CURRENT SHOW: Kitchen Hymns

Do you ever wonder what Jesus’ childhood looked like?

Did he sit on his mother’s feet, wrapping his arms around her legs and giggling while she tried to walk across the kitchen? 

Did he smile when she sang the songs he’d heard her sing a thousand times while she went about her chores?

Did he learn kindness from watching his mother stop for a neighbor? Did he learn perseverance from watching his dad work day after day to provide for their family in occupied Galilee? Did he learn to care and show compassion and allow others stories to move him from things his parents taught him, showed him?

Did Jesus think about Mary’s magnificat when he stood on a mountainside and said blessed are the poor in spirit, the mourners, the meek, the hungry, the persecuted…the kingdom coming comes for them?

I don’t suppose we can know with any certainty what parts of Jesus' life flowed from his divine nature and what came from his upbringing by Mary and Joseph. But, we know with certainty that the intimate relationships and everyday places in our lives directly impact, shape, guide, sometimes even determine our faith and how we embody it in the world. 

Kitchen hymns, a term for Irish songs historically not allowed in a Catholic Latin mass. Often composed by women, these songs conveyed the story of Jesus, with a frequent focus on the relationship between Jesus and his mother Mary. Written in Irish, a language often outlawed by English occupiers, kitchen hymns could often take on revolutionary or political tones simply by their use of the Irish language. They shaped the imaginations of listeners, usually those gathered in the home, to understand the story of the Gospel and the story of themselves.

We might call Mary’s song in Luke 1 a Kitchen Hymn; shared in a moment of spontaneous praise and recognition of God’s promises and faithfulness, Mary shares this hymn not in a grand temple or crowded square, but in the domestic space of Elizabeth’s home. The power and revolutionary beauty of Mary’s song lives on in the Gospel of Luke. Her words seem to echo in Christ’s when he lifts up the lowly, the broken, the hurting in the Beatitudes. Her words live on for us now, as we hear them and get swept up in her joy. 

Kitchen Hymns features work by five artists, and uses photography, poetry, sound, psyanky, drawing, and installation to look at how we share the story of Jesus in our everyday lives. Like Mary’s song, the works in this gallery remember the lessons learned, the everyday moments when the Spirit broke in, the legacy of faith we inherit, and more. As you view the work, I invite you to ponder the power of the domestic spaces and everyday people in your life and the ways they encourage, discourage, reinvigorate, or help you imagine what it means to follow Jesus.

Kitchen Hymns is curated by M. Kenyon

CLAIRE DAM

Artist Statement:

Culturally, we avoid thinking about disease and death, even though they are inescapable parts of life. Within eight months, my parents went from living independently to needing full-time care. My mother, living with vascular dementia, moved into a long-term care facility in December 2023. My father, in the final stages of Parkinson’s disease, passed away in hospital on March 25, 2024.
My parents had a lifetime of stories to tell. Through their portraits, I sought to reveal the people they remained beyond illness. My father’s images speak of strength, stubbornness, ingenuity, and courage—qualities that defined him throughout his life. My mother’s portraits reflect her elegance and love of beauty—flowers, jewelry, small pleasures—and her enduring struggle to quit smoking after 55 years.
Their final gift to me was their openness—their willingness to let me witness them at their most vulnerable. My gift in return was to never look away; to witness them with love and grace, without flinching.
Photography became a way to honour them and to make sense of their sudden decline. These intimate, unguarded images aim to connect with caregivers and children of aging parents, reminding us of the shared humanity that endures through fragility, loss, and change.

Charlotte Rose Eshelman

Artist Statement:

M'ma: As I wrestle with myself, I wrestle with my mother.

Both my mother and I survived domestic abuse as children, my mother again as an adult.

Our bodies carry our trauma, her body carried mine, and my body will cary those of my children.

M’ma contemplates what we do with what we’re given, how trauma is inherited and passed down to the next generation through the body, and the complex intimacy of the mother-child relationship.

As I consider motherhood, the house has become a motif through which I ponder the comforting and stifling nature of domesticity, mothers, and motherhood.

Vigil: “For a long time I have held my peace, I have kept still and restrained myself; now I will cry out like a woman in labor, I will gasp and pant.” - Isaiah 42:14

Across time and space, laboring women groan deep and low. Each new voice winding her way into the song of all mothers, crying out to God to relieve suffering, to bring the child for which we long into the world. Come and end travail, give me new life more beautiful even than the child passing from this womb.

Mary, as she labored with the aid of her Lord, cried for her God to come in gasps and pants and moans. And her King answered her, emerging from her womb. Now, we wait for Him to return. Now, I will cry out like a woman in labor, I will gasp and pant. I will join the cry of all creation, of all women who have ever given birth: “Maranatha! Come, Lord Jesus!”

Katherine Gastler

Artist Statement

Pysanky is a traditional art practiced in Ukraine. Typically eggs are decorated before Easter, but writing eggs in the winter helps me wait for spring. These eggshells are hollow. The larger is a chicken egg, while the smaller is a quail egg where I dissolved the dark spots with vinegar before beginning. The designs are made using a stylus called a kistka to draw with melted beeswax to protect the egg; pysanky is based on the Ukrainian word “to write.” Then the egg is dipped in dye, each time protecting the current color from the next dye. At the end of the process the dye is melted off to reveal the finished design.

Pysanky have been created since ancient times, with the oldest surviving eggshell being about 500 years old. Eggs were considered talismans, with both pagan and later Christian meaning attributed to both symbols and colors of the eggs. As a folk art, interpretation of symbols varies, but often the artist chooses symbols to support the intended recipient of the egg. These eggs use an eight-pointed star, which likely symbolized a mallow flower in Ukraine, but also appears in quilts made my several generations of women in my family. The smaller egg uses the 40 triangles division, which is one of my favorites for the endless possibilities for repeating shapes and colors in new ways. Although our heritage isn’t Ukrainian, making pysanky is a family tradition which I learned from my aunt as a child. We still enjoy the meditative process of writing eggs together, which is high on our list of relaxing activities for our Christmas vacation this year.

Megan Kenyon

Artist Statement

One of my favorite professors in college used to ask the class, “Did you get saved alone? Are you a Christian alone?”

The answer, no…of course not. But in what kind of community do we discover Jesus and learn what it means to follow Him?

As I pondered this idea in the winter of 2022, I started to wonder about my own family lineage, specifically my matrilineal inheritance. I know so many stories from my mom’s life and the lives of my grandmas that directly impact me; decisions they made that shaped how I came to exist in this world, the type of life offered to me, and even the chance to know and to fall in love with Jesus.

So, in February of 2023, my mom and I set out on a quest to uncover and collect stories, memories, and images of the places and people that shaped our lives and our faith journeys. We went back to our hometowns in Michigan, meeting with relatives, revisiting old churches and houses, streets, and restaurants. We bore witness to painful stories, past and present, to time redeemed, and the power of Jesus to make all things new, even our very messy family and its very messy history.

The works displayed here continue to morph and take shape; the final pages of this story still need exploring, the exact form of its telling still coming into view. I invite you into our story to witness what God can do in and through those who say yes, I will follow you, who build a life and a community around others to help them see the beauty and mystery of the Gospel.

