Loading Video . . . Author Lancelot Schaubert imaginatively brings to life the dire warning of the prophets in this fantastic short story written based off of Habakkuk 1:6-17. Habakkuk 1:6-17 As Waters Cover By Lancelot Schaubert ​ Credits: ​ Curated by: Rebecca Testrake 2018 ​ ​ Fantasy Short Story Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link ​ By taking the core concepts and images of the pericope and transposing them into a fantasy fiction setting, I hoped to show how invading armies can, in a way, grow into a sort of judgement for one another which leaves the meek to — quite literally — inherit the earth. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection ​ Lancelot has sold work to The New Haven Review (The Institute Library), The Anglican Theological Review, TOR (MacMillan), McSweeney's, The Poet's Market, Writer's Digest, and many, many similar markets. (His favorite, a rather risqué piece, illuminated bankroll management by prison inmates in the World Series Edition of Poker Pro). Publisher's Weekly called his debut novel BELL HAMMERS "a hoot." He has lectured on these at academic conferences, graduate classes, and nerd conventions in Nashville, Portland, Baltimore, Tarrytown, NYC, Joplin, and elsewhere. The Missouri Tourism Bureau, WRKR, Flying Treasure, 9art, The Brooklyn Film Festival, NYC Indie Film Fest, Spiva Center for the Arts, The Institute of the North in Alaska, and the Chicago Museum of Photography have all worked with him as a film producer and director in various capacities. Website Lancelot Schaubert About the Artist Artist in Residence 2019: Lancelot Schaubert - Part 3 Artist in Residence 2019: Lancelot Schaubert - Part 2 Artist in Residence 2019: Lancelot Schaubert - Part 1 Posh Girls Artist in Residence 2019: Lancelot Schaubert Dragonsmaw Daily | 1 Dragonsmaw Daily | 2 Dragonsmaw Daily | 3 Watchtower Stripped to the Bonemeal Metaphysical Insurance Claim 0075A: The Delphic Oracle Philadelphia Bloodlines Lancelot Schaubert Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art “Giving that scythe—” Mar said. He wasn’t listening. She was droopy-eyed and slouching, but beautiful: hoping to haggle for more time to surf. View Full Written Work As Waters Cover by Lancelot Schaubert “Giving that scythe—” Mar said. He wasn’t listening. She was droopy-eyed and slouching, but beautiful: hoping to haggle for more time to surf. Mourners got in the way of that. She cleared her throat. “Giving that scythe statue a present isn’t going to keep you from dying." “Of course it will,” Fard said, eyes still closed, head rising. “Theirs are the ones who slay us, theirs we must pacify.” He bowed towards the silver scythe again. She laughed and shook her head. “If God’s a scythe, we’re in trouble.” “If not, who will save us from invaders?” She asked, “Like when the Tilons finally come?” “Myths,” he said. The field of great stone sickles, a sculpture garden of tall and narrow idols, spread out before them grassy atop the white bonestone crag. “No they’re not,” she said, “they have long teeth and longer claws and pounce silently and fly like the great thunderbirds that swoop down and catch the young swimmers during their training lessons. They–” “Listen to you,” Fard said, “worried about some fairy tale and forbidding me my sacrifices.” He threw more food, more spare change, flung more incense smoke from out of that hanging chain meat smoker he wielded, flinging the growing fog towards the hand-carved representation of a scythe, of the sickleman. “Keep up your surfing and fairy tales if you think it will help our people with the sicklemen, but as for me and my house we will appease them and placate them by all means available to us.” She snorted at him. “You act like they’re demons.” He turned a worried glance her way. His brow darkened. Then he turned back and slung more incense towards the statue. “You think they’re demons?” she laughed. “Bro… this is rich. This is too rich, man. Really?” He muttered, “Do you have a better explanation for a hoard of man-sized creatures, robed in shadow, carrying harvest blades to cut us down and nothing sticking out beneath those black curtains covering them but the tiniest thousands of legs?” One passed by in the overhang. Mar and Fard froze. It passed on to inspect someone else, no sound but the soft fluttering of the blackened cloak like the soft fluttering of the skirt under a king’s long table at a queen’s quiet funeral. “See,” Fard said. “You fear them too. All I want is to liberate our people towards a good life by giving gifts their tyrants desire.” “Sounds boring,” she said. “I’m fine without any of that.” “You have no farm,” he said. “So?” “You don’t have your harvests interrupted by these creatures,” Fard said. “You don’t have entire years wiped out in a moment so that you have to scrape by, year after year, hoping that the collectors won’t come and claim your work, debts called in, leagues and leagues of farmwaves repossessed, and then no money left for… for…” he started to cry a little and tried not to. He started to weep a little and tried to make it a cry. He lost control and it was a messy thing to watch. She remembered his daughter, the great bellowing cough that had developed like the bark of the whale spiders, how much the medicine ran. She’d never connected it before. “Fard, I…” “Don’t,” he said. “One year. One year of uninterrupted harvest and everything will be alright.” “You just need to rest, man. This whole damn planet needs to just relax more: we literally live on or near the largest waves in the known universe and here you’re worried about growing berries on them.” “It’s not the berries. It’s the freedom berries could bring.” She remembered how her mom had come in from the tiger island (each island on their planet was named for a different species