A conversation on art and faith with Artist, Teresa Hill

I had the pleasure of meeting artist, Teresa Hill at "Alimento", an art show held at my current church, First Congregational Church of Los Angeles.  I was immediately drawn to one of her paintings, "St. Ty", 

a portrait of a "beatified" man holding an open pomegranate with bees buzzing around it.  

The painting held my attention because as a former Catholic, the light around his head and face, his upward gaze and the use of color... the reds and oranges and yellows... and the use of light and dark, reminded me of Renaissance paintings of saints.  This figure, "St. Ty" seemed to be in contemplation, which caused me to contemplate him... what was his story?  What was he contemplating?  He was wearing a red hoodie, set in modern times.  Why was he being portrayed as a saint? And what was the significance of the pomegranate and the bees?  What was the artist trying to say?

I stood in front of this painting for a long time, wrestling with what I didn't know and had no way to find out because there were NO ARTIST NOTES!!! (a pet peeve of mine) and in absolute frustration, I finally walked away. But I kept catching a glimpse of it out of the corner of my eye because I was drawn to the rich colors... I loved the use of light and shadow... so warm and inviting to me.  

So as I'm turning away, trying to distract myself from this painting, a woman and her daughter walked up to me and started a conversation.  It's Teresa Hill, the artist who created the painting that so drew and perplexed me.  When I found out who she was, the first words out of my mouth were, "You're pomegranate guy!  Ok, so what's the deal with pomegranate guy!"  

As we talked, I found out that "St. Ty" is actually a portrait of her ex-husband, who used to be an animator for a well-known studio here in Los Angeles, and this is how she saw him... somewhat other-worldly, with a gift (the pomegranate).  However, there was also the ideas of both pollination (life) and danger that surrounded him and his gift (his artistry) represented by the bees.

I found our conversation really enlightening and so enjoyable, not to mention the fact that it relieved my frustration over her painting, that I told her about Ikthos, and asked to do an interview with her and graciously she agreed.

On December 19th, one week before Christmas, Teresa and  I met at Copa Vida, a coffee house in South Pasadena, California, to share coffee (for me, an elixir of life), conversation and thoughts on faith, her art and the meaning of life.  The conversation that follows, most of which you will be able to hear below, was an hour and forty-three minutes long, which I've condensed to an hour and twenty-three minutes (sorry that was the best I could do.  There's a lot of good stuff). 

"The Whistling"

The Hatchling"

We spoke about her take on her Southern Baptist background, or what she calls her "point of awakening", her interpretation of scripture, which can be seen throughout her work, where her faith journey has taken her outside of the Southern Baptist tradition and her views on life in general.  We discuss specifically, "The Whistling", "The Hatchling" and "Eve Revisited", a work currently in progress.

To my more traditional believers out there, I would ask that you listen to our conversation without judgment.  Teresa has gone beyond most of our comfort zones, but the echoes of what we were taught are still there.  I have to admit that I don't agree with all that she believes in, and that's perfectly ok.  We respect each other enough to listen to each other, which I believe is much needed in the body of Christ today and I know I grew from our conversation, as I believe she did as well.  We plan on speaking again.

I believe this is all a part of the journey Christ intended us to have as we each "run our own race".  She is running her race and I am running mine and maybe by sharing our stories of lessons learned, we can assist one another.  The body of Christ, "joint supplying joint."

Teresa Hill Interview

What Is Good?

I recently reconnected through Facebook with an old friend, Christophe Lobry. Actually, Christophe is more than an old friend; he’s my first “grown-up” love. Our relationship was short lived, but it was very instrumental in my personal development… my personal journey from girlhood to womanhood, and that relationship has forever altered, in a good way, the trajectory of my life.

We met when I was 20 years old through a mutual friend and there was any immediate spark. We dated for a couple of months, but I was a little too inexperienced for my new beau and one night over dinner, I looked across the table at him and said, “I love you”. It was a phrase we had both uttered before, but this time, instead of hearing his usual reply, he said “I’m sorry dear, but I don’t love you.” I was devastated. I sank back into my seat, feeling as if someone had just hit me. He asked if I was ok and I said I was, but to be honest, I don’t remember much of what was said after that. We agreed to be “friends” and continued to see each other for a few weeks after that, but I couldn’t get past the truth of what he’d said, and told him I couldn’t see him anymore.

