s not in the streets. It’s just here in the room. Winebibber said Quan really ought to go to the nurse. Once, I said, I went past the field of the slothful, and by the vineyard of the man void of understanding. And lo, I said, it was all grown over with thorns, and nettles had covered the face thereof, and the stone wall was broken down. Do you understand what I’m saying? Quan made a long, strange sound from behind the desk, high enough to get the backdwellers’ attention and odd enough to silence them. Oh, God, he said at the end of it, and then was the sound of him sobbing. Quan, I said, are you afraid? Jesus, the backdwellers said, of course he’s afraid. Let him go to the nurse. I told you, Winebibber said. He had one arm out the window and was scooping handfuls of fresh air in. I asked Quan what he was afraid of. Oh, God, he quavered again, and he rolled over so the sobbing grew muffled. There, I said to the class, Quan has the right idea. The fear of the Lord is the beginning of wisdom. Good for you, I said to Quan’s legs. The wisdom of the holy is understanding. His mom is dying, Winebibber said. I turned around. Is that true, Quan? I said, but Quan didn’t answer. It’s true, Buckler said. Everyone knows it. We didn’t know it, the backdwellers said. Everyone who matters knows it, Buckler told them. That’s twice, they said, and one of them threw a pen cap at Buckler. We’re going to wreck you twice now. Don’t worry, I said to Buckler. The righteous is delivered out of trouble, and the wicked cometh in his stead. I turned back to Quan. Did you hear that, Quan? That goes for your mother, too. Bow down your ear and hear the words of the wise, and apply your heart unto my knowledge. He’s already bowed down, Buckler said. He’s on the floor. He can’t bow down any more than that. Listen, Quan, I said. If you faint in the day of adversity, your strength is small. Just leave him alone, Winebibber said. He wasn’t scooping air in anymore. He was just sitting on the window ledge. Just leave him alone, he said again. But a wise man is strong, I said. Yea, a man of knowledge increaseth strength. Quan, I said, if you had more knowledge, you’d have more strength. You’d be in a chair right now instead of on the floor. Jesus , the backdwellers said. What’s the matter with you? Question number one, I said. The backdwellers howled. We were still having the quiz? Question number one, I said again. Identify the origin of cod. If we have to do this, the backdwellers said, we’re just going to cheat off each other. Sloths, I said, you say there is a lion without, I shall be slain in the street. A lion without what? the backdwellers asked. What is it with sloths and lions? Buckler, they said, if you give us your answers, we’ll only wreck you once. Not twice. You can use your phone , Buckler said. He flipped through his screen and wrote something down. Seriously, they said. You’re asking for it. My son, I said to Buckler, if sinners entice you, consent you not. Walk not in the ways with them; refrain your foot from their path. For their feet run to evil, and make haste to shed blood. He’s right, they said, we’ll make haste to shed blood for sure. They demanded to know the origin of cod. They had their right to know. Nothing? I said. Have you learned nothing from Quan’s example? He lies sobbing on the floor for lack of knowledge. Is this what you want for yourselves as well? He’s on the floor because his mom’s dying, Winebibber said. She’s younger than my mom. Quan, I said, is your mother an upright woman? The righteousness of the upright shall deliver them. She’s a hospice nurse, Winebibber said. He leaned against the window frame and dangled one foot out in the air. There you are, I said. Whoso walketh uprightly will be saved. She can’t walk uprightly, Winebibber said. She can’t get out of her bed. Metaphorically, I said. I don’t think so, Winebibber replied. Wait, said one of the backdwellers, she has to shit in her bed? Yes, Winebibber said with his eyes closed, she has to shit in her bed. Quan let out another long, muffled howl. Gross, the backdwellers said. Pissing the bed was bad enough. Hey Buckler, they said, you still piss your bed? No, Buckler said. He was done writing and waiting for the next question. Let thy fountains be dispersed abroad, I said, and rivers of waters in the streets. They looked at me. Question two, I said. I really don’t think this is right, Winebibber said. Quan needs to see the nurse. Just give us the next question, Buckler said. There, I said, and pointed at Buckler. A man who seeks knowledge. He layeth up sound wisdom for the righteous. He is a buckler to them that walk uprightly. He is a man who seeks a beating, the backdwellers said. He is a kicking bag to those that walk in shoes. A hypocrite with his mouth destroys his neighbor, I said, but through knowledge shall the just be delivered. I went to my desk and took a letter opener from a