To what do we turn when the world rocks and tilts, and we lurch about for something firm to stand upon? What has our collective tribe--us, homo sapiens--turned to whenever the fear, the outrage, and the uncertainty of the times have left so many of us bereft of hope and courage, struggling to find a way in the new wilderness? From the dawn of time, we've sung our songs and muttered our poems and painted on cave walls, created tales and plays and carved in stone or wood. Art is no mere luxury; it is a necessity.

In this sermon, I explore its spiritual power for us in this time of crisis. Meditating on the contribution of artists like Elizabeth Alexander, Audre Lorde, Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, Leonard Cohen, the prophet Daniel and Saint John, as we'll as what you yourself might bring to light in this time of our world's trouble, I invite us to find courage for our times.

The sermon has no audio recording; a power outage at church means that I've only got this transcript. It’s called “Why Art Matters Now” and is a meditation on sections of the books of Daniel 7.9-10 and Revelation 5.11-14 in the Bible. It was preached at Davis Community Church (California) on March 8, 2020.

There’s so much I could be wrong about.

That’s a truth that could keep me up at night if being right is what’s important to me. It once was. One of the many wounds I grew up with (and am still trying to heal from) is the sense, communicated in so many awful ways, that I am never good enough, never right enough.

So, for a few voices still inside my head that worry about being wrong, there’s plenty that could keep me up at night—especially in these troubling and confusing times.

But those voices don’t keep me up at night. Not so much anymore.

Why?

Because of painting, sculpture, music, theater, literature, photography, poetry, and so many other artistic expressions. Art is the reason being wrong doesn’t trouble me as it once did.

I’m less afraid of being wrong because art isn’t about being right, it’s about being true.

This week, our Lenten groups are listening to and talking about Krista Tippett’s podcast, “Words that Shimmer,” an interview with Elizabeth Alexander.

We’re in the third of six conversations we call “Six Civil Conversation to Restore Hope in Humanity.”

Elizabeth Alexander is a chancellor of the Academy of American Poets, president of The Andrew W. Mellon Foundation, professor of poetry at Yale University, and was the fourth poet in American history to contribute to a U.S. presidential inauguration, Barak Obama’s first inauguration in 2009.

Two weeks ago we explored alternatives to the ways we tend to weaponize our words. Last week we talked about the way courageous friendships can build bridges over which disagreement and even outrage can travel so we can find better ways of being human.

This week, we’re talking about art, and particularly poetry as an agent of social change, of human, spiritual transformation.

Art and poetry . . . aren’t these rather soft subjects compared with the hard realities we’re facing in the world right now?

What’s a play or a painting in the midst of a bruising campaign season?

What’s a screen play in light of a climate crisis?

What can a mere poem do when we’re faced with a pandemic?

Much of the biblical book of Daniel is written in prose. Most of the last composition of the Bible, The Revelation to John, is also prose. But like the rest of the Bible, key sections of each of these writings are poetic.

Our readings today are two of the key poetic sections of each literary work.

Both of these books were written in crisis. In fact, we could say that every part of the Bible emerged at a point in crisis and was treasured by people living through crisis. Nothing in the Bible was written at a tame point in history. Every word, every image, every story, every teaching was directed to a point in time when people found themselves floundering, reaching for some rocky outcrop that would give them perspective in the midst of a storm.

Daniel is the story of how Jewish people could survive life in a land of exile, under a tyrant king who made life miserable for the common person, who had it out for foreigners and immigrants.

The Revelation to John is largely a literary creation made up of visions and poetry. Too long it’s been the playground of religious literalists who try to unlock its mystery and turn it into history. They misuse these visionary texts which aim, through the intentionally ambiguous medium of poetry, to sustain and embolden a people who found themselves profoundly vulnerable, profoundly afraid.

Poetry is the language of the soul. So is art.

In the scripture lesson we read today from Daniel, the poet does what poets do: he or she paints pictures of ineffable spiritual realities that can’t be flattened into prose. The same is true for the poet and prophet of the Revelation to John.

Both sought to bear witness to the truth that God is a power that would not be thwarted by the mightiest powers the world had ever known: the the great war machine of the Babylonians and the dreaded imperial administration of Rome.

“As I watched,” wrote the poet of the Book of Daniel,

thrones were set in place,

and an Ancient One took the throne . . . .

his clothing was white as snow,

and the hair of his head like pure wool;

his throne was fiery flames,

and its wheels where burning fire.

A stream of fire issued

and flowed out from his presence.”

“Then I looked,” wrote the poet of the Revelation to John, “and I heard the voice of many angels surrounding the throne and the living creatures and the elders; they numbered myriads of myriads and thousands of thousands, singing with full voice:

‘Worthy is the Lamb to receive

power and wealth and wisdom

and might and honor and glory and blessing!’

Neither of these thought they were writing history. Neither of them thought their words were literal fact. They were working artistically. The truth they saw was too big for anything but poetry.

Only art and poetry are capable of stirring our souls toward meaning and courage when we find ourselves bullied by history while it is unfolding, when we find ourselves frightened by the banality of the endless cycle of news that streams through our devices.

Art grounds us in a truth that’s bigger than lies; art nourishes us in beauty and goodness; art gives us ways to express our hopes and dreams, the truth in our souls even when there are voices in our heads that worry us that we could be wrong.

Art is what matters now. And poetry, many of us think, may matter most of all.

