RESIST
by Lisle Gwyn Garity
Inspired by Luke 4:1-13 | Charcoal & acrylic paint on paper
First week of Lent
While in the wilderness, what does Jesus resist? The temptation to provide only for himself instead of living into God’s abundant manna. The temptation to obtain unlimited power and control. The temptation to coerce faith or prove God’s power. The temptation to rule above the earth instead of from within it.
In his own 40-day Lent, Jesus is reformed and readied for his ministry, one defined by humility, justice, and compassion. I imagine he had to let go of ego and self-serving desires in order to cultivate a leadership ethic that upends structures of power and oppression. He had to let go of personal profit in order to cultivate inner strength.
In this image, a flash of red, symbolizing evil and temptation, snakes around Jesus’ head, as if to suffocate him. But a halo of gold, emanating from his steadfast expression, protects him from evil’s destruction.
— Lisle Gwyn Garity
MOTHER HEN
by Lauren Wright Pittman
Inspired by Luke 13:31-35 | Acrylic & ink on canvas
The image of Christ as a mother hen is revolutionary. Instead of using a hypermasculine, militaristic, menacing image in response to Herod’s death threats, Jesus upends the expected posture of violence and chooses to identify with the nurturing, protective, feminine image of a mother hen. He explains his love for Jerusalem as a mother hen who desperately desires to lovingly shelter her young. This image drips of rejection, however, because the chicks are unwilling to be protected. In Jesus’ attempt to love the world, he meets unwillingness, distrust, mockery, and violence.
Jesus’ use of this simile is wonderfully subversive because at first it seems like a harmless, warm, and fuzzy kind of reference—a cuddly, plump mother hen wanting to snuggle her young—but mother hens will protect their young at all costs. A mother hen will put her whole body on the line to keep her chicks safe; if danger nears, she will meet it head-on, striking with her beak, with claws raised high.
Jesus wants that fox (Herod) to know that death threats will not keep him from fiercely bringing healing and restoration to the world.
— Lauren Wright Pittman
ONE MORE YEAR
by Hannah Garity
Inspired by Luke 13:1-9 | Acrylic on canvas
Third week of Lent
Let go of time.
When I start anything new, it is always difficult. So many questions arise. What is the flow of the work? What does a day look like? What do the interactions with others feel like? The only way to navigate toward answers is to go through the motions of the day.
To adjust to the newness, I move into a mode of observation. I engage with a pattern of inputs and outputs. I calculate my actions through trial and error. If I do this, what will be the outcome? If I do that, what will result? The mode is one of metacognition. I am constantly thinking about my thinking. Why did I make that decision in that moment?
Difficult endeavor reaps great reward. However, the work is still extremely difficult. Riding the daily roller coaster of emotions is not effective. Floating above in the abstract realm keeps me going. So, is hard work what I’m made for? Should I find different work that is easier? A job that I can go to and come home from without feeling emotionally drained or exhausted?
Here a lesson of the parable emerges. Give the fig tree one more year to fruit. Things that are worth working for do not yield immediate results. Difficult work does not reap quick rewards; yet, it is worthy. So, I keep going. I search for the sign of a bud on the limbs.
In this image, the fig leaves are full, but the buds are tiny. As in the parable, the fruit of this tree eludes the viewer. However, the buds are visible as a token in this painting. They are encouragement that it is worth the effort to care for the tree, encouragement that we should give it the grace of one more year.
Cultivate time.
— Hannah Garity
PRODIGAL GRACE
by Lisle Gwyn Garity
Inspired by Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32 | Charcoal on paper
Fourth week of Lent
I have, like many, often resonated with the elder son in this parable. And, like many, I read it with frustration and a bit of righteous indignation. Why shouldn’t good behavior be rewarded? Why should such callousness be dismissed without consequences? For all of my life, I have felt the tug of responsibility much more strongly than the pull of rebelliousness. As author Kate Bowler might say, I have developed my own version of a prosperity gospel where I expect to be rewarded for my good deeds and treated well for doing the right thing.