John 8:32 says, “… and the truth shall make us free” and in this instance, it really did. I could no longer ignore the problems I knew were in our relationship. It destroyed any overly romanticized schoolgirl notions of what I wanted our relationship to be and forced me to deal with the facts… the reality that I was never going to be able to get from him what I really wanted… and that was to be understood and loved for me. It also forced me to come to the realization that I needed to determine for myself, and define clearly what I wanted out of a relationship and how I wanted to live my life. That it was my responsibility (not his) to set a standard and if I didn’t, I had no one to blame but myself for what I got. This very unpleasant truth, the fact that he didn’t love me, was probably the greatest act of love he could have given me because it freed me to move on.

Ephesians 4:15 says, “… but speaking the truth in love, we grow in all things, into Him who is the head – Christ”. I doubt that he had this scripture in mind, but that’s exactly what he did. He was never malicious; in fact he was quite compassionate about the whole thing and very concerned for my well-being when I told him I couldn’t see him anymore. That next year, I took time to work on me. I didn’t date at all and went into therapy. God blessed me with a great therapist, who worked with me through family issues, self-esteem issues and gave me a safe place to voice my fears, hopes and dreams and encouraged me to grow so I could move forward.

Eventually, I began socializing with some of my co-workers at the law firm I worked for, which gave me an introduction to the culture of law, which was very beneficial to me when I began doing clip licensing for television. One of the attorneys even invited me to go on a whitewater rafting trip with a group from the firm, something I never would have done on my own… I had a blast!

One Saturday afternoon while looking for something to do to fill all this extra time, I bought a 35mm camera. I took up photography, which led me into film. By the end of that year, I knew just about every camera store and arthouse/foreign film (something Christophe had introduced me to) venue in Los Angeles and would see 5 to 6 films a week. This gave me a vast mental library of films and visual images and a good grasp of the art of storytelling.

I took classes at UCLA Extension at Santa Monica College in photography, film and television and changed jobs and began working in the creative department at an advertising agency that made television and radio commercials. This was the beginning of my career in television.

Around August of the following year, I was reconnected with an acquaintance from high school, Kevin Lee. We began dating and this time… because Christophe told me a very painful truth and I’d done some work on me, I was ready. To date, Kevin Lee has been the love of my life. Unfortunately he passed away in 1994, but I am incredibly grateful for the time we had together.

Some of the most painful things in our lives, if we use them correctly, can bring us great good. Christophe telling me that he no longer loved me was not pleasant… in fact it was downright painful, but it was very good because it freed me to move on and find someone who actually did love me, Kevin. Otherwise, if I had continued acting under the false assumption that the relationship with Christophe was going to work, I would have stayed in something that was fruitless, with the hope of something that I was never coming. I finally got what I was looking for… to be understood and loved for me.

What Doesn't Kill You Makes You Stronger

Tempering… 

Definition:

1. To mix clay with water or a modifier (grog) and knead (wedge) to a uniformmixture.

2.  To harden (as steel) by reheating and cooling in oil.

I woke up in the middle of the night a few days ago with this word on my mind.  The examples I immediately thought of were tempering steel and clay.

As I thought of the word, it became apparent that the last 13 years of my life had been an exercise in tempering, but the first two definitions were not the most accurate me, the one that really fits is one of the last definitions in the Merrian-Webster Dictionary, “ to make stronger or more resilient through hardship, toughen.”

Starting in 1999, I entered full-time ministry with my mother, first as part of a non-profit that provided food and clothing directly to the poor and to other ministries in the Los Angeles area and then December 24, 2000, we started “Agape Love Fellowship International Church in south Los Angeles and the ministry was extended to include street evangelism, a support group, bible study and Sunday Worship services.

In the process of doing this we, my mother and I, lost everything we own… a couple of times, but I remained faithful to the ministry until December 24, 2006, when my mother fell ill and I began to realize that many of the people we were ministering to, and our “home church” (and I use that term loosely) really didn’t have our best interests at heart.

My mother fell ill with a viral infection after my former pastor ordered her to leave the house we shared with another minister, knowing we had no place else to go, and didn’t offer alternative lodging.  We stayed in our car the winter of 2006 and that’s when she became sick.  She went to the hospital and was prescribed an overdose of antibiotics, which in turn caused  Clostridium difficile, also known as C. diff, which is a severe inflammation of the colon, often resulting from eradication of the normal gut flora by antibiotics.^[3]

During her stay in the hospital, several of the members of our home church paid a visit, but our pastor never called or came by.  My mother wasn’t even put on the prayer list until she was released from the hospital 11 day later.  Considering my mother had served as a pastor, evangelist and intercessor at that church for over 10 years, I believe that this was a travesty, and should have been a signal to her to leave.  Members were still calling and asking her for prayer while she was in the hospital, too sick and too weak to walk, and yet when she was in her hour of need, the church as a whole was no help to her.