In 1970, Aleksandr Solzhenitsyn, the Russian writer and dissident was awarded the Nobel Prize for literature. For security reasons, he wasn’t able to accept the prize in person, but in 1972, his speech was released to the world.

At the end of his speech, Solzhenitsyn asked:

“What can literature do in the face of a remorseless assault of open violence? Violence does not and cannot exist by itself: It is intertwined with the lie. Violence does not lunge straight for your throat; more often than not it demands of its subjects only that they pledge allegiance to lies, that they participate in falsehood.

“The simple act of an ordinary yet brave [human being] is this: to refuse to participate in lies, and instead to tell the truth.

“Lies can prevail against much in this world, but lies will never prevail against art.

“This is why I believe, my friends, that we are capable of helping the world in its hour of crisis. We have no weapons, but that doesn’t mean we can’t enjoin the battle. For one word of truth outweighs the whole world.”

Poetry makes public that truth.

If you think poetry is about sickly sweet rhyming verses about love and tulips and little puppies you don’t know poetry. It can be those things, it must include those things; but it is so much more. It is as Elizabeth Alexander says, “the human voice.” Poetry is the voice of each human being, no matter who they are, speaking their truth about what they find in the dirt in the corner of the room, what they overhear on the bus, what they feel when they’re afraid, what their souls dream about when they’re not worrying about being wrong.

Poetry isn’t the realm of the rich; it’s not an endeavor of the educated. It is, to quote Elizabeth Alexander, an “art form for the poor,” the most democratic of the arts, and therefore the most accessible expression of the truth, put your way, for whatever purpose you must speak your truth, without concern for being right or wrong.

It was the day after Christmas in 2004. Toni Morrison, the great African American writer, was staring out of her window in an extremely dark mood. She felt helpless. George Bush had won a second term and that wasn’t, in her mind, a good thing for America or the world. A friend, a fellow artist, called to wish her happy holidays.

“How are you?” he asked.

Instead of “Oh, I’m fine—and you?” she blurted out her truth: “Not well. Not only am I depressed, I can’t seem to work; I can’t seem to write. It’s as though I am paralyzed, unable to write anything more in the novel I’ve begun. I’ve never felt this way before; the election and the state of the world are so . . .”

Before she could say more, her friend interrupted her, shouting through the phone: “No!” Toni, “no, no, no! This is precisely the time when artists go to work—not when everything is fine, but in times of dread. That’s our job!”

Then she began to remember all the artists who had done their work, expressed their deep, soul truth—even against the doubts in their heads—in gulags, prison cells, hospital beds; artists who did their work while hounded, exiled, reviled, pilloried and even executed for bearing witness to the truth as they knew it.

Art matters now, and poetry more than ever.

Art is not a luxury; poetry is no mere pastime.

Audre Lorde, was a self-described “black, lesbian, mother, warrior, poet, ” who dedicated both her life and her creative talent to confronting and addressing the injustices of racism, sexism, classism, and homophobia. In her famous essay, “Poetry Is Not A Luxury,” Lorde says that human beings have always made songs. Communities, tribes, and peoples have always told each other the story of who they are, how they feel, what they need, what’s wrong with the world, and how to make it right . . . all by singing their songs.

And what are songs, but poems put to music?

Have you ever heard a song that carried you through a dark time, a melody that insinuates itself inside your soul in such a way that the sounds or words borne along by the melody will simply not let you be?

Have you ever seen a painting or a photo that stirred you to feel such wonder and sense such beauty that you came to believe again that there is something bigger that holds and moves the universe, that the things that trouble you are paltry imposters to power in comparison to the beauty you’ve been able to behold?

Have you ever seen a play, attended a concert, watched a pair of dancers, or gazed at a sculpture, and woke, suddenly and gladly, to the feeling that you are not alone, that there are others who can and just might give themselves to goodness—and who, given the right conditions, might fight with all their might to make this world a better place?

And have you ever heard a poem, mere words placed upon a page and upon the tongue, with attention to rhythm, maybe some to rhyme, but always to the ways human speech can conjure the kind of inner sight that stirs not only love but courage, that can launch a journey of ten thousand miles, defy an emperor or army, and organize a revolution?

You’ve known art like this, I know you have.

And because you have, there’s hope for saner times ahead beyond the madness of these days.

We need art now, more than ever.

Arts helps us make a better world.

Support the arts.

Protect artists everywhere.

Encourage the inconvenient, yet necessary truths artists are compelled to express.

And be one. For each of us has truth our souls must tell no matter what doubts may linger in our heads.

10.

Let us go into meditation . . .

a guided meditation . . .

prophetic poetry of Leonard Cohen . . .

The birds they sang

At the break of day

Start again

I heard them say

Don't dwell on what

Has passed away

Or what is yet to be

Yeah the wars they will

Be fought again

The holy dove

She will be caught again

Bought and sold

And bought again

The dove is never free

Ring the bells that still can ring

Forget your perfect offering

There is a crack in everything

That's how the light gets in

We asked for signs

The signs were sent

The birth betrayed

The marriage spent

Yeah the widowhood

Of every government

Signs for all to see

I can't run no more

With that lawless crowd

While the killers in high places

Say their prayers out loud

But they've summoned, summoned up

A thundercloud

And they're going to hear from me

Ring the bells that still can ring

Forget your perfect offering

There is a crack, a crack in everything

That's how the light gets in

(Leonard Cohen, Anthem)