spring 2010: light

a creative arts publication of the Gordon-conwell theoloGical seminary community

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SPRING 2010: liGht • 3 2 • KaΛos Connect + Create + Cul t ivate

( pronounced ka-los ) The Greek word meaning “good” or “beauty.”

A creative arts publication of Gordon-Conwell Theological Seminary community.

andene christophersonJohn meinensenior editors

christopher andersondesign editor

patricia anderscopy editor

spring 2010: lightEach issue of the journal will feature the visual and literary artwork of the community in response to a given theme.A list of all contributors can be found on page 31.

on the cover (from left to right)leaf • Kristen Scott

heaven series • Ellie Cho

santuario don bosco • Caroline Chadwell

monumental morning • John Meinen

back covera light study of andy warhol •Caroline Chadwell

contact Kalos [email protected]

Kalos Journal133 Essex St.South Hamilton, MA 01982

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Light can be quite commonplace, really. Light is what we wake up by—whether the sun or a bedside lamp. It’s what we read by, eat by, and work by. All living things receive nutrients from balanced exposure to it. And since we measure all aspects of clock and calendar by light as the earth spins and orbits around the sun, light has the same unswerving regularity as the passing of time.

Actually, light is anything but commonplace. It is extraordinary. It was cre-ated first —its existence a prerequisite for all forms of life. Light’s physical properties sustain, grow, warm, reveal, and guide us all. These attributes given to light embody the very deepest realities of its Creator’s character. Physical light is an emanation of the ultimate and infinite Light of God’s glory. This truest form of light is kalos: it is both good and beautiful and can make things good and beautiful.

So, what does kalos light have to do with the arts? We, as Christ fol-lowers, are to be the salt and light of the world, reflecting into a dark, sin-laden world the light of our Lord. The creative arts have a particular ability to expose darkness and call attention to the light. The emotion of a painting, the poignancy of a poem, or the momentum of a song can break through the limits of routine conversation and lodge somewhere deep in the human soul.

The arts are a vast and textured language that enable us to communicate with all peoples and all cultures in honesty, hospitality, and hope. We need not restrict ourselves to the illustration of Bible stories. We certainly should, at times, illustrate, but art can do more than that. It can illumi-nate. Artists can reveal the character of God alive in our midst, grieving over the world’s brokenness, and rejoicing in the true hope of redemption we have in Christ.

In the last issue of Kalos we hoped that by artfully wrestling with ideas of good and beautiful, we would connect with one another, create thought-ful and enjoyable artwork, and cultivate the Lord’s gifts. Congratulations, community of Gordon-Conwell, you’ve done it! And as we continue creating work of kalos quality, we will reflect the light of Christ onto one another and into the world.

David, that great king and poet, described the Lord God as a “sun and shield.” “In Thy light we see light,” he said. The One who made the sun is the Sun of Righteousness, which arises with healing in its wings. In similar, poetic language, Zechariah, father of John the Baptist, prophesied the birth of Jesus Christ in this way: “The sunrise shall visit us from on high to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death.”

The Bible’s rendering of light, including that of the sun, offers some of the richest insights into the nature and character of God. Obviously, God is not the sun—about that Genesis 1 is very clear. Rather, as the great Dutch theo-logian Abraham Kuyper points out, “The sun is the image in nature of what God is to us in our life….The sun is heaven-high above you, and yet right by you, round about you…he is a power far off and equally close by.” The sun pours out warmth; it colors and illuminates existence; it gives and sustains life. We, as Christians, readily attribute the same to God. But how do we deal with another, conflicting reality: that the sun, just as it gives life, also takes away—that it hardens and scorches, withers and destroys? Is this true of our God, as well? The answer provided by the Bible is a qualified “yes.” The Bible is incredibly wholistic—it unabashedly depicts the tension between light and darkness, good and evil, God’s love and His wrath too. But if the Bible reveals this tension, it is primarily concerned with its resolution—the sending of God’s Son to die in our stead on a cross—that place where light and darkness meet. The good news is certainly not less than this: “The light shines in the dark-ness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”

That same story fills the pages of this journal. Light is not only beautiful—it reveals beauty. Just as it exposes beauty, it also exposes pain. Sometimes, in fact, it is the light that causes us pain. It is a good-but-broken world after all, and broken bones—even in the hands of the most loving doctor—are not eas-ily set. But the story does not end in brokenness and in darkness. The sunrise has visited us from on high, and yes, with healing in its wings. Interestingly enough, one miracle Jesus performs again and again is restoring sight to the blind. And with the invitation, “Come and see,” those who lived in darkness are given the grace to behold the kalos of Light.