I tried my best to get my mother to leave that place, but she chose not to and to this day is still a member.  She has continued to go through trial after trial and I yet she remains, but this experience change me forever.  I began to realize it isn’t just the fact that you serve the Lord that’s important; it’s the people you serve with.  I had already severed all ties with that church before my mother’s illness, but her refusal to separate herself from that place after the illness caused me to sever ties from my mother’s church as well.  I knew it was time to go my own way.

When I moved to Chicago in the summer of 2007, I was in need of a change and completely disillusioned.  I needed to be in a place that wasn’t so  hostile… where I could feel the love of family… where I could heal.  I needed “home”… but can you really ever go “home” again?

Well, suffice it to say that “home” wasn’t exactly the way I envisioned it, but it was a real education.  I’ve written about some of my experiences there in earlier blog posts… being hit by a car while walking across the street… the estrangement with my father and other members of my family…  my experience teaching… it wasn’t exactly the welcome I was hoping for, but I did learn how to manage myself.  I developed “equipoise”, a much needed state of equilibrium that taught me how to counter the extremes of that city, the experiences I’d had in the last 13 years of my life and the extremes in my faith… the differences between what the word of God says and the what I had experienced in today’s “New and Improved” Christianity.  In this very hostile environment, I found MY faith… my very own tried and true faith that has sustained me and has indeed, made me stronger.

At the beginning of this post, I defined “tempering” as, “to make stronger or more resilient through hardship, toughen.”  I can see with all certainty that I have been tempered.  What did not kill me, has indeed made me stronger and I will “I press toward the mark for the prize of the high calling of God in Christ Jesus” (Phil. 3:14)

As Our Worship Goes... So Goes Our Work

Well, I went to church on Sunday for Easter Service, and it was really interesting. At first, I was a little afraid. Afraid of seeing my former pastor again, since the last time I saw the pastor, it really wasn't all that great, however, it really wasn't that bad. I was shocked at how dead the service was. The praise team started with joy, at least a little, but ended on a real sour note. The service never took off at all and I was really very disappointed. The pastor's message was off, I was really shocked. It looks like I left that church at just the right time. The soloist was ok, but just ok. The way I heard others rave about how good they were, I was shocked to see just how mediocre they were. Their voice was strained, they didn't know how to use the mic (how to move it back and forth from the mouth to control how forcefully their voice came across) it was just really sad to see how bad it was. More importantly, there was no feeling behind the words. Sometimes that's actually more important than the persons ability. The pastor's attempt at preaching was dismal at best, and I'm not talking about their delivery. It was the point she was trying to get across... there wasn't a clear one. The point was convoluted... AND the delivery was choppy as the pastor stumbled over words and at times laughed nervously. It was a real train wreck.

Now my reason for bringing this up and writing about it was to make a greater comment on the state of the church as a whole. What I saw at my former church On Easter Sunday (Resurrection Sunday to some) is pretty much indicative of what I've seen in the church as a whole today. I've been to several churches, in several states, and seen the same thing repeatedly. As the quality of worship and teaching diminishes, so does the ability and expectations of its congregants.

I believe that there is a direct correlation between the intensity and quality of the worship/word we experience in our spiritual lives, and the intensity and quality of the work we produce in our daily lives. Both require passion. One cannot produce anything of value without it. It saddens me to see leaders in the Body intentionally leading their congregants to less passionate, and sometimes downright depressing worship and understanding of the word. Life is depressing enough. We need our worship to transcend the evil and mundane nature of this life. To shed the “grave clothes” of humanity and come into the presence of our Heavenly Father and enter into “His courts with praise.” Not doing so diminishes every aspect of our lives.

Instead today we see the church becoming stratified... by denomination, by class, by race, by gender and a host of other variables that have absolutely nothing to do with God. The Easter service I attended reminded me of what my students in Chicago talked about when they would report to me on Monday morning, what had gone on in their Sunday services. The inaccuracy of the teaching they received, or in some cases the lack of teaching all together. It was very disheartening to see, especially as the behavior of the students became more and more erratic. It seemed the greater the need for good teaching, the worse it got.