of animal – some common to The Vale, some uncommon) and married her father from the ant island. Neither of them knew how to have a good time, at least not in Mar’s experience. Her mother spent most of her time telling stories of how she’d once been the nanny of some famous sea captain who had passed a recommendation along so that she could work on dry land, a recommendation to one of the famous chestdancers, where she worked also as a nanny taking care of those kids and her various household chores and the administrative duties that come with helping the lead of a major island show – all of the logistics of moving sets and costumes by longboat from island to island, it was quite the ordeal. Her father had been no different, though he appeared drastically different. Systems engineer, businessman, the kind of nerdy monotone you only expected from bad actors employing stereotypes about accountants from the ant island. Turns out sometimes stereotypes exist for a reason: a quick representation of realities that do, more or less, exist in the majority of a given demographic. In his case, number scratchers and tallymen from the isle of ants. Mom and dad had married, seemingly different, but ultimately mutually convinced that the best way to raise their daughter was away from a moment’s peace or relaxation. Combined with her naturally phlegmatic persona and rebellious streak, the overenforced environment turned Mar into a runner early on. She never ran far: only towards the nearest breakers and boomers. She wanted to get the rest of the planet to enjoy what she enjoyed: that kind of abiding rest. Not the uncreative idleness of her father — the ant who worked diligently and yet mindlessly. Not the slavish workaholism of her mother. The two had collided enough to separate and she needed not something else, a third way. True rest. And she wondered if the thing she’d seen a year back was an omen. Or a key. “You going to just stand there staring at my worship or are you going to make a sacrifice?” Fard asked. She’d never noticed his muscles before, the scars on his arms. Stronger and more cut up than a farmer. Strong and scarred like the humanoid arms of whatever those insectoid sicklemen looked like beneath. She turned and looked out over the crags, the high places where folks left their best (or lied and said they left their best) for the sicklemen to come and claim. “Well?” he asked again. “Shh,” she said, “something’s moving on the horizon.” He turned from the altar and looked the way that she peered. They both watched as a swarm of something – of many thousands of somethings – descended in the east and sped towards them in a very detail-laden cloud: these were not insects, but monsters. Some sort of large monsters and thousands of them. Fard said, “What in the cutting name of–” “We have to get them into the seacaves,” Mar said and she took off running without waiting for him to respond. “To the caves!” she shouted at a crowd of hilltop shepherds. “Run to the seacaves” she shouted at a group of young women who, until then, had gossiped about suitors and styles and search parties for drowned children. Some glanced her way and scoffed. Others perked up for a moment and then returned to their business. Finally she climbed up on top of a rounded off bonestone and shouted “THEY ARE COMING TO EAT YOU ALL!” while pointing towards the swarms and swarms of winged monster things that had now descended upon them all: massive men and women with hair like antennae and tentacles and red tattoos of cave drawings all over their half-naked forms riding the backs of great red and black-spotted leopards with wings. The leopards dove down to move among them and started grasping up small children within their jaws, the bones and blood of which slathered over the field in a red and debris-ridden foam. The people screamed and moved to hide in the caves in the rocks and holes in the ground, and followed Mar into the seacaves along the great spire of bonestone like a great hornet’s or parrot’s nest, the sort that betrays its hollowness on its porous surface, the sort that normally can only be accessed from the bottom. They dove in as higher and higher up the great bone stone crag, the winged leopard beasts landed to hunt them. They chased them, followed them into the rocks and into the holes in the ground and they left great piles of clothes and limbs in their wake, a ruthless force, and Mar did what she could to get the women and the children and the wimpy men into a safe haven, rally as many of the fighters as she could (there were spare few with the people due to the decade of sickleman oppression) and then went to find Fard. Who was hiding in the shadow of the same statue, praying all the more fervently and sacrificing there on the top of the great crag with the shadows of great winged leopards diving around him to take and eat as they pleased from the flesh of Mar and Fard’s people. Mar opened her mouth but was cut off by Fard. “You’re lazy,” Fard said. He did not rise. “What are you talking about? The Tilons are here, we–” “You’re lazy in your devotion to the sicklemen. They can stop this pain.” “By making more pain.” “Their pain brings the rest we deserve.” “Really?” she asked. “This is not my idea of rest either, Fardome Renoirpe.” “Death is a kind of rest.” “Death is a kind of judgement. “Yes,” he said, “but which of God’s judgements are not also gifts?” The sky cleared around them as the majority of the winged leopards and their riders took to running and hunting and rooting. They had mostly passed over Mar and Fard and the field of the scythe idols. Mar said, “I feel like my mind might break.” “So let it break or go escape to your waves. Or maybe help me bring about liberality to the people with our idols.” “ Your idols. I don’t worship stone.” “Yeah, you