There is great enjoyment in staking my sign in front of the storage unit down on highway 28; setting my handcrafted items and myself out to wait for a soon "passer by" to pull in, wanting to gander, perhaps gab, question, bargain and/or buy. While sitting for a particularly prolonged period of time, without a soul stopping, I began to wonder if maybe the sign had become ineffective. Maybe folks are only focusing on the road in front of them, I thought. Or was it the fact that they found no interest in the "Unusual, Unique, One of a Kind" items? Maybe it is the unsavory looking fella with a straw hat, blue handmade shirt, plopped in a folding canvas chair, sitting alongside the road? The silliness of irrational thoughts of trying to read the drivers of many cars led me to begin a bit of empirical research. I began counting cars, as well as, how many drivers even slightly turned their heads my way. Wow! Most! But only for a second.
It was some time later I may have found a significant contributing factor to my self questioning. After a husband and wife pulling in and we began to converse, they shared they had a glimpse of my "stuff" but had already passed the turning point. They had gone down the road, turned around and came back. Well, I'm glad they did, because they had a chance to experience those pieces of interest. I had, once again, found myself in my "element," forgetting all the maundering of empirical research and the like.
In thinking about this instance I realize the vast amount of joy I gain in other's pleasure of experiencing these pieces of my creations. The same dynamic never happens in the galleries or art stores where my pieces are shown. In fact, I was reading that gallery statistics report the average time a person spends looking at any particular work of art is three seconds. That's a bit disheartening to me. I can't imagine it isn't to other artists, curators and owners of stores, also. Maybe that's the why I have an affection for street shows where the buyers are actively engaging with my creations. I think it would have been interesting to hear the thoughts of the St. Petersburg curators who watched as Henri Nouwen sat before Rembrandt's Return of the Prodigal Son for more than four hours.
I ask myself, though, "Bill how often are you like the three-second 'looker-on' than the captivated Nouwen, moving through your days with eyes barely open?" How often am I surrounded by creative mastery but unaware and unseeing—missing, in absence of the bigger picture? One of my favorite poems is: Flickering Mind which begins by stating, "Lord, not you, it is I who am absent."
I've heard sermons that declare the parable of the prodigal son to be typically understood as a story that speaks to those who have wandered away in belief or obedience, content, at least for a time, in being absent. It is a phrase used in religious and other settings, as well, to speak to the black sheep and wayward souls of this world. I've heard others, through their pain and suffering on hospital and hospice bed, claim the title more personally to explain a specific time in their lives - a time of testing the waters, turning away from home or upbringing, experimenting with life or faith or philosophy. It is a parable that at one time or another has described me. I'm questioning if it is also a parable that describes me daily. In the daily struggle to see, in the constant battles for my attention and distraction. Is it a daily effort to be present and conscious in my place? Do I come and go like a prodigal?
The story as Jesus tells it explains that the wayward child had a plan for returning to his father's house: he would confess his sin against heaven and against his father, and then he would ask to be treated as one of the hired servants. He would work his way back into his father's life. But the father in the story doesn't even give him a chance to fully present the offer. Upon seeing his son, he says to his slaves, "'Quickly bring out the best robe and put it on him, and put a ring on his hand and sandals on his feet; and bring the fattened calf, kill it, and let us eat and celebrate; for this son of mine was dead and has come to life again; he was lost and has been found.' And they began to celebrate." With every symbol of restoration, the father who was waiting, embraces the prodigal child.
Reading, once again Nouwen's pen, I understand how gripped by the intensity of the massive painting before him, he must have been, writing, found himself becoming "more and more part of the story that Jesus once told and Rembrandt once painted." Yet in Rembrandt's painting there is no indication of the father eagerly rushing out to greet his wayward son as it is described in the Gospel of Luke. Rather, I find stillness and the parable's characters at rest. For me, studying the Rembrandt painting, my "flickering mind" is slowed to a scene that captures a thousand words for this daily situation of mine: "Lord, not you, it is I who am absent." In this scene, the son has returned, and he is kneeling before his father in his ragged shoes and torn clothes exactly as he is: the one who insisted upon defining himself apart from his father, the one who was absent. But in pursuit of life beyond his father, the child lost sight of life itself.
Father, God, thank You for the opportunity to puzzle the pieces of everyday life, one of my favorite poems, Rembrandt's painting, a beloved author's writings and the story of the parable of the prodigal son. Thank You for Your Spirit in conviction; knowing that Jesus is inviting me to slow down wherever I'm at in my scale of faith, to taste and see, to be still and to be present. Help me bear witness to this culture in which I live that You are near; waiting, though they may be putting You off, Who is keeping vigil over our wandering lives and attention-spans, and running in grace toward those who even half-heartedly attempt to be present. Amen