plastic tray. It was shaped like a sword and I handed it to Buckler. But you should also carry this, I said. Then I gave them the second question. Explain cod, I said. That’s the second question. Winebibber wanted to know how knowledge would deliver Quan’s mother. The backdwellers roared. How were they supposed to explain cod? I shrugged. The curse of the Lord is in the house of the wicked, I said. But he blesseth the habitation of the just. But she’s dying , Winebibber said. Quan, I said, on a scale of one to ten, how just is your mother? She’s a nine, Winebibber said. If she’s a nine, I said, she has nothing to fear. The integrity of the upright shall guide them. That doesn’t sound very helpful, Winebibber said. It is, I said. The way of the Lord is strength to the upright, but destruction to the workers of iniquity. She’s on morphine, Winebibber said. She doesn’t know where she is half the time. Well, I said, the hope of the righteous shall be gladness. The righteous shall never be removed, but the wicked shall not inhabit the earth. I think she wants to be removed, Winebibber said. She’s shitting in her bed and eating through a tube. If she’s righteous, I said, all her days shall be multiplied, and all the years of her life increased. Well, said Winebibber, that sounds like a terrible system. And he swung his other leg over the window ledge and dropped out of sight. We heard him strike the lower roof, and the backdwellers cheered. I’m sorry about that, I said to the class. Whoso loves instruction loves knowledge, but he that hates reproof is brutish. Thorns and snares are ever in the way of the froward. The backdwellers talked among themselves. He meant the Frodo , they said. Those thorns around Mordor. Remember, I said, the way of the slothful man is as a hedge of thorns, but the way of the righteous is made plain. And also, I said, a slothful man hides his hand in his bosom, and will not so much as bring it to his mouth again. The backdwellers noted that I had said bosom and that they could report me for that. I shrugged. A man that bears false witness against his neighbor is a maul, and a sword, and a sharp arrow. What does that mean? they asked. Buckler wanted to know what the next question was. There isn’t one, I said. The second question is worth eight points. There was great consternation and protest that this wasn’t fair. This commotion increased when I told them the quiz was worth a third of their grade. You have to trust me, I said. Trust that this will all be turned to good. There was an uproar and a multitude of threats. Outraged, one of the backdwellers cast himself out the window in the manner of Winebibber. Well, I said, open rebuke is better than secret love. The backdwellers left in a fury, followed by the rest. A minute later there remained only Buckler in his seat and Quan prone on the floor. Buckler handed me his paper. Thanks for this, he said, and held up the letter opener. I told him he was welcome. He wanted to know what would happen to Quan. He’ll be all right, I said. Happy is the man that feareth always. But he that hardens his heart shall fall into mischief. He doesn’t look happy, Buckler said, and Quan let out a great, quaking sob. He doesn’t sound happy, either. Just trust me, I said. For my mouth shall speak truth, and wickedness is an abomination to my lips. Close Loading Video . . . There was a great deal of consternation and much protest at the announcement of the quiz. It can 't be helped, I said. Download Full Written Work

Loading Video . . . Food Network star Aarti Sequiera created her Ezekiel's Wheel Chickpea Salad in response to one of the Bible's wildest stories in Ezekiel 1. In this video episode from her Aarti Paarti Channel, she joyfully navigates the text while preparing the delicious salad. Ezekiel 1 Ezekiel's Wheel Chickpea Salad By Aarti Sequiera Credits: Artist Location: Los Angeles Curated by: Jonathon Roberts 2010 Recipe Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link Food Network star Aarti Sequiera created her Ezekiel's Wheel Chickpea Salad in response to one of the Bible's wildest stories in Ezekiel 1. In this video episode from her Aarti Paarti Channel, she joyfully navigates the text while preparing the delicious salad. A quick chickpea salad perfect for BBQs and picnics, pleasing to carnivores and vegans alike. Chickpeas, tahini, roasted red peppers and pickled beets... Ingredients: 1 shallot, minced Juice of 1 lemon Salt 3/4 cup tahini 1/2 cup or so hot water 1 clove garlic, minced Splash of extra virgin olive oil 2 tbsp pine nuts 2 cans chickpeas/garbanzo beans, drained and rinsed 3 roasted red peppers, chopped 3-4 pickled beets, chopped (OR handful of pomegranate seeds) Handful chopped parsley Zaatar Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection Aarti Sequeira’s appetite began in the womb, and shows no sign of abating! The cookbook author and host of Food Network’s