more God than artist
I’m breaking the blog rule and putting out a long post, but Wait! I have a good reason and you don’t have to actually finish the blog if you don’t want too which might actually make this one of the shortest blogs I’ve ever written.
I wanted to give an example of a piece of art where I clearly hear/feel God. In fact I’d go as far to say that God used C.S. Lewis to write this. It was more God than Lewis in these words.
Please share one of your favorite art pieces in which you felt God speak! (song, book, poem, painting, ect.) If you can, attach it in your comment post. If not give us the artist name and title of the piece. Maybe even explain when or how God used it. And…thank you in advance for sharing! I can’t wait to hear your favorites! Below is one of my favorites since childhood. If you would like, go ahead and read it. I hope you enjoy it!
And being very tired and having nothing inside him, he felt so sorry for himself that the tears rolled down his cheeks. What put a stop to all this was a sudden fright. Shasta discovered that someone or somebody was walking beside him. It was pitch dark and he could see nothing. And the Thing (or Person) was going to quietly that he could hardly hear any footfalls. What he could hear was breathing. His invisible companion seemed to breathe on a very large scale…
If the horse had been any good—or if he had known how to get any good our of the horse—he would have risked everything on a breakaway and a wild gallop. But he knew he couldn’t make that horse gallop. So he went on at a walking pace and the unseen companion walked and breathed beside him. At last he could bear it no longer. “Who are you?” he said, scarcely above a whisper.
“One who has waited long for you to speak,” said the Thing. Its voice was not loud, but very large and deep…
“Oh please—please do go away. What harm have I ever done you? Oh, I am the unluckiest person in the whole world!” Once more he felt the warm breath of the Thing on his hand and face. “There,” it said, “that is not the breath of a ghost. Tell me your sorrows.” Shasta was a little reassured by the breath: so he told how he had never known his real father or mother and had been brought up sternly by the fisherman. And then he told the story of his escape and how they were chased by lions and forced to swim for their lives; and of all their dangers in Tashbaan and about his night among the tombs and how the beasts howled at him our of the desert. And he told about the heat and thirst of their desert journey and how they were almost at their foal when another lion chased them and wounded Aravis. And also, how very long it was since he had had anything to eat.
“I do not call you unfortunate,” said the Large Voice. “Don’t you think it was bad luck to meet so many lions?” said Shasta. “There was only one lion,” said the Voice. “What on earth do you mean? I’ve just told you there were at least two the first night, and…” “There was only one; but he was swift of foot.” “How do you know?”
“I was the lion.”
And as Shasta gaped with open mouth and said nothing, the Voice continued. “I was the lion who forced you to join with Aravis. I was the cat who comforted you among the houses of the dead. I was the lion who drove the jackals from you while you slept. I was the lion who gave the Horses the new strength of fear for the last mile so that you should reach King Lune in time. And I was the lion you do not remember who pushed the boat in which you lay, a child near death so that it came to shore where a man sat, wakeful at midnight, to receive you.”
“Then it was you who wounded Aravis?”
“It was I.”
“But what for?”
“Child,” said the Voice, “I am telling you your story, not hers.”
(C.S. Lewis, The Horse and His Boy)