God As My Muse

God as My Muse

by Melinda Jensen

Few Christians would dispute that we are made in the image of God. It is one of the basic tenets of our faith but also one to which many of us give little thought.

What does it mean to be made in the image of God? Certainly, it means we are wonderfully and powerfully made and that we have twin natures, both human and divine, that often war against one another. It means we have access to the throne of God and are able to throw ourselves on His mercy when we are overwhelmed by adversity. It means He sees us as beautiful and good, even when we don’t see ourselves that way, and it means we have the power and the right to stand against the forces of darkness (as frightening as that can be).

But there is an aspect of God I once took for granted. Selfishly, I attributed it to my fleshly self, instead of appreciating the divine and benevolent gift it truly is. I’m talking about ‘creativity’ – that spark that ignites within us as we writers write.

Like many writers, I’ve always felt I was born to write. I still have an old recipe book of my mother’s in which I wrote ‘Fluff is a cat’ long before I went to school; and there was no kindergarten back then. I tripped along through my school and college English classes, able to produce prose and poetry pretty much on demand. And as the years went by, I discovered I also had a knack for arts and crafts, and my hands have been almost perpetually busy since. Until that one time …

That one time I walked away from God. My grief was immense. My sense of injustice at what had happened, not just to me but to so many others in this world, led me to become a renegade daughter. I raged at God; told Him he was an inadequate God for not protecting his people from such incredible pain; and that I believed He was simply the demi-god of Gnostic tradition – a flawed being who created a flawed world He had no real control over. And then I turned my back, telling Him I could get along very well without Him, thank you very much.

Of course, I see the incredible arrogance in my words now, but in my anguish I lashed out at the one who loves me most, as we humans so often do. I was done and dusted; ready to look out for number one for a change.

But what ensued came as rather a shock. I sat with pen and paper … but no words came to mind. I opted for the keyboard and typed what can only be called gibberish. Frustrated, I told myself I just needed a break; some time to regenerate and give my creative flair some time to swing back to equilibrium again. At least I could still paint and draw; crochet and knit; make beaded sculptures and jewellery. You name it – I’ve probably given it a shot over the years.

So out came the equipment. My tiny duplex was littered with the makings of all sorts of beautiful creations. My cat was quite delirious mucking about amongst the beads, the pencils, the brushes, the mosaic pieces, and most of all the knitting yarn! In fact, as the weeks went by and I tossed project after project in the rubbish bin, it could be said that kitty produced far better work than I did. My frustration levels threatened to erupt into a frenzy that would rival the destruction of Pompeii if I hadn’t been able to somehow keep a lid on it.

It was hindsight though, that revealed the Truth. I didn’t turn back to God because I thought, ‘Well, heck! I want my creativity back and He must have taken it away on purpose!’ I simply missed God so very much. I missed having the friend who’d been my ‘bestie’ since I was 5 years old – Jesus – to talk to and hang with. My heart felt empty … numb. It wasn’t like the pain of my circumstances had gone away. It was that I couldn’t ‘feel’ anything much at all.

And so I got down on my knees, for the hundredth time in my life, and begged forgiveness, and asked Him to please, please let me back into His fold again.

And so it was done.

I found that my heart could both cry and sing again. I felt pain and joy and everything in between.

Over the coming days, I noticed an interesting side effect. My words once more flew across the page. The pencils and paints managed to produce some pleasing pieces (though many still end up in the bin!); and my kitty is now happily chasing shiny baubles and bits of wool around the room again. My creativity returned in full measure, if not more.

Without my creative God at my centre, I simply cannot create. We are a partnership, He and I; one I can’t possibly live without, through thick and thin, sickness and health, adversity and good times. Neither my dabblings, nor yours, will ever come close to the intense beauty He has created for us … but we do have that divine, creative spark somewhere inside us, whether we write, or paint, or build marvellous things, or tinker with electronics. It doesn’t matter … it all comes from Him.

NOTE to readers: I will be away from home for a week as of today and may not have reliable internet access. I apologize in advance for any comments I'm unable to respond to in a timely manner.

Melinda Jensen

www.killingmesoftly.co (A blog, at times disturbing, about the effects of emotional, psychological and verbal abuse, it aims to educate, support and empower victims of abuse.)