Aarti Party , Sequeira competed on and won Season 6 of Food Network Star with her trademark food signature: American favorites with an Indian soul. Her show grew out of the popular blog and YouTube cooking-variety show, Aarti Paarti , a joint venture with her husband, actor-writer Brendan McNamara, that started in their tiny Los Angeles home kitchen. Food Network then became her broadcast home, where she went on host Taste in Translation, Drop 5lbs with Good Housekeeping and Hidden Eats. She also competed on – and won – Chopped All Stars and Cutthroat Kitchen. She is a frequent judge on Guy’s Grocery Games and From Duff Til Dawn , and has contributed to Guilty Pleasures, Best Thing I Ever Ate, Best Thing I Ever Made, Unique Eats and Unique Sweets. Off-network, she has been a colorful, memorable guest on Today Show, The Talk, Dr Oz, The Nate Berkus Show and Home and Family on Hallmark Channel. Born in India, brought up in the Middle East (Dubai, UAE) and educated in a British school, Sequeira grew up against a varied tapestry of food cultures, from her mother’s fish curry with green mangoes, to the homemade pastas of her Italian best friend, to the Arabian spit-roasted shawarmas her family would enjoy every Friday. It was during the first Gulf War that Sequeira decided to pursue a career in journalism, eventually earning her bachelors degree at Northwestern’s prestigious Medill School of Journalism. She went on to work for CNN straight out of school, covering everything from economic reports to the plight of firefighters after 9/11. She also produced Sand and Sorrow , the HBO documentary about the genocide in Darfur, narrated by George Clooney and directed by Peabody Award-winner, Paul Freedman. But she began to feel like something was still missing; her husband gave her a gift certificate to a local cooking program, and it was there that her passion for cooking sparked into a great roaring fire. After working in the kitchen at Chef Suzanne Goin’s Lucques (Top 3 Restaurant in LA – LA Weekly AND LA Times ), she took to blogging about the food she was creating in her own kitchen, which led to the YouTube show, which led to Food Network, which led to the publishing of her very first cookbook, Aarti Paarti: An American Kitchen with an Indian Soul by Grand Central in 2014, a top 10 Indian cookbook on Amazon. The writing of that book coincided with her first successful pregnancy. After suffering from post partum depression after the birth of her oldest daughter, Eliyah, Aarti became an ardent advocate for women suffering from post natal mood disorders. She lives in Los Angeles with her husband and her two daughters, Eliyah and Moses, who promise to have an equally large appetite for food and life. Website Aarti Sequiera About the Artist Aarti Sequiera Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art View Full Written Work Close Loading Video . . . Download Full Written Work

Loading Video . . . This soundscape by Jonathon Roberts walks with the Apostle Paul as he discovers God's grace among the struggles of life. 2 Corinthians 2:15-16 2 Corinthians 12:7 2 Corinthians 12:9-10 Romans 8:15 Romans 8:18-19 Weakness By Jonathon Roberts Credits: Voices: Jonathon Roberts (Paul), Emma Sweet, Aram Monisoff, Charlie Christenson, Anneliese Dediemar, Emily Clare Zempel, Brendan Marshall-Rashid, Fred Gaines, Paris Brown, Jacob Allen, Maryl McNally, Marie Mikels Additional Text by Christy Bagasao Image by Scott Baye Artist Location: Wisconsin Curated by: Jonathon 2005 Soundscape, theater Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link This sound and music collage explores God's grace and the concept of "power in weakness." The text is from Paul's letters to the Corinthians and the Romans with original writings by Christy Bagasao in reaction to his letters. The soundtrack is primarily crafted from ambient sounds, voices and performers on a balmy night on a main street in Santa Barbara, California. Listen on headphones to hear the world of sounds that circle the speaking voices. This piece focuses on questions people have asked for ages, not just "Why do bad things happen to good people?" but "Why do bad things happen at all?" Apostle Paul was an extraordinary and ordinary man who struggled with these same thoughts. "Why do I do what I don't want to do? Why am I weak?" This piece contains excerpts of his writings to the Corinthians and the Romans. Seven passages from his writings are used verbatim in this piece. Additionally Christy Bagasao's writing expresses Paul's point that we have sufficient power because God's grace works through our weakness. "No matter how deep the pit, God's grace is deeper" is a quote from Corrie Ten Boom, read by my grandmother Marie Mikels. This piece is part of a larger theater work called Project Paul . The image is a still taken from the video by Scott Baye that supports this scene. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection J onathon Roberts is a composer and sound designer for games, film, theatre, and ensembles. His style grew out of classical and jazz training, and evolved through quality life adventures: touring the country in an RV with a one person theater piece on the Apostle Paul, living in Brooklyn with an improv music ensemble, performing in a downtown NYC absurdist comedy band, and a long stint writing music for the renowned slot machine company, High 5 Games. He has released four albums including the latest, Cities a song cycle personifying biblical cities. He created the popular podcast/web series ComposerDad Vs. Bible , in which ComposerDad accepts intense compositional challenges from a mysterious Bible while out with his kids. He frequently collaborates on music and theater projects with his wife, actor Emily Clare Zempel. They live in Beacon, NY, with their two boys and a tangled box of electrical cords. www.jonathonroberts.com Website Jonathon Roberts About the Artist Loving Arms I Make Tents The Sower Response There Is Room These are My Sons Consider Me a Partner The Day Is Almost Here Surrogate Babbler Remember Me Prayer How Beautiful I Am a Fool The Constant Ecclesiastes Cows Blessing Fools for Christ More Than Rubies Only a Few Years Will Pass Dear Friend Jonathon Roberts Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art View Full Written Work Close Loading Video . . . Download Full Written Work

3. Face This and Proceed (Haggai 1:12) 1. My Temple in Ruins (Haggai 1:9b) 2. Wood for the House (Haggai 1:8) 3.face-this-and-proceed_Nicora-Gangi-resized.jpg 4. Building His People-Temple (Haggai 1:14) 5. Your Future Temple (Haggai 2:6) Loading Video . . . This impressive series from artist Nicora Gangi stems from her contemplation on the first book of Haggai and her ensuing reflection on the passage's implication for her own life. Haggai 1 Paneled and Ruins Series By Nicora Gangi Credits: Curated by: Jonathon Roberts 2018 Collage Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link Haggai was a messenger chosen by God after a long period in Israel's history when there had been no clear communication from the Divine. At the end of Israel's exile in Babylon, they were instructed by God to return to Israel and rebuild His temple. No sooner had the people of God had come up out of captivity in Babylon and returned to Israel than they set up an altar for sacrifice. The foundation of the temple was laid within a year, but shortly thereafter building ceased entirely. They put that expensive piece of work off, no longer interested in the needs of their spiritual life—God’s temple and presence among them. They wanted to spend what time and money they had on their own pleasures, to provide for their families and fill their own houses with all kinds of earthly finery. God was displeased with this and therefore rebuked them: "You dwell in your fancy paneled houses but my house lies desolate" (Haggai 1:4). Provoked by their lack of commitment, He scattered the heaping of their wealth with the breath of His mouth. Though they had foolishly neglected the building of the house of God, He promised to not remember their former ways, knowing that He would be honored by them in His temple. "I will be glorified, says the Lord" (Haggai 1:8). When the temple is built, God will be served, worshipped and sanctified by those who come near to Him. This made clear to me how worthwhile it is to invest our care, pain, and resources in those tasks by which God may be glorified. I believe that if the work we have to do for God and our own souls is left undone—if we seek our own desires more than the will of Jesus Christ—God will cross us in our temporal affairs and we will be met with trouble and disappointment. However, if we follow Him and seek His kingdom we will be blessed with all necessary things and more in abundance to complete that to which we are called ( Matthew 6:33 ). Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection Nicora Gangi was educated at Syracuse University, Syracuse, New York, USA (BFA 1974 and MFA 1976). She was a Professor of Art at Syracuse University for 29 years. Gangi has been awarded many Grand Prize and First Place awards and grants. She has been and continues to be published in numerous artist’s books on pastel paintings. She has lectured regionally and nationally as a visiting artist at universities and artist’s guilds. She is represented by: Edgewood Gallery (Syracuse, NY), and Gangi Studio (Winter Garden, FL ). Website Nicora Gangi About the Artist The Mountain of the House of The Lord I See Him but Not Now So Shall Your Descendants Be This One The Body without the Spirit | 1 The Body without the Spirit | 2 The Body without the Spirit | 3 The Sealed Ones Peace with God The Everlasting Protective Love of God Our Father When the Lord Gives Us The Land I See Him but Not Now The Mountain of the House of The Lord The Harvest Spirit of God-The Spirit Hovering Memories Lies Fool Dance Your Truth from the Great Congregation Psalm 18 Sound of Their Wings Psalm 16 Kiss the Son EAST, WEST, NORTH & SOUTH AT HIS TABLE Nicora Gangi Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art View Full Written Work Close Loading Video . . . Download Full Written Work