just try to manipulate spirits in vain. Enough food and the sicklemen will be gracious — see how they’ve abandoned their homes and storehouses?” “The sicklmen,” she said. “That’s it . How do you know so much about the sicklemen, Fard?” “I know very little.” “Don’t feed me that.” “I know more than some from a more devout devotion, a long obedience in the same direction, that is all.” She picked up his forearms with delicate little hands, surfer hands that had been well seasoned by sun and saltwater and board wax brine. “Then how did these get bigger than a farmer’s in all the weird places? And how did you get scars like theirs?” He eyed her. “Fard?” The noise in the distance of his people dying awoke him. “My father went through the rite early and became a sickleman. He’s one of them and I nearly joined too, but reformed after witnessing what they did to our people.” “And you give money and food to them?!” “I have hope for my father and loyalty to him and hope he has enough sway to have mercy on me and mine. And maybe to free us one day.” “But your mind changes to run like theirs when you go over to them. You become like a giant bug, I hear. Like the giant ants of the island of my father’s youth.” “A man can hope for his father’s redemption. Can’t even a wayward elder change? Can’t God change a leopard’s spots?” She didn’t know if God could change a fingerprint, a snowflake, the spots on a leopard. But these leopards needed a change and quickly. “I don’t know, she said, but I know how to kill these.” “How?” She thought of the omen, the key. “I once saw two sicklemen take two of these down. One with the scythe, one with a mutesheer.” “A mutesheer?” “He cut out the leopard’s tongue when it went to bite him and the thing either bled out or drowned on its own blood, but it wasn’t able to bite. Tell me, where do the sicklemen live?” “We are not to say.” “Where? Fard if you care about freedom for your people, you’ll let me unleash the sicklemen on these things.” “In the deep of the mountain where we ought not to go.” “In the third strata?” “Yes. Beyond the sphere door.” “Help me open it,” she said. “No.” “Fard.” “I won’t. It’ll be the death of us.” “It already is,” she said, “Look around you.” The last of their people were falling every which way. “There’s only one way into the lock antechamber. You won’t be able to steer the people.” “I’ll talk to our captains. What is the way?” He pointed out to sea where a great boomer was forming, massive in scale. It would collide halfway up the towering crags of the island: a wave the size of the mountain. Mar grinned. “At least the tide is high.” “You must thread the needle. Too high or low and it will crush you.” “I’ll be fine. And you?” “I do it nightly, my dear.” They told the plan to the captain and then had the longboats bring them around to the spawning zone where the waves would form. They could read waves well, most of the folk from their nation, and knew the difference between the seedbed of a small wave and the seedbed of something gargantuan. Three waves deep, it rumbled beneath them in a way only a currentseer could understand. They paddled and got ahead of it with their boards and caught it, riding it like a snow skier might ride a mountain’s ever-renewing avalanche. The thing moved them at breakneck speeds – faster than anything Mar had caught before, pulling them on and over with an inertia sure to squash them flat and turn their bodies to pomace from sea and stone turned cider press. “YOU WILL HAVE TO JUMP AND SWIM FOR IT!” he shouted over the roar, pointing towards a tiny hole in the wall. “I’M NOT AS TALL AS YOU!” she shouted back. The opening came before them, a great mouth in the wall of white bonestone, and he jumped off his board and into the hole and swam along inside the airborne current that blasted in, his flesh like fire in the water in the sky in the stone. She had caught the wave at a perfect crest and had surfed through the mouth, through the tunnel-turned estuary, and right up beside the inner shore near the control booth near the spheredoor. She pressed on the primitive controls and could see along the inner tracks the door mechanism begin to move, ball and track. Through the porthole in the wall that allowed watchers to guard the entrance to the door, she could see the captains shepherding her people to the left and right to the tunnels that turned to either side of the door of the deep, turned to loop into deeper hideouts and boltholes. They sprinted along quite quickly and cleared the door – all but a few – while the hordes and hordes of winged leopards and alien riders climbed down the walls as quickly as would mountain goats, darting a bit slower than they had from the air after the well-adapted people. Fard had come behind Mar and moved a series of levers so that the inner track of the spheredoor shifted. The great ball rolled down the inner hill in the space between the inner and outer walls, opening that which should not be opened in the place they ought not have gone. Then the sicklemen came forth – hundreds and hundreds of centipeded or milipeded bodies hiding behind those old and dark-veiled shadowcloaks, drawing up scythes as one might draw ten thousand slings and tearing into the leopards and riders as the leopards and riders tore into them. Great mutesheers came out and they began to cut out the tongues of the monsters even as the riders moved to ride and strangle the sicklemen. The voices of ten thousand demiurges and elder gods went silent as more piled in to war. “It’s foolish to wait to see how this ends,” Fard said. “To watch them eat each other.” “I find it entertaining,” she pulled out some peanuts from a pocket. They were soggy. “Until they turn on the audience,” he said. The realization hit her. She looked at him. His expression