Art (and other things) as the Continuance of the Incarnation

"Surely I will not come into the chamber of my house, nor go up into my bed. I will not give sleep to my eyes, or slumber to my eyelids, until I find out a place for the Lord, a dwelling place for the mighty God of Jacob." Ps. 132:3-5

The desire of David expressed here should be the desire of us all, i.e., to give the Almighty a residence amongst men. Having been indwelt by the living God (II Cor. 6:16-18), it should be our goal (whether in preaching or evangelism, art or service) to manifest in our mortal flesh the God who is there. Our lives (regardless of our personality or talents, occupations or preoccupations) are to be a continuation of the Incarnation. Too often our words and witness, our worship and work, are about the manifestation of maxims and moral lessons, or (perhaps what is worse) ourselves. As good as maxims and morals may be, they are not the best thing, the needful thing. What people need is not platitudes, but rather a holy God and His forgiveness; and if that is not what we are manifesting in whatsoever our hands find to do, then we are merely wasting time.
"Sir, we would see Jesus," said the Greeks to Philip at Passover (John 12:20-21). That is the key: to make Jesus "see-able". As temples of the Holy Ghost (I Cor. 6:19-20), all that God is is ours, and we are being transformed into His holiness (II Cor. 3:12-18; I Pet. 1:13-16), into Christ-likeness, which is God-likeness. Such an internal activity cannot and should not be hid, but we try anyway. What bushel is there that we have not tried to utilize in hiding the light of God within us? Some even have been utilized in the name of making the light brighter! Oh, how we fail! But grace is greater; grace is constant; and grace will not be satisfied until the work is finished (Phil. 1:6). And herein is the work: to build a dwelling place for the mighty God, to make the place where men can see Him face to face. Whatever we say (from the pulpit or the streets), whatever we do (from the feeding of the poor to the writing of the poem), all is to be done for the glorification and manifestation of God to men.

-Jon Vowell

The Marriage of the Living and the Dead (Or, A Reply to a Rant, and a Realization)

The Inklings (esp Tolkien and Lewis) did not see fantasy as an escape from reality, but as a way to get at Reality so that we can see reality better. Lucy and her siblings didn't stay in the wardrobe forever. They came back to war-torn England, and that is the point: not to stay in wonderland, but to come back from it and use what you learned there in the "real" world. Tolkien knew this incredibly well; that is what the whole "Scouring of the Shire" was about. What was the point of going through the salvation of Middle-earth if you can't even go back and save the Shire in the end? My final claim will always be that fantasy (insofar that it takes us to Reality) is more real than reality as it is given to us.

However (da da dum), I have come to a realization. I discovered (just yesterday) that, in regards to literary pursuits (and not necessarily spiritual or intellectual pursuits), I am not a student of Lewis (gasp!). I am, in fact, a student of Tolkien. Here is why:
Though the closest of friends, Tolkien and Lewis fundamentally disagreed on a philosophical level that influenced their fiction. Lewis was a firm Platonist. In his mind, there is the "real" world, and then there is the Real world, a transcend realm of abstract ideals by which the "real" world has its being (insofar as it "partakes" of the Real world, i.e., a tree's "treeness" is determined by how much it "partakes" in the ideal Tree of the Real). The Real world is the "magic," and the only way to get to that world is by a transportation (or, as Lewis put it, a "transposition") into it: so the kids had to go through a wardrobe (or a train station, or a picture, etc.) to get to Narnia; so Elwin Ransom has to go to another planet in the Space Trilogy. In order to get to the Real, one had to escape to the Real. As a Platonic Christian, Lewis saw the Real as God, and one must escape to Him in order to get to Him (and, conversely, bring Him back into this world, such as in That Hideous Strength). Though the "magic" (the Real) can be brought back to this world, it is fundamentally separate from the world.
That is where the two part. Tolkien was (in contrast to Lewis) a staunch Aristotelian. To him, all things are made up of two elements: the accident and the substance, i.e., the outward manifestation and the inner disposition. It is similar to Platonism in that there is a "real" and a Real, and the "real" has its being insofar as it partakes of the Real. The difference, however, is that, in Aristotelian thought, the Real is not separate from the "real." On the contrary, it is intimately a part of its being. Everything is substanced with the Real, although its outward manifestations may differ (all trees look different, but they are still all trees). Thus, in Middle-earth, everything is substanced with the music of the Valar. The "magic" is not a fantasy world you escape to; it is in the "real" world, in the now, in varying degrees (with evil being that which completely rejects it). It is not merely abstract; it is concrete as well. That is why in the LOTR (both the books and the movies) it all seems so real. You feel like you are reading/watching ancient history (or something you wished was history), not merely a fantasy. The "magic" is (and this is the amazing thing) not seen as magical. It is just there, simply a part of reality, all reality, including the good and the bad (for the music of the Valar knows both joy and sorrow, from the majestic trumps of Manwe, to the mournful horns of Ulmo; and all are beautiful because they are of the music). Tolkien did not like that Lewis made the Real, made the "magic," something separate that you had to escape to and bring back. In his mind, the Real/"magic" is (and forever has been) in the world and a part of the world right now, as real as any river or tree, bird or beast, man or woman.

I (as I discovered yesterday) hold to the latter. Reality is not something that is completely separate from us that we have to "get at" and bring back. It is with us right now, as we speak, in this very room; Immanuel, i.e., God is with us. The Fall marred the world's ability to present it, and muddled our vision to see it; but it is not totally silent, and we are not completely blind. We catch a glimpse of glory every once and a while, a stab of joy here and there. Christianity has always believed in the sacramental, that God is enmeshed with as well as independent from creation, that the finite can (and does) contain the infinite. As a Christian (esp. as a Christian writer), I believe this wholeheartedly.
And I find this exciting, because as a writer in love with the fantastic, I find myself struggling to tell my story so that it can find relevance and be taken seriously in a world dominated by Realism (which I do not despise like I used to, but that is another story). In a unexpected move, God pointed me to someone I had set on the back burner in my mind, i.e., Tolkien. Of course, the unexpected is typically God's modus operandi.
Perhaps an argument can be made that the Inklings "copped out," that they chose to attack modernity from the outside instead of engaging it from the inside (like Elliot or O'Connor). Perhaps you can say that about them all, except for Tolkien. I here proclaim that he (as best as I understand it) was a true paradox: he was a Fantastic Realist, i.e., his Aristotelian philosophy allowed him to create a realist fantasy! He found (or was found by) the secret to bridging fantasy and realism, to the marriage of the living and the dead: sacramental theology makes the "magic" real--not idealistic, not fluffy, not abstract, not disconnected, not contrived, not naive; but actual, dense, concrete, relevant, mysterious, and ancient. The key to making a realist fantasy is, not to escape to a magical world, but to live in one.

Amusing (a response to snobbery)

I've heard some people say, "Such-and-such or so-and-so is my muse!" I find it quite charming, and envious, because I can make no such claim as of yet. However, having been raised in churches that contained rather hard and constricted conservative environments, I can always predict the possible reaction of my church brethren to such phrases and ideas. "Only God is my muse!" How very Corinthian of them to say so; and though I certainly damn idolatry as sin, I equally damn such statements as snobbery.
Of course, I vehemently deny the necessity of middlemen. As a good Baptist, I hold firmly to freedom for immediacy. However, as a good Protestant, I also hold to the sacramental capacity of the physical world, that the "finite can contain the infinite," as Luther said. People, places, things, ideas, and all kinds of nouns can be bound up with the presence of God and used to convey that presence to the world. Whether it be a sunset or a song, a circumstance or a sibling, all things can be swept up into Him and used for His purposes.