amina-ahmed_annunciation-meeting.jpg Loading Video . . . Artist Amina Ahmed reacts to Luke 1:26-31 and the theme of "Harvest" in her work The Annunciation -The meeting. Luke 1:26-31 The Annunciation -The meeting By Amina Ahmed Credits: Curated by: Ebitenyefa Baralaye 2013 12 x 12 inches Egg Tempera on Gesso Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link One arrives at a state of beholdenness when one sees deeply into everything that is given. Being beholden binds one to the Giver, leaving one in a state of ecstatic bindingness. The binding can never be whole while one lives and so one is filled with longing. A longingness that leads once again to the joy of beholdenness. One's work becomes a gift to the Giver, made from and of this eternal cycle. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection Amina Ahmed was born in Africa and is a Kutchi Turk Indian. She grew up in England and has lived in Iran and the USA. Ahmed is a graduate of Winchester School of Art and Chelsea School of Art. She received her MFA from the Royal College of Art (1991), where she specialized in Visual Islamic and Traditional Arts and was awarded the Barakat Trust prize for excellence. A visual artist, educator and activist, Ahmed is a board member for the Muslim Women’s institute for Research and Development, Her projects are inspired by her interests in human rights and coalition-building. She has worked with several non-profit art institutions in the US and UK. Her work has been exhibited in the USA South Asia and Europe, Ahmed is a former studio member of the EFA NYC and is currently a Studio Resident at Mana Contemporary NJ. She lives in NJ. Website Amina Ahmed About the Artist Amina Ahmed Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art View Full Written Work Close Loading Video . . . Download Full Written Work

Loading Video . . . Theater artist and poet Edward Bauer explores a unique interaction of family and deity in response John 12:1-11 and the theme of “meals.” John 12:1-11 Family Dinner By Edward Bauer Credits: Artist Location: Brooklyn, New York Curated by: Lauren Ferebee 2014 Poetry Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link I’m not chiefly a writer. I’m a good liberal arts student with at least a passing acquaintance with the skill, and the work of my theater company does often involve writing scenes and monologues, but at the end of the day I am an actor. As such, when I was first approached with the opportunity to create a piece for Spark & Echo, I considered the dramatic possibilities. As it turned out, though, there was no theatrical concept that sparked my interest. At least, not overtly. I grew up in a progressive protestant (United Church of Christ) household in Maine, and when I was in elementary school my mother began a seminary education. The timing was such that during the formative years in which I was interested enough to start paying actual attention to what was going on in our church services, I also had access to a parent who was making it her life’s work not only to study the Bible deeply, but to learn how to communicate its stories most truthfully and effectively as a minister. I’ll admit that I don’t attend church regularly these days — I dislike the word “agnostic,” but occasionally refer to myself as a “spiritual humanist” — but I’ve never lost my interest in the Bible as a fascinating story, or in the act of performing a ministry. As a result, the piece I’ve submitted to Spark & Echo is a kind of hodgepodge of poem, monologue, and homily, in a form not entirely unlike something my mother might have written over the years. My interest in the Gospels is rooted in a decidedly “low Christology”, and the theme of “meals” felt like a natural venue for exploring that. Martha, Mary, and Lazarus have always fascinated me because of their simplicity and humanity, and because their stories tend to bring out shades of the same in Jesus. This is a family that dines, loves, learns, and bickers together, and that is in the fascinating position of seeing Christ as — well, among other things — a friend, in a way that few others do. And yet, especially in the case of Lazarus, this friendship brings them to the very brink of the unknowable vastness of God. How does an average person deal with that, and then sit down to Sunday dinner as if everything is normal? I’m not sure. Here’s an idea, though. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection Edward Bauer is an actor and theater artist currently residing in Brooklyn, NY, where he is one of four Co-Artistic Directors of the Assembly Theater Company. The Assembly is dedicated to producing rigorously researched and socially relevant theater created by an ensemble. The company's work has been produced as part of the Ice Factory, Undergroundzero, and CUNY Prelude festivals, as well as having been performed at The Incubator, The Collapsable Hole, HERE Arts Center, the Wesleyan University Center for the Arts, and the historic Living Theater. Edward can next be seen as Pip in The Assembly's “That Poor Dream," a play inspired by Dickens' “Great Expectations," this October at the New Ohio Theater. www.theassemblytheater.com Website Edward Bauer About the Artist Edward Bauer Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art In the beginning there was Okay, no, I'm not‚ I'm still okay. View Full Written Work A Family Dinner in Five Parts by Edward Bauer Inspired by John 12:1-11 I. In the beginning there was Okay, no, I’m not – I’m still okay. I am. But you’ll need to trust me when I say that I can’t say just yet just what is actually the word for what what is the word I am. I suppose I know that much, at this point. II. Ever since it happened, some feeling comes and goes. Fingers, arms, feet, tongue occasionally. Quick and unexpected, a wave of no sensation at all. I’ve been practicing, in the moment when a limb falls away – well, no, but, seems to – an act of grace, or action at least, of gracefully keeping some semblance of some balance. After all, why concern everyone? This is supposed to be a nice night. III. My sister is furiously focused on an uncompromising pan, the second thus far to fail her in her desperate attempt at gravy. Her whisk, erratic, worries the powdery lump of brownish-grey, still-visible flecks of flour match her whitening knuckles, and I can’t tell if I should tell her that we don’t need it. Everything will be fine without it. Plus that I think she needs to take the carrots out of the oven. I do not tell her anything, and of course she knows it’s time for the carrots. They come forth piping, wisps of fragrant steam redolent of I don’t actually know. She knows. She repairs them to their casserole dish and relegates her traitor saucepan to the sink bitterly. She says she just wanted dinner to be special. I know that I’m putting a hand on her shoulder. IV. They’re fighting. I’ve only ever spoken to him a handful of times, but I’ve seen him. I’ve seen the way he watches Him so closely, quietly, fully. It could be tender if it were. My other sister gave Him something. A gift, extravagant. She made it. She is radiant in her pride. And so he’s furious with her, with Him. I’ve always wanted to be the guy with the easy disposition, the effortless charm, the quiet sort of steel. A guy who needs only say, Guys. Come on. Come on, guys. And febrile tension gives way to a relenting sigh, a sigh to sheepish laughter, the laughter to contrition. Slaps on the back. Apologies all around. I look up and the moment has passed. They’ve left the room, and she looks caught somehow somewhere between shame at her own inciting and utter elation at her power. I take a tasteless sip of wine, and nod as a guy I barely know says something or other about politics. V. The fact that neither one of us smokes doesn’t seem to be stopping us. I hate the feeling, honestly, of the tiny blaze, the dry charred heat coating my teeth and filling my nose, wrapping its tendrils around my chest, the sudden rush of blood to my head, when I actually correctly inhale, but it is, at least, a feeling. When He takes his first drag, He coughs. We laugh. We turn up our collars, and it seems to me that I might have heard Him say something. Did you? I ask. No, He says. Just looking at the sunset. I follow His eye to the horizon, and am struck. All of the hues contained therein, if pulled apart, set down, and filed, could reasonably be tucked away in a folder marked: “Colors, Most Wondrous, All Creation.” It is like nothing else. And it seems that it would be lonely to be anything so singular. It’s pretty cold, for April, I say. Close Loading Video . . . In the beginning there was Okay, no, I'm not‚ I'm still okay. Download Full Written Work

Loading Video . . . Poet Darryl Ratcliff wrestles with current injustices and dreams of a life-filled future in response to Ecclesiastes 9:4. Ecclesiastes 9:4 Gardening with Lions By Darryl Ratcliff Credits: Curated by: Lauren Ferebee 2017 Poetry Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link I was struck by the truth of the human condition contained in this passage – we are better humbled and living than proud and dead. I thought about how we often lionize the dead, particularly those who die suddenly or unexpectedly. Through the lens of Black Lives Matter, I was thinking about how we lionize the names of those who have died due to police violence. As much as we should and want to remember these people, we would much rather that we did not have to – that they were indeed still alive. So the metaphor of the garden, the transformation of the dead into fuel for new life and growth – is ultimately a hopeful one. It is an instance where one is joined with all the living. Yet, even as the gardener in the poem contemplates and interrogates whether good things can come from these untimely deaths – he finds himself hoping that he too doesn’t become another dead lion during an interaction with the police. So the title gardening with lions – is in a way to be in communion with the dead – while cultivating new possibilities in our current life. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection Darryl Ratcliff is an artist and poet based in Dallas, TX and is the founder of the North Texas poetry label Pink Drum . As an artist his work focuses on the topic of cultural equity, and his projects include Ash Studios, Creating Our Future, and Michelada Think Tank. Ratcliff is a recent recipient of artist awards from the Dallas Museum of Art, Nasher Sculpture Center, and the Office of Cultural Affairs, City of Dallas. His project, Ash Studios, was awarded Best Gallery or Art Space by D Magazine in 2016. Website Darryl Ratcliff About the Artist Darryl Ratcliff Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art When one 's hand becomes a shovel thrust into black soil, seeping grave land grub worms between fingers the dirt lining your nails like a black crescent, View Full Written Work Gardening with Lions By Darryl Ratcliff “But he who is joined with all the living has hope, for a living dog is better than a dead lion.” - Ecclesiastes 9:4 1. When one’s hand becomes a shovel thrust into black soil, seeping gravel and grub worms between fingers the dirt lining your nails like a black crescent, a partial eclipse, as you replace what is dead with what is living, laying down seeds like wishes into the night earth 2. I have heard that the dead can make heat that if you place dead leaves, fruit rinds, dead flowers, bits of grass, into a bin the pile will heat up, become flush with fever will burn to the touch, remind the body that we must all return to soil that coal does indeed transform to diamond that the difference between life and death is often a matter of perspective 3. Gregory Gunn, Samuel Dubose, Sandra Bland, Freddie Gray, Natasha McKenna, Walter Scott, Christian Taylor, Michael Brown, Eric Garner, Akai Gurley, Laquan McDonald, Tamir Rice, Yvette Smith, Rekia Boyd, Philando Castille there are so many dead, black, bodies that the earth is boiling, the seeds tremble then plunge deep into the soil, taking root. 4. After working in the garden I harvest flowers and vegetables, loading them into my car, I drive towards home, praying that the red and blue lights are just a mirage a trick of sunset in the city that the officer approaching my vehicle won’t confuse a cucumber for a gun that he can tell by my dirt stained hands that I need no further intimacy with the earth. Close Loading Video . . . When one 's hand becomes a shovel thrust into black soil, seeping grave land grub worms between fingers the dirt lining your nails like a black crescent, Download Full Written Work

geo-of-healing-588x285.jpg Loading Video . . . Director and choreographer Patrice Miller developed this theater/dance piece over the past year in response to 2 Kings 2:21-25 and the theme of "healing". 2 Kings 2:21-25 A Little East of Jordan (The Geography of Healing) By Patrice Miller Credits: Director + Choreographer: Patrice Miller Playwright: Patrice Miller in collaboration with the performers + those who submitted their stories to the project Featuring: Laura Hartle, Stephanie Willing, + Morgan Zipf-Meister Artist Location: New York City Curated by: Lauren Ferebee 2014 Theatre, Dance, + Spoken word Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link Commissioned by Spark and Echo Arts, A Little East of Jordan (The Geography of Healing) is inspired by the first works of wonder-worker Elisha, and uses theater, dance, crowd-sourced text, and anthropology to explore the dialogue between our bodies, minds, and space as we consciously undergo change. 2 Kings 2:21-25: “And he went forth unto the spring of the waters, and cast the salt in there, and said, Thus saith the Lord, I have healed these waters, there shall not be from thence any more death or barren (land)” So the waters were healed unto this day, according to the saying of Elisha which he spake. And he went up from thence unto Bethel: and as he was going up by the way, there came forth little children out of the city, and mocked him, and said unto him, Go up, thou bald head; go up, thou bald head. And he turned back, and looked on them, and cursed them in the name of the Lord. And there came forth two she bears out of the wood, and tare forty and two children of them. And he went from thence to mount Carmel, and from thence he returned to Samaria. A Little East of Jordan is the first line of an