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The Kalos Quality of Lightandene christopherson, Senior Editor

Come and See John meinen, Senior Editor

the bible is incredibly wholistic—it unabash-edly depicts the ten-sion between light and darkness, good and evil, God’s love and his wrath too. but if the bible reveals this tension, it is primar-ily concerned with its resolution...

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double rainbow • David Moore

Miss Pat was a missionary to Haiti for 25 years before retiring in her late seventies. Like Noah, she trusted God.

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Cloudgazingby brendan payne

As I contemplatesun andair, the first thingsI feel arelittle blades tickling hands and hair asmy fingers caress verdant locks of grass.Winds whisper sweet nothings in my ears.I drink and drink, drunk on the spring scents.I taste the honeyed air pregnant with spices intimate yet wholly other.I seenothing, not athing butblue and blue andwhite, lily white.Sunlight overflows. I close my eyes.Music rings ‘round and ‘round.My arms embrace the earth.My nose inhales the sky.I sigh with delight.I hear You sayI amson and heir. This is alsomy world.

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foothills • Thomas Henry

This photograph captures the Teton Range, Wyoming. It was taken one late-morning in May as the freezing temperatures were still sustaining snow up high. The Grand (the park’s namesake) can be seen in the background, but the real dynamic portion of this photograph is the light play in the contours of the clouds and foothills. It shows how illumination can empower the seemingly less grand subject.

the light shines in the darkness • Hanno van der Bijl

This picture was taken last summer in a town called Narendra Nagar in the Indian foothills of the Himalayas. While the spiritual darkness is palpably felt in this town, Christians have started a school there called Mount Carmel Christian Academy. This small light has met with intense spiritual warfare but the darkness has not overcome it.


Morning time in the ancient wood. Honeyed waves of light swell and fold and crash the timber through. A breeze chants a sunrise hymn as it glides high through leaf and branch. Rumors of legend and mystery are adrift. The meadows on the hillside erupt in volcanic blossoms; everywhere the soil is preg-nant with the art of the Soul. The sun overhead has left port and is plowing like a ship through the upper ocean, trailing an aurora wake to wake the world. The first of her gentle pulses reaches my check, and I smile. It is no coincidence that Christ was resurrected in the morning time. I see something. It is something I have seen many times before, and yet it is something I have nev-er seen before. It seems to happen this way. What I see is this: a gleam of sunlight reflecting from a drop of morning dew. My mind fills. Perhaps the universe, when it began, was a single drop of light? This drop of light, this baby universe, was then perhaps placed by soft hands into a cradle made completely of mir-rors. In this shiny bed the first-ever miracle occurred: reflection. One drop of light became two drops of light. And two drops became four, and four eight, and eight sixteen, and so on until infinite regress (or more properly infinite progress). Maybe it just so happened that long before the loaves and fish were multiplied by the Word, a single drop of light was multiplied in a cradle of mirrors, which is the Mind. Minds are mirrors. It is right there in our language: “I need to spend some time reflecting.” Minds reflect, and when they do they multiply. Let once a small drop of truth enter the mind, and soon whole universes will sprout there too. Have you ever considered the fact that our most powerful optical de-vices—telescopes and microscopes—employ mirrors? Mirrors let us see what is plain to see, and, if they are used correctly, they also let us see what is not plain