This is our story, this is our song.

Fiona Moes Pel

Artist Statement

“Chronology, the time which changes things, makes them grow older, wears them out, and manages to dispose of them, chronologically, forever. Thank God there is kairos too: again the Greeks were wiser than we are. They had two words for time: chronos and kairos. Kairos is not measurable. Kairos is ontological. In kairos we are, we are fully in isness, not negatively, as Sartre saw the isness of the oak tree, but fully, wholly, positively. Kairos can sometimes enter, penetrate, break through chronos: the child at play, the painter at his easel, Serkin playing the Appassionata are in kairos. The saint in prayer, friends around the dinner table, the mother reaching out her arms for her newborn baby are in kairos.” - Madeleine L’Engle

Kairos, the poetic and embodied experience of time, is what I attempt to capture in this body of work. Drawing, in time, has become for me a ritual of slowing down, demanding an awareness of seeing the now, a holding in the present. These resulting artworks are a shadowland, a layered cartographic record of the collision of chronos and kairos, reminding me of all that I can see and all that I cannot.

These works are investigations of the path of light and resulting shadows through everyday glass objects, objects from my kitchen. This experience of working with the movement of light over time has slowly become a confrontation with the sublime; I’ve become increasingly aware of the ineffability of recording these moments and of archiving ordinary time.

In the Gallery

Install and Opening Photos courtesy of Kati Q. Gaschler and M. Kenyon

 Serpent Tree: Gallery Show + Feast Service

From our March 9, 2025 First Sunday of Lent Feast Service Program:

If you closed your eyes and listened to the opening measures of Arturo Rodríguez’s music, you might imagine a paradise: dappled sunshine on your face, a light breeze brushing the backs of your arms and rustling the leaves of a tall, slender willow beside a clear, babbling stream. All is well. But if you glance at the title of the piece, you’ll notice something strange. It’s called Desolación — desolation. A similar enigma emerges in the ceramic works from Serpent Tree by Allison Luce. Take a close look at the artwork on the cover. At first glance, it almost looks like it could be the cover of an Easter service with trumpeting pink and white calla lilies gilded in copper. Its title, Infliction, seems strangely incongruous with the loveliness of its curving forms. But you’ll notice quickly that something’s not quite right. Spadices emerging from the center of the flowers become overly enlarged and drooping in some places and withered and blackened in others. The whole composition seems to be strangling itself, at once both beautiful and sinister. The piece encapsulates the idea of a sickened Eden, of a world so perfect and beautiful cursed to die cyclically — growing and dying, growing and dying, growing and dying. 

When we think of the natural world around us, we often think of its marvelous beauties — sweeping summer sunsets, moss-covered rocks at the base of ever-flowing waterfalls, or the “golden” Fibonacci spiral that appears in the nautilus shell, the tiny florets of a head of cauliflower, and even in the family tree of honeybees. But, in our often insulated contemporary lives, we sometimes forget that the natural world cycles around death. Perhaps we think first of the beauty in the natural world because we live with the memory of Eden in us. Perhaps it goes before us like a mirage, the hope of the weary traveler, the one nearest to death. But our love for our sickened world is not a mere longing for what was, or an empty hope that evaporates as soon as we approach. The beauty that remains in our fallen world is evidence of God’s love for the world He made and God’s love for the creatures that He made to care for it. 

When we look at the cross, we see the inverse of Desolación and Infliction. Rather than something lovely that bears the title of something sinister or broken, we see something gruesome and terrible, but it is called Love. The Christ bears violence to bring Peace. Our Jesus is marked with death, but offers us Life. We will again see our world with our own eyes and call it Paradise. 

Serpent Tree Artwork:

Artist Statement:

The Serpent Tree explores fragility and femininity and its relation to the concept of eternity through ceramics, connecting my artwork made in a post-modern context to the rich and ancient history of clay. The idea for this body of work comes from the story of the Garden of Eden and investigates the frailty of the body and the fallibility of man. Referencing nature as well as the body, these sculptures are about birth, growth and temptation. At first glance, the forms seem to be living and innocent, but upon closer inspection they can appear slightly sinister and suggestive. It is this play between innocence and experience that forms the basis of my work.

Artist Bio:

Allison Luce explores the ephemeral nature of existence and the mystery of eternity through her ceramic sculptures and monoprints. Luce graduated with dual BFA degrees in Painting and Art History from Ohio University and her MFA from Hunter College, City University of New York. She currently lives in Charlotte, North Carolina and on Hilton Head Island, South Carolina where she is a studio artist and a Realtor. She has shown her work in solo and group exhibitions nationally and internationally and her work is included in private and corporate collections.

She has been a Resident Artist at the International Ceramic Research Center in Denmark, the Zentrum für Keramik-Berlin in Germany, and the Medalta International Artists in Residence in Canada. She has been an Affiliate Artist at the McColl Center for Art and Innovation and a Visiting Artist at Baltimore Clayworks. In 2014, she was a Resident Artist at The Hambidge Center for Creative Arts and Sciences where she was awarded The Antinori Fellowship for Ceramic Artists. She was a Resident Artist at the GreenHill Center for North Carolina Art and the Noble and Greenough School in Massachusetts in 2015.

She served as Guest Faculty for Gordon College’s study abroad program in Orvieto, Italy in 2016 and 2017. Her artwork was on display on a billboard on 1-77 North in Charlotte as part of the Art Pop 2016 program. She has participated in the American Craft Council shows in Atlanta, Georgia and served on the Board of Directors of Christians in the Visual Arts. She completed a fifty-sculpture commission for the Arts & Science Council of Charlotte as a participant in their Community Supported Art program. She also received two Regional Artist Project Grants from the ASC to purchase a kiln and a slab roller for her home studio. 

From the Show:

 WE HAVE THIS HOPE

“In Christ, the sacred is brought into the mundane” - Elissa Yukiko Weichbrodt

Immanuel, God with us.

Pitched His tent in our midst,

Covered himself in our dust and ashes…

And that’s the treasure

jars of clay 

Hold.

The pastors and artists of Holy Cross created works with words, songs, and visuals, to help us all walk in wonder, pondering the Incarnation. Starting with three scripture prompts (2 Corinthians 4, 2 Corinthians 5, and John 1) and the show title, WE HAVE THIS HOPE: Incarnation, each pastor wrote reflections in their preferred style, exploring and excavating this mystery using the written word.

Those texts then went to several visual artists in the congregation, to show, and not just tell about how the Word became flesh and dwelt among us. The work you see pours out of this collaboration, and now we invite you into the work: 

Sara Maichel’s photographs welcome us into Advent; reflecting on how this season of darkness and remembrance of our human condition finds itself suddenly illuminated as Christ steps in. Charlotte Rose Eshleman’s video probes through lyrics and images the mystery of the God of the universe putting on human flesh, growing and developing in His mother’s womb. 

Megan Kenyon’s work wrestles with paradox of Christ being born to die, using the language of altarpieces interpreted in a simple cabinet. Sarah Bernhardt’s work similarly dives deep into this paradox of birth and death, examining the flashpoint of resurrection and how our Christ redeems broken things.

