Visio Divina

Even the Stones Cry Out
Digital painting with photo collage
By Lauren Wright Pittman
Inspired by Luke 19:28-40

When I began this image, I wanted the medium to be the message. Initially I thought I might make a mosaic of stones, however, I was wisely encouraged by my colleagues to try photography and digital collage. I went out into my side yard and picked up rocks to take pictures of them. As I quickly scanned for interesting rocks, I was underwhelmed by what I was seeing. I had already decided that the rocks were going to be dull and boring. My color enthusiast self was annoyed by the prospect of dusty neutral tones and minimal contrast.

This was an interesting place to begin my process, considering the text I was working with. I was definitely underestimating what the rocks would have to offer the piece, and was preemptively disappointed about the mundane color schemes and textures I would have to work with from my photographs. Gosh, was I wrong. As I downloaded the images and began to edit them, a wide spectrum of color came into view. Most of the hues were entirely shocking and unexpected: periwinkle, magenta, turquoise, mauve, rust, orange, gold, and plum, just to name a few. It was as if God was saying to me, “See, even if you turn a blind eye, and your assumptions distract you, the stones will cry out.”

In this piece there are three stones bordered in gold to reference the voice of God, the truth that will not be quelled. Down the sides of the image are the Pharisees or the “silencers” in postures of quieting judgment. My hope was for the silencers to be completely visually enveloped and drowned out by the stones. I left the silencers simplified and unfinished to signify that their attempts at diminishing the truth would ultimately and always be in vain.

—Rev. Lauren Wright Pittman

Let There Be Light
Paper lace banner designs
By Hannah Garrity
Inspired by the Year B Revised Common Lectionary texts for Advent

Let there be light. The birth of the cosmos intersects with awaiting Jesus’ birth this Advent. As a team, we were particularly drawn to the image of light shining in the lectionary texts this season. As with every year, Jesus’ impending birth brings the light of hope to humanity. In the book of John, I imagine the poetic blend of the beginning of time and the beginning of Jesus’ tenure as a burst of light from the swirl of the cosmos. In this banner design, the biblical texts for the four Sundays of Advent are represented in four quadrants of the two banners. The upper left quadrant depicts the first Sunday of Advent with patterns representing service, sorrow, lineage, and embrace intersecting with light rays shining forth from a center image of galactic motion. The lower left portrays the second Sunday of Advent with images of sacred relationship, Holy Spirit, and baptism. For the third Sunday of Advent, the upper right quadrant shows designs surrounding the ideas of paths becoming straight, praise and righteousness springing up, and God crying for humanity. The fourth Sunday of Advent is in the lower right quadrant; it incorporates patterns of angels, hands of God, and exaltation, all weaving among the rays of the light and hope that the newborn Jesus will shine into the hearts of the world.

—Hannah Garrity

Raise Your Head
By Lauren Wright Pittman
Inspired by Luke 21:25-36

In the past, I have met this text and spiraled out in my own grief and anxiety. Previously in my reading, these apocalyptic signs pointed to my own smallness, fragility, and mortality, stirring up fear and confusion. This year, however, for me these signs boldly point to the unfathomable, overwhelming greatness of God. This text feels massive, and it invites us into this Advent season in a thundering fashion.

Jesus says to respond to these apocalyptic signs with staggering hope and confidence. When it feels like the very foundations of the heavens are crumbling, we are to stand up. When the roaring sea and the waves confuse us, when the sun, moon and stars come tumbling out of the sky, we are to raise our heads. When the news cycle feels like an endless fire hose, people pour into the streets in protest, families are separated, and fires blaze through neighborhoods, we are to stand up and confidently usher in and claim the redemption that God promises.

Just as the trees signal the changing of the seasons, these signs will prepare us for the coming of Christ. Instead of getting lost in the worries of this life, stand up, raise your head, and get lost in the fact that this expansive, infinite God is drawing near to you. Choose to get lost in wonder.

—Lauren Wright Pittman

Pentecost
Paper lace banner designs
By Hannah Garrity
Inspired by Acts 2:1-21

These two designs, inspired by Pentecost imagery in Acts 2:1-21, capture the energy and wildness of the Holy Spirit let loose like a wildfire and poured out like water upon all people. The left panel is inspired by the feelings of fear and terror those gathered must have been felt when fire and wind swirled into the room. A figure is dwarfed by fiery line, shape, and pattern. The motion of the lines are inspired by the sending forth and pouring of God’s Spirit. Within the windy fire, patterned images of flames, dreams, darkened suns, and blood red moons emerge, drawn from Joel’s prophecy of the last days.

—Hannah Garrity

The Promise
Acrylic and gold leaf on canvas
By Lisle Gwynn Garrity
Inspired by Mark 16:1-8

Just after sunrise, they come to the tomb. They come to do what far too many cannot do in the wake of COVID’s rage—to touch and anoint the body of their loved one, to provide a proper burial, to honor the life lost with a memorial. However, the women at the empty tomb are left with what many who are grieving today are experiencing—dread and terror. Mark's gospel originally ends this way (we believe verses 9-19 were added later). Not with Mary running to tell the disciples, not with exuberance and joy, but with fear and silence. The women are numb.

How could it be this way? Who stole the body? Did we come to the wrong tomb? Jesus is going where? Galilee? How?

The young robed man’s words probably feel like a mirage induced by their grief or lack of sleep—or both.

In this painting, I imagine what the women see in the moment before they turn to flee from the tomb. Instead of the dry, cracked desert, I imagine instead that they see the story of creation happening again before them. As the horizon breaks open, I imagine light and wind sweeping over a deep sea, giving shape to what was once a formless void. I imagine the heavens blooming like an iris, giving birth to glimmers of radiance. I imagine darkness that still lingers—for in these shadows, there is sacredness too. I imagine the winding path they followed to get to the tomb, previously lit only by starlight, now illuminated with promise.

They may be overridden with fear and trembling, but their story does not end here. There is a way forward. In this liminal space, once again, God proclaims that their fear—this new, uncertain way—is still held within the promise of resurrection. For this, I believe, is the promise of this life: that the story of creation happens again and again.

—Lisle Gwynn Garrity