to see. The mind of the saint is the telescope through which I peer deep into the mystery which is God, and that same holy mind the microscope through which I scrutinize what it means to be a me. When I want to reflect, want to angle the mirrors of my mind toward each other and see what might happen, I put on my old boots and go out for a walk. Reflecting is best done while walking because the tru-est truth lives in movement. Without the ever-chang-ing perspective of movement, without the freshness of seeing the same thing from many varied angles, three-dimensional truths have a way of flattening out into two-dimensional doctrines, which is about the difference between holding the sweet girl in your arms and looking at a faded photo. Photos are fine, I guess, but I’ll take the girl thank you very much. Let your constant law be to keep nothing constant. Move. So I walk. On a recent morning, having been so kindly stirred by the sun, I decided to reflect on her for a while. And one became two. Everything on earth owes its life to the sun. Without this source of warmth and light and gravity that rises every morning, planet earth would be a bland rock plummeting through noth-ingness to nowhere. Thank God for the sun. But here is the question: in the relationship between the earth and the sun, why is it that the sun is always giving and the earth is always taking? This is no reciprocal relationship; the sun gives everything and gains noth-ing, while the earth gains everything and gives nothing. How is this fair? But then two became four. Here is the sun, ever giving, ever bright. Here is the earth, ever taking, ever dark. Is it possible that one day long ago a man working wood with his hands looked up at this great self-giving light that illumines the whole world and realized that it is more blessed to give than to receive?


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To where do all fallen leaves go?It’s a question not for leaves to knowto keep the spice of uncertaintythe story of uncertaintythat rejoices over requited lovethat depicts the deepest sorrowleaving the audience asking “Why?”

But is not a cloud a member of the sky?though they themselves will fade, the sky remainsso move when moved, be still when stilledpress on through the unseen wayThe divergent waythat only works to its goodthat only works to its endAll leaves must move, none can stayFor every leaf has no handsin which to hold onto this worldfor they don’t need them to dancejust their feet, just the musicthe immaculate musicthat guides their stepsthat grounds them firmlyFreed from hands they soar by another’s!

So when they let go of all they knowand all they have come to expectthey may just see through the tunnelto the light that has not reached them yetThe glorious lightthat sparkles off their eyes of winterthat shines through the darkest tombthat leaps off the tops of trees in rejoicing spring

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Reflections by ryan Gregg

Autumn Vignetteby John dao

Two leaves entwined dance along a cobblestone pathcaring not what stones their feet touchor on what road they travel forthey are lost in the momentin the fluid momentthat bridges that gaps of realitythat binds them here in blisseven if for so brief a moment as this

The wind follows up at their heelsin silent syncopation keeping the beatas more leaves join the paraderousing others to join in chorusin the rhythmic chorusthat coaxes them from their treesthat bids them gaily where to fallevery leaf just happy it’s there at all

The clouds have funneled and heavens shakethe last storm to be seen for daysThe leaves excited animate with lifeas they know not what’s the reasonthe reason of the seasonthat steps into their heartsthat sends them along the streetnot to shelter but to a melody

The tempo slows down to a crawlthe leaves they now begin to waltzto the conductor’s will they follow the leadfor its in their motion that they find restin the ceaseless restthat calms their spirits’ journeythat reminds them they were once aliveOne and two and three, four, five...Where’s the maestro that directs the flow?


city Globe • Kristen Scott

The shadow of a powerful city pulled into the reflection of my everyday life.

lens: pensacola lighthouse • Bert Hickman

These lenses concentrate light and send it out into the night.


morning dew • Kristen Scott

If the light had struck this leaf in any other way, I may not have noticed the intricacy of God’s creation.