Katherine Gastler’s Psyanky and window star utilize color and symbols to meditate on the Light coming in our darkness. April Parviz’s work also uses color and symbols to articulate the ways in which Immanuel, God with us, continues with us now and will come again, so stay awake!

Kati Gaschler’s photo exudes the quiet beauty of a historic church, marred by the decay of time, and yet redeemed through the love and care of its congregation. In a similar way, Olivia Field’s paintings thrill with the sure hope that our mortal bodies will not always be bound to time, to death. Jesus Christ is risen, He is risen indeed, Alleluia.

As you move about the gallery, notice the colors; so many warm reds, fiery oranges, singing yellows, deep blacks, and the regal gold. 

Notice the very human hands, touching, holding, pulling, resting. 

Notice the textures; rough clay, firm wooden boards, the waxy folds of paper, the shimmery light on gold.

Notice the lines and shapes, ordered geometry exploding in color. 

Notice the invitations, to come closer, to witness, to see the broken places and to contemplate the promise of resurrection, when Jesus makes all things new.

In this season of Advent, as we wait in the darkness, contemplating our human fragility we invite you to wonder anew about this Light that shines in the darkness, this Word that steps into our world as one of us, because of His great love for us all. We invite you to hear the words and see the art created by your brothers and sisters in Christ, and find hope: that Immanuel, God with us, dwells with us still and will make all things new.

Curated by Megan Kenyon, WE HAVE THIS HOPE ran from December 1, 2024 - February 16, 2025.

THIS IS MY BODY: Paul Reuckert

Veiled in flesh the Godhead see, hail the incarnate Deity!

Pleased as Man with man to dwell, Jesus, our Immanuel!

Hark! The herald angels sing, “Glory to the newborn King!”

Each year on the 25th of December, the Church gathers to celebrate one of the great mysteries of the faith: the Nativity of our Lord.  The themes for the weeks of Advent have slowly shifted from the Savior’s second coming to His first, culminating in a twelve day celebration in honor of the Christ-child, “Immanuel” - “God with us.” Those familiar with the Old Testament should not be surprised at the event, as we read all throughout of God’s deep desire to be with His people, and in their very midst.  He walked with our first parents in the garden in the cool of the day; He met with them in the wilderness tabernacle and His glory filled the Temple.     

The wonder is not that God would want to be with His people, but that He would choose to be with them in this way - incarnate, enfleshed, dwelling with us as a man.  Bodies are marvelous things, “fearfully and wonderfully made,” to be sure.  But bodies are also frail, easily bruised and broken.  They break down and wear out.  They are in need of regular cleaning and care, being made of ashes and dust.  Fearful, wonderful, yet earthy and humble.

And it is with just such a body that our Lord came and dwelt among us.  For by taking on human flesh, our Immanuel made it possible for us to encounter Him through the senses of our bodies.  “That which was from the beginning, which we have heard, which we have seen with our eyes, which we looked upon and have touched with our hands, concerning the word of life…” (1 John 1:1).  And on the night when He was betrayed, our Lord Jesus Christ made it possible to encounter Him still beyond His death and resurrection, beyond His ascension to the right hand of God.  “Take, eat, this is my body, given for you.  Take, drink of it all of you.  This cup is the new testament in my blood, which is given for the forgiveness of sins.”  God with us then; God with us now.

“This is my body…”  As these words apply to the Supper, so, too, do they apply to those who receive it.  Do you wish to see the body of Christ with us in the world today?  Look around you. 

As we are fed and nourished at the Table, we are filled with the very body of Christ - and are shaped by it to become His body in real and tangible ways to one another in this place.  This, too, is His body - in the sharing of the Peace, a Sunday smile, a sincere and warm welcome.  For the incarnation runs in a straight line from Bethlehem to St. Louis.  Here, we - in all of our weakness - are practicing, if you will, the life that will be ours in full when these same bodies are called forth from the grave. Then, at last, we will behold Immanuel face to face and will serve Him and one another in bodies glorified and forever changed to be like His glorious body. 

April Parviz

Artist Statement:

Sleepers ‘wake CI-Immanuel

Welcome to my ongoing series; Sleepers ‘wake. Here, I try to understand what God says to me through scripture, about  staying awake. I believe it means loving God above all things, and loving our neighbor as ourselves. So I make these  works to stay awake. This piece, I’m excited to say, is number 100! 

Sleepers ‘wake #100 - Immanuel focuses on the idea that we can be daily awakened through the memory of our baptisms,  and with that, we can daily work to awaken others with the light of Christ that shines through us.  

Pastor Paul Rueckert’s writing threaded very neatly together with this thought process I’ve already been having, especially his focus on the name Immanuel; “God with us then; God with us now.” Even though my focus has been primarily on  the beautiful mystery of the sacrament of baptism, Pastor Rueckert’s attention to the sacrament of the altar brought the  whole idea home for me in a way that I will probably write much more about later.  

For now, to try and keep it simple, I’ll just say a few things about the symbolism and meaning behind Sleepers ‘wake #100 - Immanuel.  

Let’s backtrack for one moment, please. My Sleepers ‘wakes all follow the same visual equation. The bottom portion of  the piece is always fairly simple. Then it goes up, at least once. There is a break. And then it starts over again at the top,  and is more elaborate than it was on the bottom. So these are the four components that make a Sleepers ‘wake; 1) Simple  bottom 2) Bottom goes up 3) Break between top and bottom 4) Top is more elaborate than bottom. 

Okay but why...?  

I’ve been working on explaining this. Hopefully I’m getting better. 

Essentially, the bottom part symbolizes a person who is asleep (busy/ignorant/selfish/proud/etc). The break is where  the person wakes up. The top symbolizes the person now awake (loving/listening/stopping to be with people/reaping +  sowing the fruits of the spirit/etc). There are a lot of layers to these, and many ways to interpret. So go ahead and do that.  I’ve been working through a new visual concept, where the top reaches all the way down to the bottom every single time  it goes up. Within this formula, I add an interpretation on top of the original one. It goes like this; each gray line on the  bottom pointing up represents a “sleeper.” Each yellow line or point reaching down represents an “awaker.” The moment  where the “awaker” meets the “sleeper” is always yellow, no matter the color of the rest of the stroke. That yellow portion  symbolizes the light of Christ that shines through each “awaker” allowing them the ability to awaken the sleeper, and lift  them up into the awake portion of the piece, where “we are fed and nourished at the Table, we are filled with the very  body of Christ - and are shaped by it to become His body in real and tangible ways to one another in this place.”