In nerdy pastor circles, we talk about a theological concept called “prevenient grace.” It means that God’s grace precedes human decisions and behavior. Before we can do anything right or wrong, God’s grace abounds. This sounds so lovely in theory. And then situations resembling this parable come along, and I cling to my prosperity-based, transactional version of the gospel.
In Luke 15:20, we see that the father is moved to compassion as soon as he glimpses his youngest son along the horizon line. He does not wait for an apology. He does not require retribution. Instead, he is moved simply by his son’s return.
Perhaps this parable should be renamed, “The Prodigal Father,” for he doles out grace just as lavishly as his son squanders his wealth. Perhaps then I might be less angry about prodigal waste and more thankful for prodigal grace.
— Lisle Gwyn Garity
ANOINTED
by Lauren Wright Pittman
Inspired by John 12:1-8 | Acrylic & ink on canvas
Fifth week of Lent
When I was little, I would run around my grandparents’ yard barefoot, playing tag, basketball, or intense battles of tetherball. All of the residue from my adventures would stick to the bottoms of my feet until they almost became one with the ground. I would come inside, and my grandmother would quickly call me to the bathroom so she could wipe my feet off with a warm washrag. I loved the feeling of the warm water against my feet, the texture of the washrag scratching away the grime of the day, and the hands of my grandmother lovingly squeezing my feet.
When I was preparing to paint this image, I propped my phone up against a wall, started recording, and knelt down on the ground pretending I was washing Jesus’ feet. My face was close to the ground with all the dust and dog hair that clings to my rug, and I began to run my fingers through my hair, washing an imaginary foot. My dog Rumi came over, plopped herself down in front of me, and I began to pretend wash her paws. I giggled to myself and called to my husband, asking if he’d lend his feet to the scene. I quickly said to him, “But please don’t take your shoes off.” I didn’t want to experience his feet that close to my face; after all, it was winter and feet tend to be a little more ripe after a long day in wooly socks. I began to rub my hair over his booted feet, and I felt this profound sense of vulnerability and discomfort. The image of me kneeling as my husband sat in a comfortable chair was a difficult one for me to see reflected back at me on my phone. I wasn’t even willing to fake wash my husband’s bare feet. The amount of love it took to do this act willingly seems astronomical to me. I then asked my husband to take his shoes off. As I rubbed my hair on his feet, I felt like crying.
This is the posture that Jesus calls all of us into; a profoundly uncomfortable, shockingly reverent position; coming face to face, intimately engaging with the residue of Christ’s footsteps to smell and almost taste the journey of Christ.
— Lauren Wright Pittman
COLT
by Hannah Garity
Inspired by Luke 19:28-40 | Acrylic on canvas
Holy Week
Let go of whom I thought I should be.
It was breezy that day, and the clouds were nowhere to be seen. I had just finished feeding with my mama. Sarah tied me back to the post beside the house. As she walked away, two women arrived and began to untie me. Quickly, Sarah wheeled around saying, “Why are you untying the colt?” The disciples replied, “The Lord needs it.”
The Lord? My mind raced. I am not worthy of such an appointment. Sarah, don’t let them take me! I haven’t had enough practice. I will falter. I will fail. I am still not able to do all of the work that mama does. The Lord will need the best. There must be some mistake.
Yet, Sarah did not argue. My rope was held by the taller disciple. Her cloak hung open, waving in the breeze. We walked a short distance before I saw the group. Who is the Lord? No one was distinguished by their attire. Which one is the Lord?
Suddenly, others in the group put their cloaks on my back. A man looked into my eyes. This must be the Lord. I must be ready. I saw the holiness of Jesus in his eyes. He climbed onto my back with the help of his disciples. I felt the majesty of Jesus in his gentleness. I heard the royalty of Jesus in his kind words as I ferried him toward Jerusalem.
Sarah and mama stood amazed as we journeyed past my home. It did not matter that I was not ready. It mattered that I arrived to do the work.
Cultivate whom God needs me to be.
— Hannah Garity