Star Over BabyLandEvery day, twice a day, taking care to avoid the blue plush bear, Walt flooded the tiny patch of sod. It had been a bad burial. The parents wanted to lower the casket themselves, but they mismanaged the ropes, and the casket flipped into the grave. They didn’t visit much, which Walt figured was just as well. BabyLand had maybe twenty small plots in it; two rows of tiny, name-bearing stones. Brittle grass stuck up between and through the pinwheels, stuffed toys, plastic flowers, and little trucks, some of which had been there for years. They had been ripped by mower blades, worn by rain, and baked, as all of BabyLand now baked in the unmoving sun. Walt stared at the recent burial, water gushing from the hose of the tank. When he had bought the new sod, it had been bright green, right off the truck. He had cut it to fit, tamped it, and watered the hell out of it. But the sun had not stopped pressing down, and the sod had shriveled up, the water now running off the hard earth into the inch-wide depression between that sod and the rest of the lawn. Walt pushed the lever and stopped the flow. He grabbed the paper bag from his tractor and pulled the statue out. The Virgin Mother was white, about a foot high, arms spread in welcome, head bowed in prayer. He eased the water back on and held her in the stream of it, washing off the cobwebs and the dirt; she had been in the shed when he bought his house. He placed her in a patch of mulch, facing the rows of graves, water still dripping off her cheeks. He pushed the lever to a fully open position and flooded the sod again.


Cemetery Triptychby mark Jacobson

Private BurialThe sunlight was too bright for Danny, and he hated it. He felt it on his red neck as he bent over and dropped the yardstick into the small, square hole. “Fifteen,” he said. And, “Damn it.” He mashed his face against his sleeve to get the sweat out of his eyes. “Three more,” the foreman said. “Take your time.” Danny slammed a tile spade down into the hole, pulled it out, and slammed it again, breaking up the packed dirt. Sweat flew off his head with each punch of the spade. Then he threw the spade aside, pushed a round-point shovel into the hole, twisted it around, and carefully lifted out another small pile of dirt. The box was hard, black plastic, and the foreman shook it. “Want any Grape-Nuts?” he asked. He was wearing a tie because he was selling a plot later. Danny slammed the spade down again. The sun was burning into his flesh, and he had been to a party the night before, so it was biting his eyes, too. He scooped out more dirt. He dropped the yardstick. Seventeen-and-a-half was good enough. “Let’s plant that son’bitch,” he said. “Got any words?” the foreman asked, and he chuckled. He held the box over the hole and let go. When it landed, he said, “Rest in peace.” The box had settled at an angle, which would make it hard to fill around. Danny got onto his knees, then his stomach, and reached into the hole. He adjusted the box, then let his hand hang down into the cool, damp air at the bottom; the dark. Closing his eyes, he escaped into it. And then he stood back up, mashed his face against his sleeve, and dropped in a shovelful of loose dirt.

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Rise and ShineThe deputy sat on a stone, watching, and wiped his sweat. The thin, metal probe went smoothly down into the dirt, caught up a little in what was probably clay, hit an obstruction, and (push, push) busted through and dropped a clean foot beyond it. The body was there, but the casket was rotted. The crane was driven out of the way; it had been a mistake to rent it. The sod was cut, rolled, and pushed off to the side. One of the diggers jumped into the backhoe and haltingly scraped the grave’s surface. Then again. Then the shovels with measured scoops until the crumbling wood was exposed to light. The backhoe dug itself a ramp, then turned around and bit in under the casket, scooping it and the earth around it into its loader bucket. With a number of small, hydraulic hesitations, the bucket was angled up and lifted; the casket fully disintegrated, and what had been hidden from the light for over fifty years was raised to the sky like a champion. The deputy stared at the body, then spat. The foreman said, “Truth is, they really pumped ’em full of chemicals back then; he’ll last longer than his stone will.” The backhoe reversed up toward the street. There was a bit of a halt as it leveled out, and the body jolted. The jaw opened, then detached. The foreman said,

“There we go.” The deputy puked into a flowering peony bush.


A Morning of Pale Sunby dr. Jeffrey niehaus

Alone, and on a morning of pale sun,I sat before our antique Queen Anne tableTransported from England decades ago;I looked outside, and everything I saw,Surrounded by a blanket of old snow,Encouraged early hope of better days,The warmer days of spring, when ice and snowWould melt and water a softening ground.