Charlotte Rose Eshelman

Tell the old, old story 

How God took on man’s flesh 

Tell the old, old story 

How life came down to death 

The hands that formed the moon and stars  

Swimming in the womb 

Mother Mary giving birth 

To her bridegroom 

The breath that gave woman life 

Breathing through her lungs 

Everlasting father 

Was youngest of the young 

         The feet that walked through Eden 

Toeing Mary’s rib 

King of all the Ages 

Crowned through bony crib

The voice of storm and whisper 

Gurgled in her arms 

This babe, so small and helpless, 

Would bind the devil’s charms 

The one to whom we sacrificed, 

Filled with blood to shed 

Giver of good manna 

At Mary’s breast fed 

The Arm of God reached down to earth 

Revealed in mortal skin 

Eyes that saw the dawn of time 

Closed while formed within 

 The Morning Star, in mystery dark, 

Woven and encased 

True image of the Father 

Bearing Mary’s face 

All Glory to the Father, Glory to the Son, And to the Holy Spirit 

Forever Three in One 

As it was the beginning, is now and ever shall be Amen

BRUCE CAMERON: SURROUNDED BY GOD’s TRUE AND PEACEFUL POWERS

December, 1944 . Dietrich Bonhoeffer has been in prison since April of 1943, for his part in the resistance to Adolf Hitler. The war has turned against Germany; the Allied armies have reached the Rhine River and the “Battle of the Bulge” is raging. Hitler will retreat to his bunker in Berlin in January 19, 1945. He will commit suicide there on April 30, 1945. Germany will surrender on May 7, 1945.

Before this, Dietrich Bonhoeffer will be hanged, by Hitler’s order, on April 9, 1945.

Bonhoeffer knows none of this. He has been in prison for over 20 months. He doesn’t know if he will be executed, set free, or liberated when the war is over. All of these things are possibilities. 

So, on December 19, 1944, he sends a Christmas letter to his fiancée, Maria von Wedemeyer. Through her, he sends greetings to his parents and his brothers and sisters. And he includes a poem – a hymn of hope.

By God’s own powers wonderfully protected,

We look with trusting hope, come now what may.

God is with us, each evening, every morning

And certainly in every newest day.

He addresses the heavy loads on their hearts from the past days. (stanza two)

He speaks of the possibility of a heavy cup of suffering. (stanza three)

He speaks of the possibility of brighter days ahead. (stanza four)

He speaks of the comfort, in all this, of God’s warm candle-light. (stanza five)

And he praises God’s silent, unseen powers behind the world’s noise. (stanza six)

The poem, which has become a popular hymn in Germany, has been called Bonhoeffer’s “last theological text.” In February, 1945, he was moved to the prison at Buchenwald, and from there to Flossenbürg, where he was killed. 

His last words to a fellow-prisoner were,  “This is the end; for me, the beginning of life.”

THE HYMN:

Surrounded by God’s true and peaceful powers,

The goodness that protects us from all fear,

So will I live with you in this day also,

And step with you into the coming year.

By God’s own powers wonderfully protected, 

We look with trusting hope, come now what may.

God is with us, each evening, every morning.

And certainly in every newest day.

The days gone by may still seek to torment us,

And heavy loads still press upon our hearts.

O Lord, give to our frightened souls that comfort,

That peace, for which You first created us.

And if the heavy cup, brim full with suffering,

Should be the cup You place into our hands,

Then let us take it – thankful, without trembling – 

As given by Your good and loving hand.

If You should once again pour joy upon us, 

The brightness of Your sun on this world shine;

Then let Your past and daily goodness fill us

With confidence in all our coming times.

May Your warm candle shine out ever brightly;

Into our darkness bring Your warmest light;

And lead us gently once again together,

To know Your brightness shines into our night.

When deepest silence, over us extending,

Will cover all  the clatter of our days;

Then let for us the unseen powers, expanding,

Lead all Your children into higher praise.

By God’s own powers wonderfully protected, 

We look with trusting hope, come now what may.

God is with us, each evening, every morning,

And certainly in every newest day.

Sara maichel

Artist Statement:

The Law - The Judges

The Prophets

and then…

God was silent

For 400 years…

Yet, even in that darkness there was a glimmer of hope, the promises whispering through the long night. A dim light for His people till the true and glorious light came.

He was the true light and through Him comes true life.

We have this light, but yet we wait, as Mary waited to hold the God-child within her in her arms. We wait through this advent till God will hold us, His beloved children, in His new creation.

And so in the waiting, this advent silently begins. And we say come, please come, Emmanuel.

What is hope? What’s our definition of hope as believing Christians? How do we practice hope? 

I think of practicing hope as future plans. Maybe, despite dismal circumstances, it’s how we look forward to a newer, better reality. I saw this when I photographed Woodruff Place Baptist Church. She is a beautiful Romanesque Revival structure built in 1926 and in many ways, it shows. Everything is original; the seats, the dias, the windows, the floors. Loved by generations. The spiritual home of family after family. My favorite part is the balcony. The light kisses each surface so deliciously that at first, that was the only thing I noticed. 

As I breathed in that beautiful place, I finally noticed the water damage. Off in the back corner, there it was. Peeling plaster. You can see it now too. But, right next to this small bit of earthly decay, and the symptom of time, sits hope. In this case, that hope comes in the form of putty knives and buckets of spackle. The people of Woodruff Place Baptist, in their love of their place, plan to keep her as new. They fix her when she peels, chips, and cracks. They do this for the hope of the future so that generations and families of the future can worship, live, laugh, cry, and come together here. 

They look, with waiting and trusting hope, at the little crumbling corner, and restore it. Come what may. 

Bob Bernhardt: Apoptosis* 

Hidden from sight

in a quiet place

Two become one

And twenty-three become forty-six

Wonder multiplies

as life begins

Then one cell becomes two

And two, four

And four, eight

In that quiet place

But slow the count

as multiples mount 

Death cuts away

in that quiet place

Not the whole

but in part

To a cell here

and over there

They fall away 

making way

for fingers and toes

and a small little nose

Flesh crafted in that place

like clay in the hand

Sculpted

Stretched

Cut away

Life shaped through little deaths

as wonder multiplies

Christ became two

And two, four

And four, eight

In a quiet place

Wonder multiplied

God-flesh crafted 

through little deaths

the fingers and toes

scored 

in the fullness

and the forevermore

Wonder stills

Death cuts away

Not in part

But the whole

Wonder lay hidden from sight

In a quiet place

Until a cell here

and over there

begin to stretch

Life begins

And Wonder multiplies

*Apoptosis—the death of cells which occurs as a normal and controlled part of an organism’s growth or development. Apoptosis, or programmed cell death, is a natural process that occurs during embryonic development to remove unwanted cells and shape tissues and organs.  Apoptosis is essential for many stages of development, including neural development and shaping fingers, toes, and vestigial organs.

OLIVIA FIELDS:

Inspired by Bob Bernhardt’s poem Apoptosis, these two artworks are meant to reflect upon the invisible dynamism of Christ’s formation in the womb and the space left behind after He rose from the dead. In those quiet places, both invisible and incomprehensible, miracles that define the world were born. Where the beginning of Jesus’ life began with a slow, steady multiplying of cells, His death and resurrection erupted with the seeds of new life and hope for all of mankind. Predicted for all of history and consequential for all of eternity, Christ’s quiet beginnings and explosive earthly conclusion began the murmur of excitement for His glorious return.

Sarah bernhardt:

A slab covered in the blackness of death holds the remains of a clay body- broken.

Exploded actually. 

A sharp hollow wound down the left side. 

Blown apart in the furnace at one thousand nine hundred and forty degrees. 

Despite my best efforts. 