Emily Dickinson poem. Director’s Note (from the workshop performance) : When Lauren Ferebee approached me about this project, I took the opportunity to challenge myself as a performance maker. Instead of writing alone or seeking a playwright, I opened up the text-creation to a number of people, resulting in a rich diversity of stories and responses. Instead of rehearsing for five days a week for three or four weeks at a time, we performed pieces of this throughout out the year. Instead of giving you a program to rustle through pre-show, I gave you an intention, some salt, and water. I also documented my process in a more precise manner than usual. What I noticed is that it is very hard to create material that feels personal when there are large political happenings constantly streaming across your computer screen, your phone, your eyes in Times Square. And I remembered that the political is personal. That nothing happens in a vacuum. With this in mind, Laura, Stephanie, Morgan and I wove together various pieces to create an honest account of attempting to create when you feel situated in the midst of chaos, of attempting to heal yourself when the world insists on never easing up on you. Read more about Patrice’s process in her blog. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection Patrice Miller is a director and choreographer whose work has been called “hilarious, provocative” by the Village Voice. Her work has been presented at La Mama, 3-Legged Dog, The Brooklyn Museum, Prelude at the CUNY Graduate Center, Theater Row, The Brick, FRINGENYC and many of the other festivals in NYC, as well as at non-theater spaces including NYC FashionWeek, the 68th Street subway stop, city parks, and art galleries. She was the performance director for 571 Projects, a Chelsea art gallery, where she collaborated with visual artists, including Julie Trembly, to create art-specific performance pieces. She is a member of Untitled Theater Company #61 , where she frequently works with Edward Einhorn and Henry Akona. Patrice is also one half of Tux and Tom Productions, where she collaborates with Chris Chappell. She is also known to have spent some creative time with the Institute of Psychogeographic Adventure, Piper McKenzie, and Justin Maxwell. Some of her favorite directing and choreography credits include In Pieces (a dance adaptation of illustrator Marion Fayolle’s work), The Pig, or Vaclav Havel’s Hunt for a Pig, Elephant Foot Umbrella Stand (for IPA’s Experiment #23b ), Dead Cat Bounce/Money Lab , ELE↓↑TOR, Maggie Cino’s Decompression , and Bunny Lake is Missing . As a performer, Patrice has appeared with Urban Bush Women in their Place Matters: A Look at Displacement , Martha Bower’s Dance Theatre Etcetera in Angels & Accordions , as well as in her own work throughout the past decade. She has appeared in a number of Gemini Collisionworks productions including the American/English premiere of Richard Foreman’s George Bataille’s Bathrobe . Patrice is developing a process that uses theoretical intersections between performance and social science theories, in the hopes of creating work that has aesthetic and social impacts. Her interests include the representation of gender, class, race, religion, and other identity constructions in theater and dance, feminism in performance across cultures, and political performance. And humor. She’s very serious about humor. Artist Statement:When Lauren Ferebee approached me about this project, I took the opportunity to challenge myself as a performance maker. Instead of writing alone or seeking a playwright, I opened up the text-creation to a number of people, resulting in a rich diversity of stories and responses. Instead of rehearsing for five days a week for three or four weeks at a time, we performed pieces of this throughout out the year. Instead of giving you a program to rustle through pre-show, I gave you an intention, some salt, and water.I also documented my process in a more precise manner than usual. What I noticed is that it is very hard to create material that feels personal when there are large political happenings constantly streaming across your computer screen, your phone, your eyes in Times Square. And I remembered that the political is personal. That nothing happens in a vacuum. With this in mind, Laura, Stephanie, Morgan and I wove together various pieces to create an honest account of attempting to create when you feel situated in the midst of chaos, of attempting to heal yourself when the world insists on never easing up on you. Website Patrice Miller About the Artist Patrice Miller Other Works By The development of this piece has been a fascinating; it's a journey that Patrice beautifully documents on this blog . Read the script: A Little East of Jordan (The Geography of Healing) Related Information View More Art Make More Art View Full Written Work Close Loading Video . . . Download Full Written Work