As I looked and listened to the pastor struggle to try to pull together a sermon, and the praise team struggle with the only job they have, to lead the congregation into worship, I began to see that my leaving my former church was the best thing I could have done. I DID “obey the prophet”, by that I mean the visiting Apostle, when I stopped attending that church. That I would be just as empty and hollow as many in that church have become... with a form of godliness, but without any of the power thereof, if I had stayed.

I thank God that He communicates with His people. That If we listen and obey, we will always be prepared for what is to come. That He prepares all those that He calls... even when we don't know it. That if we listen to that “still small voice” and move in faith, we will always be where we need to be, when we need to be there and equipped to do what we need to do, no matter how unqualified we (and the rest of the world for that matter) think we are.

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Know your history... because it knows you!

One wouldn't think that a blog dedicated to the arts, culture and religion would be interested in U.S. History, but nothing could be further from the truth. History is the foundation of culture. Everything that we see and do and who we are, has its foundation in the past, whether we know it or not. This is why today's blog entry is entitled, “Know Your History... Because It Knows You”. We are formed by our history.

Now, you may wonder, “What has U.S. History got to do with me?” Especially if your family recently immigrated to this country or if you are unaware of any personal historical connections. Well, it has a lot to do with you. Speaking personally, I wasn't aware of any historical connections between my family and the history of this nation, except for the fact that a portion of my ancestors where slaves in the south. For a long time, I believed that was the only connection. I've recently come to find out that this is not true.

I was born in Chicago, Illinois in the late sixties, to parents who are 0 and 1 generation removed from the south. My mother was born in Chicago, but her mother was born in Columbus, Georgia and my father was born in Talladega, Alabama and moved to Chicago when he was 17. These facts were known to me for most of my life, however, I didn't realize how Chicago, the place of my birth, factored so prominently in my southern ancestry and would alter my future in California. I had to move back to Chicago in order to find the connection.

December 24, 2000, my mother and I started a church called, Agape Love Fellowship International Church in Hyde Park, a community in South Los Angeles. My mother was pastor (and still is) and I was support staff and “Jane of all trades”. We rented from and shared facilities with Hyde Park Congregational Church, a now defunct member of the Congregational Church, a denomination who is deeply rooted in American Abolitionist History and this is where my past and present began to connect.

We shared facilities with Hyde Park Congregational Church from Christmas eve, 2000 to November 2006 when the property was bought by another church. During our tenure there, I was fortunate enough to develop a relationship with its pastor, Pastor Kringle, read some congregational materials and really develop a relationship with the church. Now you might ask, “how does one develop a relationship with a church?”, and I do mean “the church”. My connection with Hyde Park Congregational was deeper than just my fondness for Pastor Kringle or the building. The church became a second home for me. Sometimes more of a home then where I was actually living. I spent many hours there, reading, in communal prayer, on the altar singing praise or alone just talking to God. The church seemed to embrace me at a time when I really needed to feel like I belonged somewhere. I knew as soon as I walked into the sanctuary, that I belonged there. When the building was sold, I was devastated and I missed the altar terribly. We were not able to find another facility to have services and Agape wound up having services at different members homes and the park for over a year; however I left Agape Love Fellowship International Church December 25, 2006, exactly six years after our first service.

December 25, 2006 began a year of exploration and movement for me. On that day, my mother became ill, and I knew it was something more serious than a cold. I knew that I had to step away from Agape, and venture out on my own, for my own benefit as well as for my mother's and that's exactly what I did. The first six months of 2007, I hopscotched from job to job, from Los Angeles to Chicago, from ministry to teaching. But before I left Los Angeles, I met someone whose family history would connect with the history of this nation, with abolitionism, inadvertently with congregationalism and to some degree, with my history and what I would experience in Chicago.

I met Danielle Crothers January or February of 2007. She was the girlfriend of my friend's son. While having a chance conversation with her boyfriend, I discovered that she was the descendent of Abolitionist, John Brown. For those of you who don't know, John Brown led a small band of abolitionists, black and white, who attacked an arsenal at Harper's Ferry in the state of Maryland on October 17, 1859. Brown and his band of men, waged war against the institution of slavery and the attack on the arsenal at Harper's Ferry was just the first of many battles the group planned. One might call it the first unofficial battle of the civil war.

Danielle Crothers,

Descendent of John Brown

John Brown,

Led raid on arsenal at 

Harper's Ferry, 1859

At the time of my meeting with Danielle, I simply thought, “How cool! It must be nice to know that your related to someone who fought and gave his life to a cause that drastically changed this nation.” I didn't immediately make the connection between Brown and congregationalism, but the information stayed in the back of my mind.

