art.

{St. Peter and St. Mark by Daniele Crespi}

I am a words girl. This much should be clear by now. It is words that move me, story that speaks to me. 

And yet I am drawn to art: to paintings and icons and photographs. 

Deep down, it is all art. The words and the images and the music all represent creativity in its various forms, all gifted to us by an incredibly imaginative Creator. 

This weekend, Jordan and I took some time to visit the Baroque Paintings exhibit at a local museum. 

I want to make this much clear: I am no art expert. I cannot draw, cannot paint, cannot make a stick figure stand up straight in front of a perfectly square house. 

All art -- with the exception of the stuff that looks as though it was puked out onto canvas -- is impressive to me, because it is beyond me. 

I wanted to visit this exhibit not because I have any clue as to what the Baroque period even is or because I have some fantastic critical eye, but because I wanted to be reminded of Italy, of the time spent meandering through cobblestone streets and chilly museum halls. 

But the paintings managed to move me in ways other than through the power of memory. As we studied and observed and read the various paintings' descriptions, I was amazed, both at the detail of the work and at the inspiration that flowed from the artists' brushes. 

The religious art is always my favorite. I love to see the retelling of the nativity story, love seeing Mary represented in such holy ways on canvas. 

But I am learning, and I think have always known, that perhaps all art is religious. It's a concept I'm seeing over and over again in L'Engle's Walking on Water, this idea that all art has been inspired by a greater, more creative power, making it all holy and reflective of His glory. 

I love that concept, love the idea that we are created to sing and to paint and to draw and to write because that's what the Creator did. That's what He calls us to do. 

And in the middle of all of this ancient artwork and beauty, it was a small placard that caught my eye. 

"Art ... must teach the people the truth of faith and religious history not only with words but with painting and any other representation that may excite the minds and feelings of the faithful to venerate the mysteries of religion." 

- The Council of Trent

I have been raised in a simplistic Christian tradition. Our worship is simple. There are no instruments, no set prayers or liturgy, no calendar we adhere to. Our buildings are simple too. I refused to get married in the church building I grew up in because there is no natural light. Cement block, yes. Windows, not so much. It is not a building you would write home about.

For the most part, I am grateful for this beautifully simplistic upbringing, for the Christ and the Christians it introduced me to. 

When I visited Italy in the summer of 2005, though, I was struck by the ornate cathedrals, the massive bell towers and the distinct architecture. I remember wondering if I could ever worship in a place so beautiful, or if I would be too distracted by the fine paintings and stained glass. There was a part of me, too, that questioned such seemingly frivolous decor when so many around the world suffer from poverty, from water that is too dirty to even bathe in, much less drink. 

In the years since then, I've learned that beauty is not a deterrent to worship, that imagination points us toward -- not away from -- a Divine Being. 

Those cathedrals in Italy and the paintings we saw Saturday were designed and painted with a Creator in mind. They were a tribute to the source of all creativity, formed out of love and devotion for the Master Craftsman.

Beauty and imagination and creativity are not sinful; they are not merely frivolous distractions in a dying world. They are, in L'Engle's words, incarnational. When we take part in beauty, when we let our imaginations run wild, we are partaking in the divine.

"To be truly Christian," L'Engle wrote, "means to see Christ everywhere, to know him as all in all."

Saturday, I saw Him, painted on canvas in a quiet corner of a small town museum. It was but a whisper, but I heard it loud and clear.

"There is nothing so secular that it cannot be sacred, 

and that is one of the deepest messages of the Incarnation."

- Madeleine L'Engle

{for some thought-provoking posts on art, check out this well-written blog series.}