practically begged her to get out of there as quickly as possible, to leave before the devils knew they were there. “Where can we go?” she asked. “You mentioned your parents.” “My mother’s slavery is as bad or worse.” “Then with your father.” “He’s boring.” “Boring’s a nice change from this,” Fard said, “especially for my daughter.” “Good point,” Mar said. “Plus with our people, we can teach them how to have a good time.” “You’ll never get that old accountant on a surfboard, but I’ll cheer you on if you try.” “It’s better than trying to stay here and respond to the violence of either side. It’s a binding, for sure, to commit to your father’s island.” “Especially if my mother hasn’t died yet,” she said, “and they’re still together.” Fard said, “But it’s the sort of binding vow that might free even me.” “At least you won’t have to waste smoked meat anymore. How do we get down?” He pointed to surfboards and wakeboards lying all along the inside of the control room. “Same way we came in.” It took them a moment to redirect the people, but they did it quickly and the islanders — even the children — had prepared just for this. How many have ever seen a city of paupers cover the waves of the deep with their boards as waters cover the sea? Close Loading Video . . . “Giving that scythe—” Mar said. He wasn’t listening. She was droopy-eyed and slouching, but beautiful: hoping to haggle for more time to surf. Download Full Written Work

sing_nick_stokes_photo.jpg Loading Video . . . Sing is a short play written by playwright Nick Stokes in response to Psalm 22, verses 14-18. This work was premiered by Spark and Echo Arts on July 15, 2011, in New York City as part of evening sponsored by the Center for Faith and Work entitled “Artist and Beauty: Illuminating the Word.” Psalms 22:1-18 Sing By Nick Stokes ​ Credits: Playwright by Nick Stokes Actors: Michael Markham, Emily Clare Zempel Director: Ryan Whinnem Movement by Deborah Wolfson Composer: Jonathon Roberts Musicians: Jonathon Roberts, piano/voice; Chris Nolte, bass; Anthony Taddeo, drums Artist Location: Tacoma, Washington Curated by: Emily 2011 ​ ​ Short play Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link ​ This passage tapped into my surreal vein, or what I call surreal, which is more what people mean by surreal than what the art world classifies as Surreal. So, surreal. My first impressions of the passage were paranoia, claustrophobia, persecution, despair, exhibition, voyeurism, display. On display, surrounded, people staring, casting lots…this performing or feeling like you’re performing…this personal stage fright and existential stage fright…this being crucified led to the quasi-metatheatrical twist. Who has forsaken she? Is She forsaken? Is He? Where’s the power? What do we demand of that power? What are the audience’s expectations? Who are we performing for, and what for? What does She need to sing? Why sing? The play plays with notions of freedom, perpetuity, entrapment, progress, and (old school) how to live right – how to sing? And…is the world what you encounter or create or fake? Put on a happy face. Sing. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection ​ Nick Stokes is a playwright and author living outside Seattle who sometimes packs mules in the wilderness of Montana. Website Nick Stokes About the Artist Rebuild Nick Stokes Other Works By Read the Script Download the Score Related Information View More Art Make More Art ​ View Full Written Work Close Loading Video . . . ​ Download Full Written Work

Loading Video . . . This week we present a work by Aaron Soldner in response to the theme of "Memory" and Luke 3:23-38. Luke 3:23-38 Luke 3:23-38 By Aaron Soldner ​ Credits: ​ Curated by: Spark+Echo Arts 2013 ​ ​ Film, Animation Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link ​ Biblical genealogies are often-ignored readings. They are not in the lectionary, they are rarely addressed in bible studies and are treated more like historical remnants than the more easily accessible scriptures that have become familiar. They are afterthoughts. When read straight-through, they are a mix of unfamiliar – and admittedly, sometimes difficult – names as well as the names of people whose stories are so widely-known that they have often made their way into the popular consciousness. The genealogy of Jesus Christ in Luke has it’s own narrative. A narrative that is brought out solely because of the reader’s knowledge/lack of knowledge of the people these names belonged to – after all, inside the context of the genealogy itself The reader is not told who did what (except for having parents); instead everyone is equal. When fifteen or twenty names go by that are otherwise not known there is a sense of alienation, confusion, frustration, and embarrassment for the reader, but when a name does appear that the reader recognizes there is a flurry of association in the reader’s mind with the memories they have of these stories. This recognition makes a feeling of ease, perhaps even a coy sense of having inside knowledge. The pattern of rising and falling in action in reading the genealogy repeats until the final name of God creates the feeling that the reader has “made it” successfully through. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection ​ Aaron Soldner was born in Colorado and attended the University of Colorado at Boulder – as well as some time at the Film and Television School at the Academy of Performing Arts in Prague – earning a BFA in Film Production and a BA in Film History. An artist whose work attempts to focus on the ordinary in everyday life and whose pieces tend to deemphasize the unique and decentralize the climactic, Aaron is interested not in highlighting the mundane, but in appreciating it for being common. Website Aaron Oldner About the Artist Aaron Oldner Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art ​ View Full Written Work Close Loading Video . . . ​ Download Full Written Work