For many months I had not taken timeTo use a modern marvel and play music Recorded on another continent,Melodies from an era long agoWhen men wore frock coats and top hats and walkedOn paths outside a very small ViennaOr trod the ways of those Vienna woodsCommemorated, if not made immortal,By Hoffmann’s Tales and music made from them.But now I was alone and I put onA very youthful Beethoven octet,A plaything full of warm sunshine and joy. It showed all the ebullience, and hope,And sense of growing power in the manWho would, one day, bestow upon the worldSuch music as no one had ever known.

I also had an old and faded bookBy Sir Charles Groves, who wrote so thoughtfullyAbout the symphonies of Beethoven.I had begun to read it, and I foundHe wrote of Beethoven as though he wroteAbout someone who was a human treasure

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From whom works flowed that should endure always,Part of a long tradition of great music.Groves wrote to those who stood in that traditionAs auditors, as people who could beEnnobled by the music once composedOn warm Vienna summer days for us.

I saw the shadows of some active branches,Shadows that moved across our Queen Anne tableAs breezes played with them one sunny morningOutside the window of our dining room. Summer had not yet come, yet I sensed promiseOf summer in the angle of the sun,And in the sunny music of the master.

heaven series • Ellie Cho

Etching series of a short metaphorical story of heaven, light, and redemption. The Spirit rains down.The light of heaven crashes down to save you from the pit of darkness. It reaches you, pulls you, and lifts you up. Now you stand cleansed, shameless, and beautiful in the light of His glory.


Moon Lake at Christmas dawnDaystar hope of IncarnationFirst, faint beacon of invasionSin surviving like the darkDeath lingering like the iceYielding to the Sun Whose coming enthrones

Moon Lake Poemsby dr. david currie


essex house • Keith Polischuk

The stillness of the water and the light from the windows remind me of the peace and warmth of home. This was a long exposure lit by a full moon, streetlights, and passing cars.

Goyesque metareflection • Dr. Pablo Polischuk

Metareflection is reflecting about reflections. The light of a full moon (itself being a reflection of the sun) over a village with a church at its center being reflected on a creek, as envisioned idealistically in Goyesque fashion (painted when I was 17 years of age). Just as we worship in spirit, we also, through our senses, invite God’s transcending reality into our trivial endeavors, and with renewed minds grasp God’s immanent light as a re-flected impression.

Moon Lake on a moonlit nightHarvest hinted in the orange lightA glowing globe falling upFrom same-hued treesReflected on quiet watersWhich soon shall freezeA snapshot of this present agePointing toward the endWhen reflections resurrect as realityAnd harvest home was wend.

Moon Lake by morning lightSifted through the bowing maplesRippling with a New Day’s PromiseThat distance does not diminish.Nor death its sunset bring.

Moon Lake through winter mistLight diffused by freezing vaporYielding into falling snowThat both covers and reveals Superficial differences of land and lakeTo reflect more fully the Light to come.

Rude wood of manger and crossTo welcome us to stone-hewn palacesOf grotto stable and empty tombThe surety of the many mansionsPrepared from all eternity

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santuario don bosco • Caroline Chadwell


Darkby caroline smith

I wake up early, I drive to work and it’s dark outsideHere in my heart like outside my window It’s dark as nightIt crept right in like a thief and stole my sun Did I leave the key in the lockDid I slip from the rock that was underneath

Oh, loveDon’t let me stay downHope Don’t leave me aloneGodGod where did you go, where did you go, go I’m losin’ myself, that’s how I feelFrom dawn until nightTil I fall asleep lulled by the liesBut I feel too worthless to fight I know in my head that I’m wrongHe is right here, inside my song butI feel the rain in my heartClouds rolling in making it dark but Here is my prayer, I step down I won’t Listen to lies, I’m gonna listen to you now I’m gonna see myself in the light of you‘Cause I am yours, that is the truth.