Like a traditional Ledger stone,

(a slab a body is laid out on or that covers a grave and is often inscribed with a family history) the black plinth holds the most fundamental genealogy: 

man and God, clay and Gold. 

Above the clay body floats a lace shroud. Modern lace is often created through a chemical process where soluble threads are woven in with insoluble, then dipped in a chemical solution that dissolves the soluble threads leaving behind the lace pattern with intricate and beautiful hollow spaces. Our mortal, clay bodies are a bit like that. Daily, we are undergoing apoptosis, designed cellular death… was some form of dying always part of the plan? The clay imprinted with the pattern of the lace shroud that hovers above is a body imprinted with death from the genesis.

A body born to die.

Christ became a clay creature. A clay creature whose apoptosis became the apotheosis to create a sort of symbiosis. 

With us. For us. 

Perhaps there was a slow and somber moment in that dark secret place when God studied Jesus's face cast in the stiffness of death. A moment when he wept with sorrow and then a moment when he wept with joy that this sharp sting would be swallowed up. Death is being swallowed in gold leaf — Divine Love — covering the head and lilting off the dark surface at the foot, like pages in the Book of Life fluttering at the sudden sweeping, swooshing, raising, flying, rising of the resurrection moment when God the Father reached down and plucked up a hollow lace shroud and heaved it from the face of his hallowed Son. 

A Son imprinted with life.

A Clay Creature born to live. 

Katherine Gastler

I’m caught by surprise every year. As the leaves start to change and the weather gets colder, I ask myself, “Why does everything suddenly seem so much harder?” But then I remember, it’s the Darkness. 

In the long summer light, I discount how much the shortened days affect my ability to function. I mostly work inside on bright screens, and my routines don’t vary too much across the seasons. So it’s easy to think the hour of sunset shouldn’t matter, but each year little by little, it stops me cold. 

It is appropriate that the invitation for this show came just as the Darkness was creeping in this year. I first learned to make Ukrainian Easter Eggs, or pysanky, as a child from my aunt Connie Schmidt. Although our heritage is not Ukrainian, she learned to make pysanky to cope with the long nights living in Alaska. 

To survive the Darkness each winter, I intentionally seek light in many forms: spiritual light, community, joy in helping others, and using my seasonal affective therapy light most mornings. (Ask me for recommendations, not all lights are strong enough to combat the Darkness!) 

As I read the texts for this show, I focused on the image of true light. Folding stars from paper and writing designs in beeswax on eggshells brings back the same joy I had making them as a child, and dispels a bit of the Darkness for me. 

I also chose materials to echo the lowliness of the incarnation. Eggs and paper are temporary and often tossed away, but here I honor them with hours of care and attention. Hopefully, these pieces survive to the end of the show, but just as Christ’s body, they are fragile and easily broken.

In the process of making an egg, I’m also metaphorically in the dark. As each part of the design is written in beeswax, it obscures the previous colors until the last step, when I melt off the wax to appreciate my finished design. Throughout the writing process, I acutely feel the tension of hoping to create geometric exactness from imperfect materials. As with the Darkness, I’m often tempted to despair, since my own efforts will never fully measure up. So if you feel the same, I hope this work, perhaps an imperfect treasure in paper and eggshell, can serve as a reminder that the true light comes outside ourselves from God and not from us.

Mart Thompson: Ekphrasis on Christ Show to the People

To see the original painting Mart Thompson referenced for this ekphrasis, use this link.

Below the expressions and activity of the

crowd,

governor,

shouting executioners,

conforming criminal,

servants of injustice, 

careless curiosity seekers, and an

anachronistic saint,

pious patron, 

under the reigning and ruling King of glory thrice depicted,

stands the least of these in another world of thought and imagination.

Some are fixed on one another, 

some gaping at the strangeness of the big people’s actions, and 

framed in the center, is one with a gaze firmed fixed on the Man with the prickly crown and flowing robe,

hands raised not in anger but intense questioning,

below a face of sad consternation:

“Who is this? 

“What are they doing?

“Why is this happening?

Standing lightly above the little inquisitor, another small one gazes at the later devotees, 

“They must know something more.”

Megan Kenyon:

Womb to Tomb (Won’t You Rise Up)

Womb to Tomb. Birth to Earth.

That reality dogs every human being from the moment of conception.

And we don’t get a choice; we don’t choose our making, our living, our time in this world. We can’t escape coming and we can’t escape one day going.

Jesus could. He didn’t have to endure our reality.

But He came anyway, knowing better than anyone what it means to go from womb to tomb, from birth to earth.

Jesus made the choice to come, to put off the privileges of His divinity and take on the struggle and torment of humanity. He chose his making, his living, his being bound by time. He didn’t escape coming and he didn’t escape going.

Until He did.

And now we hold that truth in jars of clay.

As I read Bruce Cameron’s translation of Bonhoeffer’s hymn, about how “heavy loads still press upon our hearts” and what to do when “the heavy cup, brim full with suffering,/Should be the cup You place into our hands”, I saw afresh the great love that led Christ to come. In Mart Thompson’s ekphrasis on Christ Shown to the People, I found myself pondering with the children in the crowd “Why is this happening?”

The why finds its answer on Easter Sunday; a mystery you must step through Good Friday to see. For my piece, I referenced the idea of altarpieces; large wooden panels (often on hinges) that tell various stories from scripture and usually grace medieval churches. Most of these are huge, ornate masterpieces…but I made mine small, more like a humble medicine cabinet or shadow box than a treasure in a cathedral. The exterior meditates on the birth and death of Christ, using images that live in my imagination; my friend and pastor holding my stillborn nephew…my sister gripping the hand of her husband…my own hand holding the premie fist of my niece…hands lowering Christ in a famous Caravaggio…all these and more shift in and out of focus on the doors.

But open the doors, and the frenetic energy stills to a somber black. I imagined the tomb as Christ opened his eyes on that third day. I imagined the womb he swam in, the weighty glory of God transformed into a tiny embryo growing steadily. In the center, a photograph of a linen cloth, folded over a chair.

Resurrection power, striding out of the darkness, calm, sure.

The treasure I hold in this jar of clay.  

Jeff Gibbs: This Hope We Have

THIS HOPE THAT WE HAVE: condescending, constant, concrete, and named.

The hope that we have is condescending.

The hope that we have doesn’t emerge from within us.  Yes, some people are hopeful from within, but many aren’t.  That has to do with how you were raised. That’s not our hope.

Our hope doesn’t rise up from below, from common human experience.  Common human experience, honestly viewed, tells us that the human story as “just one d**** thing after another.”

Our hope is condescending, in the old-fashioned sense.  It  means, “coming down to be with” someone: “con-descending.”  Our hope comes down.  It comes from God, the God of hope. The future is God’s, planned by God and God alone will make it happen.

But the hope did shine forth down here, because God came down here, came to dwell with us.  The Word became flesh and dwelt among us—light shining that the darkness did not overcome.

The hope that we have is constant.

There’s a phrase one hears:  “hope springs eternal.”  Close up to its original meaning is the thought that human beings can figure things out, and there’s good reason for optimism.  Always look at the sunny side of life—that sort of thing.  And there’s some common sense in that.  If hope has to spring up again, however, that means it comes and goes.  It wavers.