Loading Video . . . Video artist Scott Baye captures the "joy of love" as described by Paul in 1 Corinthians with this playful video piece. 1 Corinthians 13:13 Bubbles By Scott Baye ​ Credits: Video by Scott Baye Music by Jonathon Roberts Video Game by Bubble Bobble Artist Location: Green Bay, Wisconsin Curated by: Jonathon Roberts 2005 ​ ​ ​ Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link ​ This is a scene from the theater piece Project Paul , based on the life and writings of the Apostle Paul, created in collaboration with my brother Jonathon Roberts. This is a playful response to the joy of love, as described by Paul in 1 Corinthians. It was also an opportunity to for Jonathon and I to play Bubble Bobble together. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection ​ Scott Baye is a software engineer and video artist living in Green Bay, Wisconsin with his wife Karen and four children. Website Scott Baye About the Artist Scott Baye Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art ​ View Full Written Work Close Loading Video . . . ​ Download Full Written Work

Erin Mulvehill Psalm42 3 Loading Video . . . Photographer Erin Mulvehill uniquely considers our Summer 2012 theme, "Water," in response to Psalm 42:3. Erin's work aims to explore the human connections and subtle nuances that whisper into the ear of our every day. We are captivated by the ethereal, tragic implication of Erin's photography, especially in her "to be reborn" series (2012), with its perplexing yet warm imagery. Psalms 42:3 Untitled (Mulvehill) By Erin Mulvehill ​ Credits: ​ Curated by: Charis J Carmichael Braun 2012 24 x 30 inches ​ Film Photography Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link ​ i found this passage very philosophical, which drew me to it immediately. in my visual depiction of the piece i chose to show a blindfolded girl with her arms reaching toward the skies. this gesture can be one of praise and thanksgiving, yet it can also be one of frustration or defeat. I like the ambiguity of this gesture, as I feel the quote itself is somewhat ambiguous in that it has the ability to read quite differently based on one's personal beliefs. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection ​ erin mulvehill is an artist and photographer currently living in brooklyn new york. she is the founder of ‘the camera project’ ( thecameraproject.com ) and is currently represented by the candela project gallery in munich germany ( candela-project.com ). More of Erin’s beautiful work can be viewed online at icanfreezetime.com Website Erin Mulvehill About the Artist Erin Mulvehill Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art ​ View Full Written Work Close Loading Video . . . ​ Download Full Written Work

Loading Video . . . Actor Laurie Schroeder Callen brings us two monologues in response to the theme of healing in the doctor-patient relationship as well as Psalm 6:2-3 and Romans 12: 6-8. Psalms 6:2-3 Romans 12: 6-8 Call and Response By Laurie Schroeder Callen ​ Credits: Written by Laurie Schroeder Callen Performed by Philip Callen and Laurie Schroeder Callen Artist Location: New York City Curated by: Michael Markham 2014 ​ ​ Theatre, monologues Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link ​ Heal verb \ˈhēl\ Transitive verb 1a : to make sound or whole b : to restore to health 2a : to cause (an undesirable condition) to be overcome : MEND b : to patch up (a breach or division) 3 : to restore to original purity or integrity. These private juxtaposed monologues explore a brief moment in time of a patient and her physician. From inside the mind of a suffering patient we hear the thoughts, fears and reflections that consume her as her young, ailing body resists a cure. Listening to the words of this physician, we perceive his limitations, his challenges and the burden he feels in his vocation. And ultimately, we can consider from his perspective that we all require God’s grace to be restored. I immediately connected to the sound of David crying out to God, asking for mercy and relief from his pain, both spiritual and physical. Our wounds and ailments are multi-faceted, multi-dimensional struggles we carry in our steps. Some of them are healed, others are not. Some are managed, treated, dealt with, some are not. Some hover in our spirits every day and one day disappear, and we don’t even really notice. And while we walk around needing healing, there are multitudes of humans who are called to intercede. They are called into hospitals and battlefields and schools and offices so that they can help facilitate the healing. So they can cure. And heal. But when they themselves are the struggling and the wounded, full of doubt and anguish – who will help them heal? Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection ​ Laurie Schroeder Callen most recently performed the role of Judy in Daughters of the Sexual Revolution by Dana Leslie Goldstein and Hermione in The Winter’s Tale , both at The Workshop Theater. Selected NYC roles include Lulu in Miss Lulu Bett , Gertrude in Hamlet , Arkadina in The Seagull and, Lady Capulet in Romeo and Juliet , where she met her husband, Philip Callen. Laurie also lived in Europe for several years and trained at the Central School of Speech & Drama in London, earning her Masters in Classical Acting before joining The American Drama Group of Europe with their touring production of Death of a Salesman . Paralleling her life as an artist, Laurie also works as a medical educator and interpersonal skills coach for medical students, residents and physicians and is passionate about improving the doctor-patient relationship through simulation. Laurie and Phil live in Washington Heights, New York City. Website Laurie Schroeder Callen About the Artist Laurie Schroeder Callen Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art ​ View Full Written Work Close Loading Video . . . ​ Download Full Written Work