May God Ariseby mandy thompson

You weren’t born to lie in darkness, Lord we’re waiting, Lord we’re waiting…We’re waiting for the Son to surface, will You break free, will You break free?And with Your life as an offeringYou came to die so that we can sing

May God ariseFrom this tomb within my chest May this heart of stone be fleshBringing life and nothing lessMay God arise

From what once was dark and coldBringing light so bright and boldMaking newness from the oldMay God arise…

When I am lost in darkness, can you find me, can you find me?I’m waiting for the sun to surface, can you break free, can you break free?And I will bring an offeringFrom my heart now I will sing

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światło • Kevin Antlis

This is a stained glass window in a hotel in Krakow, Poland. The photo was captured during the short “window” of daylight hours in the winter of 2005.

cathedral window • Robin Giberson Lawrenz

A wall hanging in traditional quilting style demon-strating that even in seasons of darkness, God gives us windows of light shining through, offering patterns and meaning in our darkest times.


a light within • Jessica Shirley

An antique lantern sheds light in a dark spiral staircase at Hammond Castle in Gloucester.

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Utahby thomas henry

Straining to keep the weight of my eyelids from drop-ping altogether, I glance down and to the left. The most subtle glow emerges from the east, a direction that we have now been traveling away from for nearly thirty hours nonstop. In the mirror the glow seems fragile yet imminent. My grip tightens and rolls on the wheel as I wiggle in my seat in an awkward attempt to stretch. The darkness of night presses in all around me. Nearly overcome yet victory resting on the hori-zon, a tiny spring of hope begins to bubble. The grade now steepens, and our pick-up groans against the angle. Begging all I can of the truck, I compress the gas pedal to its maximum. The engine complains but pushes on, climbing the contours of a land masked in darkness. Only silhouettes against the heavens indicate the drama of the landscape we are traveling through. Nights in the desert are complex things. Hoodoos, mesas, rounded and treeless knobs and notches cut from ridgelines have emerged in the last three hours—just shapes and figures begging for detail. The stars give only enough illumination to tell of

certain beauty in daylight. Taylor is asleep beside me in the cab. He makes a heavy breathing sound, rolls over and then returns to his effortless dreaming. Worked hard from his shift of driving, I remind myself that his sleep is precious be-cause it was well earned. And in the bed of the truck, beneath the topper, Landon and Alex enjoy their rest as well. Beneath piles of assorted gear and blankets, they sleep insulated from the cold and the weight of this final veil of darkness. We crest the top of the grade that the truck has labored up. From this pass, and only for a split second, I find myself at an incredible divide. Before me, a faint starlit mysterious landscape is spread out. Behind me, the light is faithfully advancing. In my mirror, a patch-work of sand and rock is bathed by a deep blue. And then it is gone. Through my windshield I look downhill. I imagine the sound of the truck sighing in relief. We coast into a wide valley, contained by high and uninter-rupted silhouettes. My eyelids begin to lift. Coasting into the dark, I feel the light in the east. It’s coming; my bones know

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monumental morning • John Meinen

it and my muscles respond by loosening up. My heart beats robustly as blood tingles in my fingertips and in the back of my neck. At simply the prospect of light, my body begins to respond in a vibrant rush. Anticipa-tion dissolves the pains of this final crux, these fading and final minutes of darkness. A great and steady silence begins to resonate. And as surely as the opposite side of the pass had given itself over to the light, definition begins to emerge out of the darkness before me. Featureless shadows resign as rich and beautiful darkened colors fill the shapes of the land. I discover that a deep bot-tomless gorge is cut in a meandering course through the valley floor. The confines of the drainage are vertical slabs of stone, easing off in steepness only at a sandy bench one-third of the way up part of its face. Details are revealed in each moment, and I strain to keep up with them while keeping the truck on the road. Suddenly, it happens. In the upper left corner of my windshield, a wedge of sandstone slab bursts into color. Brilliant pink early morning light illuminates a slice of warm red sandstone. My mirror reveals the

light pouring in through the notch that minutes ago had delivered us into this valley. As the sun rises the wedge of light, as an axe splitting wood, plunges deeper into the sandstone before me. More light streams in through the pass and the entire southern wall of the valley sings with color. The progression of sunrise light ensues, pink giving way to orange. All the while, the light playing joyously off the whitened wisps and darkened streaks of desert varnish painted on the sandstone towering overhead. I would profess at this moment that light has a sound, faint and piercing. Having heard its sound only twice before, it remains a most precious treat. I notice a worn spot of dirt just off the road approaching fast. Applying a bit of assertive pressure to the brake, I veer from the asphalt. The gliding sound of pavement is exchanged for the crunching of frozen dirt and rocks, and the smooth ride of the asphalt is behind us as well. We bounce and jolt for a few moments before rolling to a rest. I turn the key and the engine grumbles to a rest at about the same moment that Taylor, Landon, and Alex grumble and arise.