Writer concerned with social justice, equality, the environment, and mostly the abiding spirit of our glorious God. Currently working on a number of projects, most notably a couple of fantasy novels with environmental themes for middle school readers.

My Dark Night of the Soul - Melinda Jensen

 

I'm no theological scholar but I’ve long been captivated by the writings of sixteenth century mystic, St John of the Cross. His exquisite treatise on the soul’s journey towards union with its Creator draws me in as surely as the moon draws the tides.

Many argue that humankind’s greatest spiritual challenge is aligning the will with that of the Great I Am, a striving depicted by St John of the Cross in his ‘Dark Night of the Soul’.  This spiritual struggle involves a depth of despair many modern Christians prefer to ignore, lest it threaten their comfortable existences. They prefer, instead, to instruct their careworn brethren to hand everything to God and wait for their lives to ‘work out.’ Proper faith, sufficient repentance and an uncanny knack for knowing exactly what’s in the mind of the Creator, they say, lead us unerringly to abundant living.

I disagree. There are Christians whose lives appear to be charmed; they enter their middle years with secure marriages, fat bank accounts and the freedom to travel, invest, and indulge their whims to their healthy heart’s content. I cannot be counted among their number.

For decades I blamed myself for my lack – for not ‘hearing’ God correctly despite dedication to His Word. I sought pastoral counseling, prayer warriors, Christian literature and of course, scripture itself. My first thoughts, before opening my eyes each morning, have long been directed to my Father, and before those eyes open I ask Him to direct my steps.

It has not, nor has it ever, prevented any injustice, illness or abuse from infiltrating my being.

A brief synopsis of my adult experience includes sexual abuse, abandonment by my children’s father, single parenting without support and, twenty years ago, contracting a debilitating, life-limiting illness that remains with me today. I’ve also suffered verbal and emotional abuse at the hands of an intimate partner, abuse so sadistic that my psychologist describes it as a spiritual crime. I am left now, to face my golden years in poverty and pain.

But don’t grab the tissue box just yet because, frankly, I feel great.

And that, is surely the abundant life scripture promises. Christ came so that we might have life, and have it abundantly. Money is dead. Possessions are dead. Only the human spirit is truly alive.

The breakdown of my marriage, which lasted from 2011 until 2013, heralded my spiritual turning point.

From the outset, I laid my pain before God, never doubting He was ‘for’ marriage and ‘against’ divorce. I trusted Him to guide me towards reconciliation. I repented of every mistake and mis-communication. I begged for guidance and wisdom, and followed His leading to the best of my ability. Honesty and authenticity were integral to my actions. Deceit and manipulation seemed integral to the other party, a man I believed once loved me. I was absolutely certain the Truth would set me free; the Truth would out; the Truth would bring justice to bear.

It did not.

I raged. I told God I was through with Him. I called Him a flawed, gnostic demi-god and accused Him of abandonment. In a logical, worldly sense, He did abandon me. Decades of devotion had led me to naught. Liars and manipulators, I concluded, were the real winners in life. I was nothing but a mug. I dug my heels in and resolutely refused to give God another moment of my time. After all, how much worse could things get?

Weeks slid by. Nothing got worse. Nothing got better.

I wasn't grieving exactly, nor genuinely depressed. Just…empty. Lonely. Terribly lonely. Unfulfilled. Inspiration and creativity deserted me. I was cold. I had no compass for my life’s direction. Life became interminable nothingness.

This…was my dark night.

All the success in the world would never bring light to my soul.

I began, tentatively, to test the waters. Are you still there God? Like a small child, I clung to The Lord’s Prayer, saying it over and over. It was a divine anxiolytic, and from those small steps, I came back to the foot of the Cross.

And so I do not believe in a prosperity gospel; rather, that the treasures God gives us can't be measured by outer circumstances.

I am grateful for my dark night, and yet…a little fearful too. According to St John, there may be more dark nights to come. I hope I recognize them.

 Mother and grandmother, writer concerned with social justice, equality for all; environmentalist who believes we are stewards of the earth, not controllers; follower of Jesus who prefers to think of herself as a Christianarchist.