Ebitenyefa Baralaye Abram B Big Abram_a-big.jpg Abram_b-big.jpg Loading Video . . . Spark and Echo Arts is pleased to feature the work Abram, a sculpture by artist Ebitenyefa Baralaye. This captivating piece is Mr. Baralaye's reflection on the life of Abram, especially what is told in Genesis 12:2-3 and Acts 7:3. Genesis 12:2-3 Acts 7:3 Abram By Ebitenyefa Baralaye ​ Credits: Artist Location: New York City Curated by: ​ 2011 8.5 x 10 x 21 inches Nickel-plated polished bronze Sculpture Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link ​ This piece was modeled from water clay, fired and then cast in bronze. Its textured surface and gestural form reflects the clay's original malleability under aggressive tactile and tooled handling. It was composed from two main sections that were complimentarily stacked and worked together. In the Old Testament, Abram is ordained by God as the lineage father of all of God's body of chosen people, Israel. He is blessed, sent on a journey to a Promised Land and later receives the name Abraham, "father of many nations." This form loosely reflects: at its top, Abram's faithfully singular focus of mind, further down, the dispersion of his lineage to descendants of many nations, and from mid-section to base, the challenges endured and overcome through his life's steadfast journey. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection ​ Ebitenyefa Baralaye is a ceramicist, sculptor and designer. He was born in Lagos, Nigeria, raised in Antigua and lives in the United States. Ebitenyefa received his BFA in Ceramics from the Rhode Island School of Design. His studio bases have included Long Island City, Queens; the Elizabeth Foundation for the Arts in New York City; and Bloomfield Hills, MI where he is currently enrolled as a Ceramics MFA candidate at the Cranbrook Academy of Art. He has exhibited in various solo and group shows domestically and internationally including the 2011 Gyeonggi International Ceramix Biennale in Icheon, South Korea and the 2016 Toronto Design Festival. He has held residencies at the Peters Valley Crafts Center in Layton, NJ and most recently, Talking Dolls in Detroit, MI. Website Ebitenyefa Baralaye About the Artist Artist in Residence 2016, Ebitenyefa Baralaye – Part 3 Artist in Residence 2016, Ebitenyefa Baralaye – Part 2 Artist in Residence 2016, Ebitenyefa Baralaye – Part 1 David Artist in Residence 2016: Ebitenyefa Baralaye – "Bam Bam" Ebitenyefa Baralaye Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art ​ View Full Written Work Close Loading Video . . . ​ Download Full Written Work

Loading Video . . . This work of poet and Christian theologian Jerome Blanco holds the tension of devastation in the world with the promise of God's restoration from Joel 3. Joel 3 The Day of the Lord By Jerome Blanco ​ Credits: Photo by Matthew Jones Curated by: Rebecca Testrake 2017 ​ ​ Poetry Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link ​ Prophetic passages on God's eventual judgment and restoration of the world can feel very distant for me. As I wrestled with the third chapter of Joel, I couldn't help but think these coming mysteries were lifetimes away, especially considering all the weight of what is happening in the world today. Despite God's dual promises of vengeance and restoration, I wonder about what good those promises have for those suffering now. Are the promises of abundant milk and wine (3:18) satisfying enough? What about the promises of God's vengeance on the wicked (3:21)? The prophecies of Joel certainly deliver a sense of hope, but that hope that comes from a promised future sits in tension with the painful realities of the present. In this poem, I recall the refugees that I met during a brief time I spent in Europe. Many expressed a hope in God despite terrible circumstances, but who were of course also weighed down with unimaginable despair. God was often what kept them going, but they weren't without fear. In the text, I specifically refer to a man I met from Homs, Syria, who spoke to me about both these things. The poem's form is modeled on this not-yet-ness of God's restoration. Excluding the final line, the poem is written in six stanzas of six lines each. Six, here, exemplifies that longing for completion‚ seven being the satisfying number of wholeness in God's creation. The final line acts as a promised seventh line to the final stanza, and as a promised seventh stanza to the poem as a whole. The prophecies in Joel are already in our hands. Christians can hold to the truth that God's promises will be fulfilled. And yet we are forced to wait restlessly for them in the meantime, as we wait for the day of the Lord‚ the day of judgment and restoration that is yet to come. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection ​ Jerome Blanco is a graduate of Fuller Theological Seminary and is an MFA candidate at New York University’s Writers Workshop in Paris, where he is studying fiction writing. He was born in Manila but currently calls Southern California home. Website Jerome Blanco About the Artist Jerome Blanco Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art As for the sinners, so they say, the hand of God will someday descend from heaven to pick hem off like forked lightning. View Full Written Work The Day of the Lord Jerome Blanco As for the sinners, so they say, the hand of God will someday descend from heaven to pick them off like forked lightning. The promise for saints: streams of wine, water for life, a heaven-land of flowing milk—but all this a long time from now. Today, we watch good men murdered in the streets, hear cries of wounded women wrecked, see children made orphans at the bomb’s thunderclap. Once, I met a man who feared the Lord, who hailed from hell-torn Syria and showed me pictures of his rubble home—nothing left but stones on stones. I trust in God, he said with hope in the words of the prophets. But the weight of exile can bring a man’s shoulders low, pull his head down towards the foreign ground—like he might sink into the earth, slowly first, then suddenly, like a shot. When I go, I swear, he is ankle-deep. What good the promised justice eternities away, that a man’s short life cannot stretch to reach? What help is heaven milk while killers dance in dusty Homs? If God withholds the wine, then it had better be sweet, overflowing so that it pours back in waves, cascading over all the years that my friend is made to wait. When God smites with his left, I’d like to see his right dig deep, pulling the buried from the dirt, raising them high like the acacias in the Lord’s green valley Close Loading Video . . . As for the sinners, so they say, the hand of God will someday descend from heaven to pick hem off like forked lightning. Download Full Written Work

Nicora Gangi Psalm 18 Loading Video . . . We are delighted to feature this image of Psalm 18, a vivid collage by renowned visual artist Nicora Gangi. Psalms 18:1-17 Psalms 18:29-50 Psalm 18 By Nicora Gangi ​ Credits: ​ Curated by: Jonathon Roberts 2011 ​ Paper collage, digital media ​ Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link ​ David gives praise for all of the deliverances God has given him. He takes comfort that his integrity is restored. He gives to God the glory for all of his achievements and encourages himself with the expectations of what God would further do for him. To create this collage I used magazine clips to illustrate the colors which were inspired by the different themes of this psalm: holy faith, love, joy, praise and hope. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection ​ Nicora Gangi was educated at Syracuse University, Syracuse, New York, USA (BFA 1974 and MFA 1976). She was a Professor of Art at Syracuse University for 29 years. Gangi has been awarded many Grand Prize and First Place awards and grants. She has been and continues to be published in numerous artist’s books on pastel paintings. She has lectured regionally and nationally as a visiting artist at universities and artist’s guilds. She is represented by: Edgewood Gallery (Syracuse, NY), and Gangi Studio (Winter Garden, FL ). Website Nicora Gangi About the Artist The Mountain of the House of The Lord I See Him but Not Now So Shall Your Descendants Be This One The Body without the Spirit | 1 The Body without the Spirit | 2 The Body without the Spirit | 3 The Sealed Ones Peace with God The Everlasting Protective Love of God Our Father When the Lord Gives Us The Land I See Him but Not Now The Mountain of the House of The Lord Paneled and Ruins Series The Harvest Spirit of God-The Spirit Hovering Memories Lies Fool Dance Your Truth from the Great Congregation Sound of Their Wings Psalm 16 Kiss the Son EAST, WEST, NORTH & SOUTH AT HIS TABLE Nicora Gangi Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art ​ View Full Written Work Close Loading Video . . . ​ Download Full Written Work

serpentspeaks.jpg Loading Video . . . Premiered on May 28, 2010, The Serpent Speaks by James Hall, is a composition for jazz sextet + two actors, setting Robert Siegel's poem of the same name. The piece reflects on the fall of man in Genesis 3. Genesis 3 The Serpent Speaks By James Hall ​ Credits: Music by James Hall Text by Robert Siegel Musicians: Emily Clare Zempel, voice; Jonathan Roberts, voice; Jacob Teichroew, saxophone; James Hall, trombone; Ryan Ferreira, guitar; Ike Sturm, bass; Ziv Ravitz, drumset; Mike Truesdell, percussion Venue: St. Peter Church, Manhattan Poster design by Christopher Domig Artist Location: Brooklyn, New York Curated by: Jonathon Roberts 2010 ​ ​ ​ Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link ​ I first read Robert Siegel's The Serpent Speaks in 2007, as my love of poetry was just being sparked. Though I was immediately interested in setting the poem to music, it wasn't until receiving a Fellowship at the Trinity Forum Academy that I had the time and resources I needed to realize the project. My setting of The Serpent Speaks blurs distinctions between composition and improvisation using a mixture of verbal cues; traditional, and non-traditional notation. The style blends free and contemporary modal jazz with spoken word. Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection ​ James Hall is a trombonist and composer from Nebraska based in New York City. A versatile musician, his projects have spanned jazz, classical, latin, and popular music in the US and Europe. As a composer and bandleader, James was named a finalist in the ASCAP Morton Gould Young Composer Competition, won three ASCAPlus Awards for composition, and was a featured performer/composer at the 2012 Chelsea Music Festival . As trombonist in Williamsburg Salsa Orchestra , he has performed at B.B. Kings', S.O.B's, MassMOCA, The Kennedy Center, The Blue Note Jazz Festival, and has appeared in the pages of Rolling Stone Magazine. He has appeared on several recordings with Postmodern Jukebox , with whom he has toured Europe and the US. James' trombone playing earned third place, runner-up, and honorable mention in the Antti Rissanen , J.J. Johnson , and Carl Fontana International Jazz Trombone Competitions, respectively. James' first CD as a composer/bandleader was released in October 2013. Entitled " Soon We Will Not Be Here " by James Hall Thousand Rooms Quartet, the body of work sets contemporary poems by NYC-based poets to 3rd-stream chamber music. His sophomore release, "Lattice," is currently in post-production. James holds degrees from the Lawrence Conservatory of Music in Wisconsin and Aaron Copland School of Music in New York. His teachers have included Luis Bonilla, Hal Crook, Michael Dease, Nick Keelan, Ed Neumeister, and Fred Sturm. Photo by Bill Wadman. Website James Hall About the Artist Of Blood and Water James Hall Other Works By View the Full Score Related Information View More Art Make More Art ​ View Full Written Work Close Loading Video . . . ​ Download Full Written Work

