How God is Different from a Postmodern Artist

Behold.  Courtesy of this morning's Wall Street Journal, I present to you "Phosphorus (2004)." The Industry of the Ordinary drink a crate of beer and document the change in color of their urine.  Friends, this is what happens when a postmodern thinker has a little too much fun on Thirsty Thursday and is inspired by both the increasing popularity of ombre fingernail paint on Pinterest and a random recollection of titrations from freshman year Gen Chem lab.  Yes.  Drunken pee has now become art.

Much to my relief, Mr. Eric Felten, author of The Extraordinary Banality of the Ordinary as Art feels roughly the same way I do about such a display.  "Feel free to roll your eyes," he implores, as he documents other examples of how using the ordinary as not just the subject of a piece of art, but as the art itself, was novel perhaps a century ago but is now simply--well, just ordinary.  Pathetically ordinary.  The idea of such a practice is to "blur the boundaries between the artist and the viewer," but, as Mr. Felten argues, isn't admiring a piece of art comparable to, for instance, watching athletes on the Olympics? The art is aesthetically sublime, but admiration is also recognition that this artist, this gymnast, this swimmer has done something that I will never be able to do. "That's the art that makes us thrill to be human."

So, postmodern artists allow the viewer to participate in the art and celebrate the wonder that they claim is contained in the ordinary.

Ohgoodnessgracious.  Is God a postmodern artist? One of the many things I've marveled at over the past few months is the ordinary-ness of the Sacrament of the Eucharist.  It is bread and wine.  That is it. It is boring, mundane, and everyday. And yet it is God.  The mystery of Christ is astounding not because the Divine came to Earth to perform miracles, but because He came here to depend on another for sustenance and feel anger and loss and at the end of the day, when He could do nothing else, cry.  He was ordinary, and He is the most beautiful.  By coming to Earth, He has asked us to become his co-creators.

Somehow, though, is not the same.  I don't really feel free to roll my eyes every time I receive the Eucharist (although, admittedly, I have at points in my life).  A postmodern artist takes credit for creating an environment in which he tries to force the viewer to see beauty because something just is. But the viewer is oftentimes left unsatisfied. It is boring because I myself could drink a crate of beer (maybe?) and document the change in color of my urine.  It doesn't impress me that you thought of the idea first.  It's a bad idea.

And yet, it impresses me that I can love like the Creator can and make life like He can and sometimes, create something beautiful like He does.  Maybe "Phosphorus" will be popular for longer than I expect it to be, lasting beyond the life of the artist, but one day, those cups will degrade and the memory of the art will fade with the extinction of the last of its admirers.  It will no longer be art.  But God will remain The Artist after the last person to believe in Him stops believing; He is not forcing anything to be extraordinary or worthy of praise, but because He has touched it, kissed it, it simply is. It is not for credit or honor or money or a display case in the Chicago Cultural Center, but because love flows forth from Him. He cannot help that.  And that is what makes me thrill to be human.

Cred to WSJ for being awesome