Iconoclast // August
One of my favorite things C. S. Lewis writes, in his book A Grief Observed, is this:
“My idea of God is not a divine idea. It has to be shattered time after time. He shatters it Himself. He is the great iconoclast. Could we not almost say that this shattering is one of the marks of His presence? The Incarnation is the supreme example; it leaves all previous ideas of the Messiah in ruins. And most are ‘offended’ by the iconoclasm; and blessed are those who are not. But the same thing happens in our private prayers. All reality is iconoclastic.”
An iconoclast is someone who “attacks cherished beliefs or institutions,” “destroys religious images used in worship,” or “tears down idols.” Often used negatively, Lewis subverts this idea, bringing to light the reality that we don’t understand God at all. The Lord tears down our ideas about Him, our attachments about what we think about Him, and all the pretty images we construct around who He should be in our own minds. But the reality of who God is will always tear down who we think Him to be. Because He is the Living God, the Creator of the Universe, and we are His creation. It’s not really possible for us to truly grasp the fullness of Him.
When we enter into seasons of suffering, grief, or spiritual disillusionment, we have the opportunity to let our illusions and false ideas about God die—and let the truth of who He is shine through. (If you’ve been feeling conflicted about your faith, I recommend the book The Night is Normal. Pretty great read.)
What if we could move from a place of avoiding pain to simply walking with it and through it? Growing through pain as an act of resistance. Like weeds in concrete. Not being overcome by evil, but overcoming evil with good (Romans 12:21).
The more I read the Bible, the more I realize there is really no justification for our Westernized ideas of comfort and ease. Why we’re all startled by suffering and pain is quite astounding. It really shows a lack of Biblical understanding. I don’t know of one Bible story without interpersonal, environmental, or governmental conflict of some kind highlighting humanity's desperate need for God. There’s not one person in the Bible whose story I’d like to have for myself. Every miracle comes off the tail of years of suffering and hardship. Abraham waits decades for children, Moses wanders in a desert for 40 years and then dies, David spent years on the run, Joseph was sold into slavery and ends up in prison, the New Testament saints are largely martyred, a lot of women are weeping and crying (Mary and Hannah, for starters), Ruth was a widow—do you see what I mean? Everyone in the “Hall of Faith” in Hebrews 11 really had a hard life.
I would say we are in the most danger when we think we have everything under control. When we have an illusion of control that is safe and in neat order. When life is going well and is under our supervision. When all our plans are working out. That’s a place I no longer trust.
And yeah, that’s what I’ve been pondering lately.
For July, the poem I felt on my heart was about rest, and I did find rest in July. A resting from my questions, from my doubts, not from suffering, but from worrying about the suffering. I discovered a song by Amanda Cook called “Rest” that really shepherded me through a tough month.
God is always writing us love songs.
About the poem
Carrying this idea of “the Great Iconoclast,” I think August will be more unraveling. At least for me. I feel like all the threads in my head have come undone and are all out like lumpy balls of yarn, scattered around my studio. I used to sit around, trying to untangle all the threads, but instead, next month, I’m going to just make art in the chaos. Weave some mental tapestries. It’s what I do best.
So for August, let all the images about who I think God is continue to be demolished by God Himself. Cheers.
About the art
What I like about this piece is that it’s startling, the lemon yellow. The contrast of viridian highlights the bright hues. I painted this in April, but it felt fitting for August.
When you hold it up under a bright light, the dark green hues aren’t that dark—they seem to glow. It speaks a lot to this season of night I had been walking through. Even the darkest nights are light to God. We just need the right exposure.
The playlist for August is some of my favorite Christian artists who write songs that don’t fit into the neat contemporary Christian worship scene:
A thought on honesty
I don’t know about you, but I’m tired of all the masking, hiding, and pretending. There are good seasons and there are bad seasons—and our profile-ready, scrolling-first culture seems to demand the plastic versions of ourselves at all times. But I’ve grown tired of curating a smile to make other people feel comfortable. Maybe you have, too?
I read this week that honesty honors reality. So in honor of the reality of this world, with all the empathy I can muster for myself, I can say I am in a season of night. And that’s okay. Though it doesn’t diminish the pain of the night, joy does come in the morning. And I can already feel the day breaking through.
e.