That sort of hope, wavering, sooner or later will collapse. It wouldn’t have been strong enough for Paul of Tarsus, who (by his own words) had been afflicted in every way, perplexed, persecuted, struck down, and was constantly being given over to death.  Hope springs eternal? We don’t have that sort of hope.  

Can we live with eyes wide open to how broken things can be, and how even doing the right thing can make your life a living hell?  Paul thought so.  The Apostle John did, too.  And even if we waver, our hope remains constant. The enfleshed Word came to dwell among us, but most of his own people wanted nothing to do with him.  And their darkness tried to snuff out His light.  But the light is still shining.  We have a hope that is constant.

The hope that we have is concrete

We don’t have a hope that tries to escape, to fly away, to float up to heaven. You could say that our hope is heavy, real, substantial, for we are real, embodied people living in this physical creation. The hope is not just a promise for our minds or our spirits.  It is a hope for our bodies, for our whole selves, for the Father’s world all around us.  We live in light of the hope, in the real world, with our real bodies.  Sickness or suffering, hardship or hatred can all find a home within the enfleshed, embodied, heavy, hopeful life that we have together—with one another, because it is not my hope, but our  hope.

Our hope has a name.

The Word became flesh.  His light is still shining.  It was snuffed out for a time, but the light broke out from the empty tomb, and we have been drawn into the light. Our hope is Jesus.  Our suffering, then, and especially suffering because we are His, is somehow a sharing in the suffering that he endured.  We carry in our bodies the death of Jesus.  And our hope that has condescended, is constant and concrete, is a sharing already now in the life of Jesus, in the name of Jesus. We bear the name:  Christ-ians.  

On a day known only to God, we will see our hope fulfilled.  We will see Jesus.  He will condescend, with a love that is constant and eternal.  Hope will become real, firm, concrete, more real than we knew was possible.  And we will speak the name, Jesus—to the glory of God the Father, as our hope changes into sight. 

April Parviz

Sleepers ‘wake CII - Maranatha

It will be very hard for me to summarize this one. I will write a much longer statement on this, hopefully soon. But for now, we’ll just skim the surface together.

Back in February, I couldn’t handle my relationship with hope anymore. I was grieving my two miscarriages from the previous year and I wanted another baby so badly. I often would believe I was pregnant again, but then wasn’t. Every time I found out I wasn’t pregnant, I was heartbroken all over again. It was unbearable. So I set hope down. I didn’t know how to carry it without forcing it to wear a mask that had “April’s plan” written on it.

In my art practice, when I’m processing something extra difficult and new, I like to create a symbol that is unique to my personal “art language.” For this piece I’ve created a symbol for hope. I need to start trying to pick it up again, so I can get to know it and live my life as a child of the light. But it is very heavy. That’s why I related very deeply to Dr. Gibbs’ reflection. He says hope is “heavy, real, and substantial.” I would say almost like a burden. This computes very much with thought processes I’ve been having over the last year as my grief has been too heavy to carry, at times, so others have taken on some of the burden. I wonder if by carrying the burden of hope, I’ll be more able to carry the burdens and sufferings of my brothers and sisters in Christ...

The gold spheres, with what look like small plus signs in their centers, are my new little symbols of hope. They are fashioned to look like a eucalyptus button. If you are unaware of what that is, I am sad for you and also jealous of your beginners mind which will one day see and smell a eucalyptus button for the first time. I keep a jar of them and smell them from time to time. The smell transports me back into my 4-year-old self, playing in the dirt and pine needles of beautiful Paradise California.

The entire town of Paradise burned completely to the ground back in 2018, in the 6th deadliest wildfire in U.S. history. It breaks my heart every time I think about it. And the despairing side of me screams that it is a sign of the end of times. But do you know what? When set on fire, pinecones and eucalyptus trees release seeds.

In my piece, along the tops of each eucalyptus button, there are four small seeds. They come out of the four “scars” (if you will) on each button. Stemming from one seed is always a colorful swirl, two seeds produce simple pencil lines that weave into nearby colorful swirls. And one seed produces a gold swirl that carries the colorful swirl. Each colorful swirl represents you, me, and others in our church who are suffering. The pencil lines represent our sufferings that are blown, ever so lightly by the spirit, into the care of another colorful swirl, who will carry it for us for a while. And the gold represents Christ, holding us up... carrying us.

As Jeff said, “On a day known only to God, we will see our hope fulfilled. We will see Jesus. He will condescend, with a love that is constant and eternal. Hope will become real, firm, concrete, more real than we knew was possible. And we will speak the name, Jesus—to the glory of God the Father, as our hope changes into sight.” I think if I can begin to grasp that, I will also begin to grasp how Christ’s burden is light (Matthew 11:28). And hope won’t be hard for me to carry anymore.

Maranatha - come soon Lord Jesus.

The Advent Event | December 18, 2024

Abundance and Decay

Artist Statement:

Abundance & Decay explores the delicate balance between growth and deterioration primarily through fiber art. This collection, created by Dea Jenkins during her residency at Intersect Arts Center, delves into the natural cycles of life using organic materials.

Each piece in this exhibition is crafted from natural materials, such as wool and cotton. The raw and dyed materials reflect the tension between the beauty and the fragility of both nature and our everyday lives. The textures and forms invite viewers to contemplate the inevitable processes of flourishing and fading that occur in our world.

Abundance & Decay challenges us to consider our relationships with time and nature, urging us to appreciate the richness of life while acknowledging the impermanence that accompanies it. Through these works, viewers are reminded of the continuous dance between creation and decay.

This exhibition invites viewers to immerse themselves in this exploration of continuous transformation, and to reflect on the cycles that shape our existence.

Running from September 3, 2024 - November 2, 2024, Abundance & Decay was curated by Dea Jenkins and Megan Kenyon, and features work created by Dea Jenkins during her summer 2024 residency with Holy Cross Lutheran Church.

Website: deajenkins.com | Instagram: @deajenkins_

The Work:

The Exhibition:

MEZZO GALLERY

UNBLOCK

God creates in 7 days.

God creates humans; He creates us to create with Him.Each of us images God in being His creation and in creating using the gifts He gave us. Some of us engineer complex systems. Some of us formulate scientific advances. Some of us teach and open worlds of knowledge to students. Some of us bring new life into the world. Some of us plant, cultivate, and harvest, bringing beauty and nourishment to those around us. Some of us follow the Good Shepherd in watching over and leading His flock.

And some of us make art.

Callie Mechelke makes art; during her time as Holy Cross’s first resident artist, she chose to make art about making art. Specifically, she made art about the creative process, breaking it down into 7 stages, moving from initial spark and desire to actually beginning the work, and then to a unique thing that happens to human creators: block.

What do we do when the good we try to bring into the world gets stuck? How do we navigate out of failure, un-inspiration, frustration, even defeat? How do we unblock ourselves and bring good things into our world? The only way out, it seems, requires us to press on. Good art might try to resist being made, but that resistance invites us to go deeper, to find ourselves relying not only on our wisdom and expertise but to reach toward the Spirit to guide us through.