June 14, 2007, after arriving at work about an hour early, I was sitting in the roof-top garden of the highrise I worked in, and while dreading the thought of going in and crying uncontrollably, I had an epiphany. I didn't have to go in, or stay at that job, or for that matter stay in California. I picked up my cell, called my father and booked a flight and a rental car. By 2:30 that afternoon, I was on a plane to Chicago.

Once I landed in Chicago, it seemed as if the city was happy to see me. I picked up the rental car, and drove all night. I hadn't lived in Chicago since I was twelve, and hadn't visited in twelve years, yet I immediately knew my way around. I stopped at Michael's North, a diner that used to be on the corner of Clark and North Ave., and was greeted by a friendly, quirky wait staff, and a sign posted over the register that read, “I know my thoughts towards you , of peace and not evil, to give you a future and a hope.” This quote from the book of Jeremiah, really resonated with me. To me, it meant I was on the right path. God confirming that my seemingly impulsive move was in fact me being lead, back to the city of my birth.

My time in Chicago was a real education. I call it Jesus Univ., because it seemed everywhere I went, I learned something about my history, the city's history or Illinois' role in this nation's history, specifically, the Civil War. While preparing reading lessons for my students, I found papers written on the abolitionist movement in Illinois. While attending a classical concert at the Chicago Cultural Center, I stumbled upon a photo of the First Baptist Congregational Church of Chicago, which was formally the First Congregational Church of Chicago, a stop on the Underground Railroad. While doing some personal research at the Chicago History Museum, I stumbled upon The Manual of the First Congregational Church of Chicago which was written in the 1870's. This document included the original statement of faith for the Chicago church and the scriptural foundation for the churches beliefs and structure.  About a year later, while doing some genealogical research at the Newberry Library, I stumbled upon the pastor's sermon at the Quarter Centennial of the First Congregational Church of Chicago which was celebrated May 21^st and 22^nd, 1876. This document, along with the manual, were absolutely earth shattering for me. Pastor Goodwin's sermon gave me goose bumps as I read it because he was speaking of things and recounting experiences that he had over a 130 years ago but were almost identical to what I had experienced at the Hyde Park Congregational facility in Los Angeles and teaching on the west-side of Chicago, just a few blocks from where the First Congregational building still stands. Pastor Goodwin's sermon recounts how a committee from First Congregational Church of Chicago had been instrumental in counseling President Lincoln before he wrote the Emancipation Proclamation. And all of these events took place during the celebration of Lincoln's Bicentennial.

These events and others, coupled with the social changes I began to see in Chicago and had seen in L.A. before I left, caused me to think about the significance of having met Danielle in 2007. Was there a connection between who she was related to, the church I had grown to love and my “accidental” findings in Chicago? Was there any significance in the timing of our meeting, my move to Chicago and Lincoln's Bicentennial, or was it all just coincidence? Personally, I don't think so. The last three years, 2008 through 2010, were some of the most socially, economically and politically volatile in our nation's history. We've had culture wars, military wars in Iraq and Afghanistan, an economic collapse, the rise of the Tea Party and our first African American President, who just happened to be from the Land of Lincoln, Illinois. We've had the rise of Sarah Palin, Rush Limbaugh, Fox News and a myriad of other opinion Journalist more interested in agitating the masses than educating them by communicating unbiased facts. We've had controversies within the Christian Right and conflict between those who believe and those who don't.

Each of these factions believe their rights are more important that any other, and have stooped to the most base communication and behavior. If ever there was a time for those who have fought the hardest and given the most to speak to from the past, to remind us of their sacrifice, and to warn us of what could be in our future if we don't adjust our course, it's now. As a descendent of former slaves, born in the “Land of Lincoln” and connected by association the Congregational Church, I feel a special responsibility to be aware and diligent in protecting the liberties that were bought and paid for with the blood of those who came before me. Black and white, men and women, young and old, saints and sinners, have given all for the rights I enjoy. So maybe, the chance meeting of two descendents, the seed of the Abolitionist and the seed of the slave, was the universe's way of saying, “Remember where you come from, who you come from and what we were willing to give so that you might exist. Remember what we fought for, and don't let our sacrifice be in vain. Remember the unity and brotherhood we enjoyed and be emissaries of that brotherhood in your time. Know your history, because we knows... and love you.”

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