illuminated • Nicole Rim

I shot this photo of Half Dome while camping at Yosemite, California. As the sun was setting upon the dome, I was reminded of Christ who came into the world as the Light to expose and illuminate the darkness by His Truth.

sunset surrender • Megan Hackman

The sunset forces the surfer to retire his practice for another day. He appears to be bowing in surrender to the light’s passing of time.


Meeting Godby adam rick

Entering the throne room of the Ancient of Days, I am so overpowered by His awesome presence that I am not able to stand. The sheer force of His presence is more than enough to melt the liga-ments in my knees and leave me prostate on the floor. There isn’t much one can do when one stands before the Almighty Creator of all that is, seen and unseen. I can see His robes and His san-dals, and the Glory of His Celestial Throne, though He Himself is obscured by the Righteous Light that radiates from Him with unyielding brightness. I cannot look upon His face. I can sense a smile on His lips as He summoned me personally to appear in His Court, but I cannot verify its actual exis-tence as my eyes only burn all the more fiercely as I attempt to look at Him.

At this point, I have known Him for the ma-jority of my life, but my lowly status as an earthly being—made from the very dust He tenderly crafted particle by particle—has unprepared me for the reality of standing before His Glory. All these things pass before my senses in the amount of time it takes for me to fall face flat on the floor in venerable worship. My will had nothing to do with leaving me this way before Him; it happened, it seemed, automatically the moment I stood before His chair. My face is now pressed against the glossy marble floor, which to my surprise is quite warm—stone floors on earth were always cold. His Power in this Place truly permeates all things. My mind and heart are united in a prayer of fear and expectation-less joy. Yet for all the joy I could not get up. There was too much fear for that. I do not know how long I lay there, com-pletely foolish as I was on the floor, before I felt a soft touch on my back and a gentle whisper in my ear, “My Son, what are you doing there on the floor?” I recognize the voice immediately as it was the first to grace my ears as I passed through the Gates of this Realm. His very Breath in my ear is enough to lift my spirits so that I can answer, “I am afraid, Jesus. I did not know what else to do.”

“You needn’t fear Him like this. I have personally spoken to Him on your behalf.” The words are comforting, yet my face is still flat on the stone floor. “I personally arranged for your time here.” His gentle voice soothes me as no other can, and yet my body is still chained in its prostrate position, though there is nothing physical holding me down so far as I can tell. “I cannot speak to Him, Lord. I have nothing of value to say.” “He wants to speak to you. He told me so, Himself.” I want to believe, but my inaction on the floor speaks for my heart where my lips can-not. Sensing this, He continues, “I didn’t have to say much to persuade Him to invite you here. I assure you; you can rise up and talk to Him.” “I will only appear the fool, Lord.” “Enough of this nonsense!” There is a play-ful gentleness in His rebuke, though it still cuts through my flesh to the bone. “Get up and talk to Him. He wants to talk to you. He waited a long time, just as you have, and I labored long to bring you here. Get up.” I desperately want to heed his kind words—words that He assures me in Spirit are true—but I cannot find the strength to rise from the floor, though it stands personified right next to me. My Lord knew this, as He knows all things. In my

s h o r t s t o r y

members, I sense a strength that is not my own; it is His Spirit moving in secret, guiding me up to stand before His Father. My face is now lifted up, but my eyes are still attached to the floor they left in proximity only a moment before. He knows I lack the courage to look up before I can even demonstrate my weakness in that regard; I feel His finger on my chin, raising my face to His as would my mother to hers in days of old. He stares at me now, His calm look swim-ming straight through the tears that now obscure the lines of my vision and saturate my cheeks.