Callie’s work draws us deeper, past creative block into selah, into liberation, and into release. By allowing what she creates to germinate in us, her audience, her work seems to call us to create, using the gifts God gives to each of us, where He placed us. We learn from her images the freedom that comes when we rely on Christ as we persevere in moments of resistance; like Callie, we might find our hard work growing good things.

Using collage, embroidery, and poetry, Callie walks us through the creative process. Each piece proves complexly layered, offering moments of delight and wonder to those who lean in and look closely. Her words guide the viewer into meditations on each stage, not judging, but offering hope for the journey.

I invite you to take this journey; to walk alongside Callie’s work, to learn from it, and to allow it to inspire your own creative process in whatever ways that manifests.

Welcome to UNBLOCK.

Artist Statement:

Art, in essence, operates autobiographically, expressing itself in an amalgamation of realities (internal, external, divine) which manifest through the artist in abstract and literal iterations. Though I find this true in most of my artistic endeavors, this project, UNBLOCK, reaches a new level of autobiographical substance.

As a multi-disciplinary artist, I know the daunting subject, creative block, intimately. In my venture to discover some form of remedy, I resolve to create through it – detail the journey, the emotion, the continuity like a field journal – and express my insights through the creations themselves. This pursuit birthed the concept for this meta-project, UNBLOCK.

The 14 pieces in this installation explore what I see as the 7 stages of the creative process: desire, ideation, creation, block, selah: vision, liberation, and release. The time spent on each stage varies depending on the piece. Strangely enough, the phase of the arc at which I lingered while creating almost always matched the phase I was expressing (hence why I used the term “meta-project” above). I call that a “God wink”.

The stages in UNBLOCK arose through contemplation and divine revelation. I believe their structure reflects that of a literary narrative arc, with the climax of the narrative being “Stage 4: THE BLOCK” and the resolution, “Stage 7: RELEASE”. I find it humorous and fitting that the number of stages naturally came out to 7 specifically, which mirrors the creation story of the Bible.

The varied materials used in these collages result from both spontaneous and intentional selection, reflecting the interplay of my equally intuitive and visionary creative style.

Collaging broke me out of a landmark creative block with music, so it feels befitting to lean into the medium to explore even further the depths and mystery of the creative journey.

Website | Instagram | Spotify

The Work:

The Exhibition:

MEZZO GALLERY

OBSERVED: A Short Show about Long Looking

Observe.

A simple command that contains untold possibility; a risky act of intentionality; an intimate connection that goes beyond words.

Originally, the word observe denoted care; to hold something close, to look after it, to guard or keep safe. This idea is present in the works by these four artists, who through slow and close looking show us beauty in unexpected places and the mystery of God’s creating hand at work still in our world.

Sarah Bernhardt’s works ask us to persevere in observation, to look past what might seem obvious to find the beauty of what is. Using mirrors and light, she draws us deeply into her collages. In looking down, we find familiar things we rarely contemplate; dirt, rocks, water, leaves. Getting close to the earth, Sarah invites us into the paradox of life on earth; the now and not yet, the beauty and the brokenness, and the promise that ties it all together, that one day we’ll observe face to face.

Katherine Gastler’s photographs also invite us to observe through a mirror, using a playful gesture of focusing on the reflected image. She draws our attention to the things we might miss when our gaze finds itself distracted by the expected. In this way, she mirrors Jesus, who often flips our expectations around, drawing our attention to what we might otherwise miss in our desire to see, to have, what everyone else does. 

April Parviz’s images also play with our expectations; when we hear the word dumpster, most of us probably think of refuse, of smelly bins full of things we no longer want or need. But, through slow, close looking, April draws into the unexpected abstract beauty of these rusting behemoths. Her images look like landscapes; jewell toned and expressive. It takes our eyes a moment to realize the decay in what we see. These images call us to contemplate our own humanity; on Ash Wednesday we say “from dust we came and to dust we shall return”, but on Easter Sunday, we cry out “Christ is Risen indeed, hallelujah!” We face decay, yet we find ourselves made beautiful through the power of Christ and his redeeming work. Like these dumpsters, we image the beauty present even in the midst of brokenness because of Jesus and His resurrection that set us free.

Ash Wednesday, Easter Sunday, and many other moments find their expression, their observation in churches. Many of us grew up in churches and we think we know them well, but Kati Gaschler’s images prove our vision of church may lack something yet! Peering through cross shaped holes, looking back through mirrors, dropping low under pews and looking high up to Christ on his cross, Kati’s images show us beauty of built space in new and refreshing ways, calling us into wonder and even child-like play.

As you observe these works, I invite you to think about ways you can engage in long-looking in your own life; to think of the places, the people, even the objects that prove so familiar you almost don’t see them anymore. How might these works draw you into love, into care, into observation in your own life?

Welcome to Observed.

Curated by Megan Kenyon, Observed ran from March 17, 2024 - April 1, 2024

Sarah Bernhardt

Artist Statement

“For now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known.” 1 Corinthians 13:12 

Upon first glance, these display cases appear empty, void, an unfinished installation. With closer attention this encapsulated negative space compels you to look down, then to look up in wonder.  

You gaze down at frozen halos adorning the grass, dried leaves, and stones.You can almost hear the mundane Missouri ground singing, "Holy, holy, holy."  But you find their voices are reflections of mysteries above. 

Gaze down at the translucent line of water suspended in time  that traces the path laid when changing state. Like the line that was drawn when you were changed, no longer mere sinner, but saint. See below the reflection above.  

Gaze down into this beauty, reflections of water, soil, and seed, simple yet wondrous elements that nourish our bodies and souls daily by God's grace, like Manna in this wilderness.  

Gaze up at these images of the ground aglow, illuminated with a light beyond. This space between heaven and earth is not empty, but full of the hope first seen when women gazed down into a space that was empty. An empty space that compelled them to look up and see face to Face.   This hope is holy ground, for though we see in a mirror dimly, we can trace the lines and care with closer attention, until at last we are compelled to look up and find that Face coming down, filling and fully renewing the space between heaven and earth. 

Katherine Gastler

Artist Statement:

I was fortunate to have the chance to study abroad in Salamanca, Spain in 2007 for several months. While traveling, I became frustrated on group tours when everyone would stand in the same place and take the same conventional picture, when buying a postcard would likely better capture the view. So I began turning around to see what faced the stunning monuments or vistas that the average tourist overlooks. 

Out of this process, I began noticing reflections of the monuments we came to see, as well as looking for reflections in everyday moments walking to class. These photos capture the fleeting reflections of my travel in surfaces such as windows, mirrors, telescopes, and water. You see what my camera lens captured without any significant edits after the fact. 

As I consider these photos again, it feels appropriate that they will be displayed during Lent. These images were born of a physical process of turning around, the same image we use for repentance during this reflective season. 

April Parviz

Artist Statement:

I’ve been taking photos of dumpsters since 2011. I love the beautiful designs that rust and decay create. So often we think of decay and age as negative things. But when I look at the eloquent designs on dumpsters, it reminds me that growth, especially through pain and change, is beautiful. I’m also regularly reflecting on how, when we communicate our pain authentically, and it is received with genuine care, it’s a very beautiful experience, for all of the individuals involved. It’s like Jesus is painting rust designs on our dumpster moments.