Loading Video . . . Poet CM Davidson struggles with the theme of "poverty" and Isaiah 58:6-11 in his work for Spark+Echo, Yoked. Isaiah 58:6-11 Yoked By CM Davidson ​ Credits: Artist Location: Southern California Curated by: Chris Davidson 2013 ​ ​ Poetry Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link ​ The passage from what's called "Third Isaiah" suggested a process as natural as photosynthesis: Fast by action, in this case, free the oppressed and give what you (as a people) have to those among you who need it. The result will be God's favor, restoration, and greater abundance than you already enjoy. Walter Brueggemann provide conceptual grist for the poem. He writes, of this passage, It turned out that the "facts on the ground" in restored Jerusalem were modest and shabby when contrasted with the lyrical anticipations of Second Isaiah.1 This helped me think of the narrator as someone who, in the midst of his comfort and security, feels ill at ease, dislocated. This is a common theme for literature of the last couple hundred years, but it was new to me to think that the source of that dislocation is that the privileged are the invisible ones, not the poor (verse 7). The existence of poverty and injustice doesn't divide us from "the other" but from our brothers and sisters, from‚ it seems banal to write it so directly‚ ourselves. It should be said that what attracted me to these verses is not equivalent to what the poem expresses. As all poems do, this one found its own path. 1 Walter Brueggemann, An Introduction to the Old Testament: The Canon and Christian Imagination Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection ​ CM Davidson’s work has appeared in Zyzzyva, Green Mountains Review, Zocalo Public Square, The Rumpus, and elsewhere. He lives in Southern California with his wife and sons. He sporadically keeps up a blog, 52songs.blogspot.com . Website CM Davidson About the Artist CM Davidson Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art Woke this morning two snoozes past the alarm 's first call. Showered. Dressed. Breakfasted on a bowl of puffed rice and milk and three cups of coffee. View Full Written Work Yoked by CM Davidson Isaiah 58:6-11 Woke this morning two snoozes past the alarm’s first call. Showered. Dressed. Breakfasted on a bowl of puffed rice and milk and three cups of coffee. Asked my wife for Kaiser’s number, since my shoulder aches. Gathered things in my bag and drove in my car my son to school, myself to work, where I wasted time online, talked on the phone with a colleague, entered a budget by deadline. From those who live under the overpass I pass daily, I’m told I’m concealed, and from the imprisoned and hungry with nothing to wear I’d wear myself, I’m concealed. My body I’m told is distorted by nourishment, my shirt, shoes and pants hide me from my kin. I’m told the sadness I feel everyday will be a light by which to see, if I act, that our sadness, people, I’m convinced it’s more than just me, is a latent garden, a spring of water, a continual, renewing spring of water, light and water bringing, through action in leaves described and unlearned, food for the table. This is the promise, dejection the goad. Our parents in exile sang to each other songs of a land like this— their hope was in it, and we have it. Close Loading Video . . . Woke this morning two snoozes past the alarm 's first call. Showered. Dressed. Breakfasted on a bowl of puffed rice and milk and three cups of coffee. Download Full Written Work

We Wait Judith Barcroft Loading Video . . . The movement and color in this painting, "We Wait," by Judith Barcroft capture the sense of eager anticipation in response to 2 Peter 3:13. 2 Peter 3:13 We Wait By Judith Barcroft ​ Credits: ​ Curated by: Michael Markham 2018 20 x 24 inches ​ Acrylic Primary Scripture Loading primary passage... Loading Passage Reference... Share This Art: Facebook X (Twitter) WhatsApp LinkedIn Pinterest Copy Link ​ I have been in the theater for over 50 years, and there is nothing more exciting and mysterious for me than that moment, waiting in darkness, as the curtain is about to go up, and reveal a whole new world! My painting of the audience waiting illustrates our waiting for what is promised; a theatrical moment in God's time! Spark Notes The Artist's Reflection ​ Judith Barcroft was in her first art show at the age of five at the Virginia Theological Seminary where her father was studying to be an Episcopal priest. Judith studied art at the Borghese Gallery in Rome and at the Art Students League of New York where she won a merit scholarship and served on the board. She won a certificate of merit for outstanding work in collage at the Salmagundi Club. She is especially interested in spiritual art, and her work illustrating Lauds in the Book of Hours will be on display at the Church of Heavenly Rest in New York beginning January 10, 2019. Judith is also an actress, having appeared in seven Broadway shows, over 100 regional productions, and 12 years of television. Website Judith Barcroft About the Artist Judith Barcroft Other Works By Related Information View More Art Make More Art ​ View Full Written Work Close Loading Video . . . ​ Download Full Written Work