“Do not fear, my Son. I have brought you here, and whoever I bring to Him, He greets with glad-ness of Heart. Now is the chance I know you’ve been waiting for. Speak.” Somehow, that hidden Strength that brought me from the floor overwhelms the defenses of my beleaguered will and, with tears fading, I turn toward the Seat. I can see His face now. It is surrounded in Glory and Light, but it is not blind-ing as it was before; I can see the warmth of His face clearly. His eyes are clear and piercing, yet tender in their gaze. His cheeks are flush and full of warmth and life. His lips form a crisp and subtle smile. It is a face more beautiful than the very Heavens themselves. At this point, as my Lord promised me, all my fear retreats before an army of power that moves in my being but is not of it. I now have more to say than I believe there time to say it. Again, He knows this thought before I do.

“He is eager to hear your whole story. He could barely contain his excitement this morning. Go.” Now, as if all eternity was before me, and there was no sinful impulse to impede the desire to worship in my heart, I begin a conversation

that I know somehow will never cease. Know-ing that I had accepted my Lord’s strength and that it had become my own in some mysterious union, the Father and King spoke as though He intended to start the conversation from the very beginning. In perfect form, He only waited for me to be ready, “Welcome to My Court, child. My Son has testified on your behalf, and his testi-mony is true. Come, sit up here with Me. What shall we talk about?”


Contributor IndexKevin antlis • 20-21Student, M.Div, Th.M.

caroline chadwell • 19, 32Married to Michael Chadwell, student

ellie cho • 15Student, M.A. Educational Ministries

david currie • 16-17Faculty, Director of Doctor of Ministry Program and Associate Professor of Pastoral Theology

John dao • 8 Student, M.Div. & M.A. Counseling

ryan Gregg • 9Student, M.Div.

megan hackman • 27Student, M.Div.

thomas henry • 6-7, 24-25Student, M.A. Theology

bert hickman • 11 Staff, Research Associate, Center for the Study of Global ChristianityAlumnus, M.A. Religion

mark Jacobson • 12-13Student, M.A. Religion

pablo polischuk • 17 Faculty, Professor of Psychology and Pastoral Counseling

robin Giberson lawrenz • 20Admin. Assistant for Humanities and Social Sciences at Gordon CollegeMarried to Jason Lawrenz (student)

John meinen • 24-25Student, M.Div.

david moore • 4-5Student, M.DIv.

Jeffrey niehaus • 14Faculty, Professor of Old Testament

brendan payne • 6 Student, M.Div.

Keith polischuk • 16PhotographerSon of Pablo Polischuk (faculty)

caroline smith • 18 Staff, Admissions RepresentativeMarried to Nick Smith (student)

mandy thompson • 18Former Staff, Housing CoordinatorMarried to Drew Thompson (alumnus)

hanno van der bijl • 7Student, M.Div.

shawn woo • 30Student, M.Div.

adam rick • 28-29Staff, Admin. Assistant, Office of the PresidentAlumnus, M.A. Church History and M.A. Old Testament

nicole rim • 26 Student, M.A. ReligionStaff, Graphic Artist

Kristen scott • 10, 11 Marriage and Family TherapistMarried to Matt Scott (student)

Jessica shirley • 22-23Registered NurseMarried to Matthew Shirley (student)

crosslight • Shawn Woo

This was captured at Chateau de Chillon in Geneva. It depicts a point of beckoning and reckoning, where Christ invites those who are wondering to “come and see” (Jn 1:46).


For as God is infinitely the greatest Being, so he is allowed to be infinitely the most beauti-ful and excellent: and all the beauty to be found throughout the whole creation is but the reflection of the diffused beams of that Being who with an infinite fulness of brightness and glory; God...is the foundation and fountain of all being and all beauty. -Jonathan Edwards

spring 2010: light

Documents

kalos light

light of christ

physical light

truest form of light

infinite light of gods

community of gordon

issue of kalos

things good