Kati Gaschler

Artist Statement:

I enter the church with my bag slung over my shoulder. The door creaks and echos on all the hard surfaces. I scan the narthex and the sanctuary. I appear to be alone. That's good. That's how I prefer this. My footsteps echo as I leave the narthex's thick carpet and step onto the nave's tile floor. I begin my process; I set all my things down and take a few calming breaths, taking time to recognize how thankful I am for beautiful spaces like this one, and for God who inspires them. I open my Pandora app and select John Rutter radio. I prop my phone up in a pew so that the music reverberates on the wood. It fills the entire space, despite not being very loud. I take my camera and slowly walk around. I look up, down, underneath things. I climb the church's stairs, sit in her pews, stare up at her reredos with its beautiful carvings. What do I notice? What views do I take note of? Is there a shadow being cast from a statue? A reflection in a baptismal font? Do any splashes of color fall on the walls from a stained-glass window? I meditate on the organic process of photographing this stunning house of worship. I think about the lives she has touched. I thank God that she has touched mine and that I am able to show the world how beautiful she is. 

MEZZO GALLERY

 More Than One

“The Spirit of the Sovereign Lord is on me,

    because the Lord has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor.

He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,

    to proclaim freedom for the captives  and release from darkness for the prisoners…

to comfort all who mourn…

    to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes,

the oil of joy instead of mourning,

and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.” Isaiah 61:1-3

Paradox. That word describes the work in More than One aptly, as the various pieces wrestle through the reality of grief, the surprise of joy, and the unshakable hope that both surrenders itself and clings on in faith.

Allena Marie Brazier’s work can be challenging at first; the folds, knots, and elemental nature of her abstract forms seem to elude easy reading. They call us into mystery, into a space where pain and peace, joy and mourning, love and loss coexist. Her burlap works draw us toward Biblical images of lament or even repentance; weeping prophets draped in burlap spring to mind. They roil, wrestle, even dance across the wall, sometimes weighted, sometimes floating free. Molded and shaped into complex beings, they hint at our own experiences of struggle, pain, even loss in this world. And, they guide with a silent beauty, reminding us that the Prince of Peace gives us His shalom.

The ink works pick up that silent beauty; gentle brush strokes and warm colors float into vision. They evoke the chaos of creation in the moment before God spoke; reminding us that even now God can speak into our chaos and make something good come from it, that He can draw beauty out of the darkest places.

We see that echoed in the photographs. They seem to call out the promise in Isaiah 61, that God will give a crown of beauty for ashes, joy for mourning, a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair. The photographs of street lights come from around the artist’s home, and laid in front of them charcoal ashes rest delicately, almost waiting for an exhale to blow them away. In simple materials, the artist draws us further into the mystery of surrender and faith; to the paradox of following the light where sometimes things get burned away. But, in that loss comes new life, a new chance for beauty, for victory, for hope. 

The wonder of abstraction finds its way into our vision, speaking to us; More than One brings us close to the paradox of life, and makes space for us to explore the beauty and hope present in the midst of grief. The multiplicity of the form, and the repeating titles also hint at another reality; that we are not alone. More than One reminds us that there is hope found in the beauty and love of Christ and in sitting with one another, beholding the mystery of such love and peace in the face of chaos. 

Curated by Megan Kenyon and Allena Marie Brazier, More Than One featured work by Allena Marie Brazier, and ran from December 3, 2023 - February 4, 2024

ARTIST STATEMENT

More than One is an art exhibition inspired by scripture and rooted in personal experiences. Three groups of work are on display: Burlap Series, Ink Paintings, and Photography Installation. Each focuses on grief, surrendering, growth, acceptance, and faith. 

Burlap Series 

Pillars of the Past - The hardship of grief and letting go; the harsh reality of looking back and learning from the past to move forward; a warning that looking in the past is to become hardened like cement and unable to move forward. Shaping and Molding - bare burlap the emotions and identity of life, good and bad; terracotta pigment- represents clay and earthenware always moving, shifting, and changing, molded by faith and belief. Embrace - being still, quiet, resting in newfound peace from pain. Pruned - is the removal of things that are no longer of service, losing parts of what was thought to be true, feeling a void, an emptiness, and stagnation, but the pruning is for new life and growth. Sorrow - putting grief on display. (bible references Genesis 19:26; Philippians 3:12-14) 

Ink Paintings 

Hovering Over | in my sleep 

(bible references Genesis 1:2, Mark 4:35-40) 

Photography Installation 

Light - This work captures the street light in my neighborhood - poetically, my north star of home purposefully placed where the roots of my beliefs began. Charcoal ash represents life, evidence of growth, and a poetic take on embracing and being consumed by the Light. 

Allena is a guest Curator at Maryville University in St.Louis, Missouri. She is also the consultant and collaborator with Middle Waters Field School, an organization that focuses on the sociocultural aspects of the Mississippi River and surrounding communities. 

While continuing her creative practice, Allena is a budding author. She has published an online paper titled "Land|Lineage" and recently published her first book, "God's Harvest Bible Study." Allena continues her book-writing career centered on faith, creativity, and wellness.

The Work:

The Exhibition:

MEZZO GALLERY

 IN THIS WORLD

“I attend church every Sunday, and I draw during the sermon. All of these pages were done in a pew....  Simultaneous drawing and listening transforms familiar language into something new- a feedback loop of symbols, theology and wonder.” John Hendrix

When you hear a phrase like, “Christian artist” or “Christian art” what sorts of images does that conjure up? 

Perhaps stain-glass cathedral windows, Thomas Kinkade paintings, Sunday School illustrations, crucifixes?

Artist and Illustrator John Hendrix’s work doesn’t seem to fit any of those categories, and instead, we find little blue ghost cartoons, one-eyed monsters, bespeckled theologian spies and a faith full of depth and imagination pondered out by tiny squirrels with big questions.

The sketchbook images you see flow directly from the listening ears to the skillful hands of the artist; taking in sermons and sketching  to integrate hearing with seeing, Hendrix gives us a glimpse into the another way  we can interpret and inhabit scripture beyond just spoken words. The written text comes alive through the innovative use of design, helping us to ponder anew the beauty, richness, and strangeness of God’s words shared in community. 

The Holy Ghost comics engage life’s biggest and smallest questions with humor and grace. Visualizing the Holy Spirit as a little blue ghost and us who are trying to navigate faith as a skeptical squirrel or (God forbid) a self-righteous badger, Hendrix illuminates the joys and frustrations of listening to the Spirit. 

In a selection of images from Hendrix’s graphic novel, The Faithful Spy, we see the life, work, and eventually martyrdom of Dietrich Bonhoeffer. This work illustrates the difficulties and the beauty of being a Christian in this world, especially in times that are dark and seem without hope. 

In this world, pursuing art as a Christian often proves full of challenges, yet in doing so, artists of faith can set our imaginations on fire, deepening our discipleship, and providing a space for wonder that might draw others in to come and see. John Hendrix's work perfectly illustrates this invitation, little blue ghosts and all.

The Works:

The Exhibit:

MEZZO GALLERY