For years I took laborious notes while listening to teachers and preacherss. These notes, however, rarely facillitated lasting response or recall, regardless of the richness of the teaching or the power of the preaching.
Three years ago I began a new habit while listening and have found it to make these truths both more accessible and memorable. This process involves a sketchbook, something with which to make marks and my response to the teaching in primarily image form. I sit listening until an image comes to mind. Then I quickly get that image down onto the page while the teaching continue. I close my sketchbook when the teaching ends.
The following image is a response to a teaching on Prayer given January 13, 2014 by Carlo Furlan.
His texts were I Kings 8:29, Is. 56:7, Mark 11:17 and I Cor. 6...
FROM CAROL
Watching Jenny create art as a response to Sunday messages, I wondered how I could engage my right brain to stay focused on the spirit of what was being said as well as the letter. Could I do the same thing with words? Six months ago, I began jotting down fragments of imagery and trickles of poetry that allow me to access a different part of my brain and engage my heart. These lines are unpolished and rudimentary, but I share them with you humbly, as a child who pats together a mud pie and offers it up with a smile.
Here are my words based on Carlo Fulan's sermon January 13, 2014:
Prayer
Like breathing -
essential and elemental,
yet elusive,
ethereal...
Knocking on the bricks
of segregation
between
the tangible
and the intangible.
Or
answering the knock,
or
more likely
straining to hear
the still, small voice.
---
I Kings 8:29
Facing Jerusalem,
full frontal position,
but prostrate.
Isa. 56:7
"My house" is for prayer
where I will meet you,
cross the threshold in anticipation...
Transformation,
re-forming,
molding a new thing out of
a blob of unclean clay.
Lay down the reins,
pull over,
turn off your wireless connections
and
mute the voices of
- worry
- doubt
- cynicism
Sink into His presence
and be
trans - formed.
---
The miry, murky dungeon of despair
pulls at my feet -
these feet of clay -
but I want to look up,
want to dance
so there must be missteps
and clumsy
flub ups
and bruised toes.
Offer me your hand, Lord,
and ask me to
be your partner.
Malformed as I am,
I will
take your hand in mine
and
let you lead.
