Last semester I took a class called Perspectives on
Communications. Our conversation settled for a while on the topic of
co-creation—a favorite of Dr. Cobbey and Madeleine L'Engle— about what it means
to create things as creations of God. We make along side the Maker, a beautiful
example of God working redemption through our hands and our minds. All things
are made through Him, and sometimes He uses us to make them.
While I planned to practice co-creating in Washington DC, constructing a healthy political environment in one fail swoop as a summer intern, I ended up in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina at Camp Merri-Mac teaching DIY crafts.
This type of co-creation was much more literal than expected, it felt much more trite and I struggled to find the theological purpose of friendship bracelets and knick-knacks. A dear friend, wiser and craftier than I, a woman who sees the beauty of every small vignette she encounters, extolled the value of making small things. She encouraged me to see past the seemingly average activities I could be doing to find the truth of DIY crafts, to teach theology through macramé and modge-podge without uttering a Bible verse.
I have recently been obsessed with the Imago Dei, turning every situation into an example of our image bearing, and she challenged me to do the same at camp but in action instead of in the scholarly commotion in which I encompass myself. Instead of just thinking and talking about being the Image of God, to participate actively in my kinship with Christ through making.
As I prepared, this was the posture I took upon myself: I would teach skills and generosity, not make random crap. Somehow I would reveal co-creation to the 6 year old and the 16 year old alike. I would show them how valuable they were in the image of God and how beautiful God was—all with scissors and glue sticks. Yes, I would do this.
Feebly, I attempted. The last point of my safety talk, after "you better listen to me" and "don't eat the glue sticks," was less safety related and felt clichéd as I recited:"There are no mistakes here, everything you make is beautiful and if it isn’t it will be soon. We make things because God makes things and we are made in his image, so lets be a little more like Jesus and make some crafts.”This line, “let’s be a little more like Jesus and make some crafts” became something of a catch phrase that echoed in my head eight-safety talks later. It had stumbled out of my mouth the first time and I almost laughed at myself when it did, how silly I sounded. Yet, I reflected I realized it was an act of grace. God was teaching me about his image as I attempted to teach about his image. Because when we make crafts we are a little more like Jesus, who stood over the empty waters and made something out of nothing; so we stand over empty tables and we make things too.
I had joked before leaving with that same beauty-finding friend, about preaching theology about co-creation over the girls as they made friendship bracelets. I felt foolish attempting to do so in my own power, during my safety talk and with the small life lessons I had to impart tied into cross-stitching knots. It seemed instead that I was being preached to, by their small hands and wild imaginations taking projects and making them art, useful and generous, recycled and restorative.
To show a girl how something discarded can turn into something beautiful in her hands or to watch her face as she makes something promptly to give it away as a gift; to establish her by validating the products of her imagination or to empower her by showing her she can indeed conquer small frustrations— this is deep theology.
For the ridged and uncreative perfectionist I am it has been not only deep but hard theology. To tell a room of fifteen girls that there are no mistakes is a difficult rule to maintain. It is much easier to look at something you think is gauche and attempt to push it to a cleaner aesthetic than to encourage the beauty of a six-year-old’s ingenuity. It is much easier to give up on the girl who just isn’t understanding the cross part of cross stitching than it is the keep repeating, “No, you are not bad at this, you just are not good yet. You will be good soon, so soon” as you untangle her knots. This became even harder as I worked along side them. I miscounted my long term cross stitching project and it turned out catawampus, to which I complained aloud, and to which a camper promptly replied “there are no mistakes in DIY crafts, Hannah!” Talk about deep and hard theology.
To create a space where girls are not afraid to try anything because they know that there is no failing, a space where the things she thinks and makes are beautiful, is to create a space where God is present. God has been present, along side the North Carolina humidity, in the top room of an old barn with a tin roof where I make crafts four hours a day.
There have been few times when I have seen the image of God more fully than in a first grader proudly explaining why she put which magazine cut-out pictures on her collage journal. There is power in creating things, power in expressing ourselves through simple making, by allowing the image of God in us to manifest itself through our hands. There have been few times when I have felt the empowering force of redemption more fully than when seeing a thirteen year old go from frustratedly making knots to enthusiastically tying anchoring the final cross-stitch on her monogram. Learning to create again has shown me how empowering redemption can be when we find it tangibly. The restoration of the Gospel is so easily found if you take the time to look.
Augustine and Aquinas never revealed the truth of image bearing as well as four periods a day of DIY Crafts. I’ve never understood co-creation better than after a month of chopped magazine scrap sweeping, friendship bracelet string cutting, and small-eyed needle threading. I have seen the face of God so clearly in the motivated smiles, nimble hands, and wild minds of campers. Here’s to another month and a half of seeing so much more.
-H
While I planned to practice co-creating in Washington DC, constructing a healthy political environment in one fail swoop as a summer intern, I ended up in the Blue Ridge Mountains of North Carolina at Camp Merri-Mac teaching DIY crafts.
This type of co-creation was much more literal than expected, it felt much more trite and I struggled to find the theological purpose of friendship bracelets and knick-knacks. A dear friend, wiser and craftier than I, a woman who sees the beauty of every small vignette she encounters, extolled the value of making small things. She encouraged me to see past the seemingly average activities I could be doing to find the truth of DIY crafts, to teach theology through macramé and modge-podge without uttering a Bible verse.
I have recently been obsessed with the Imago Dei, turning every situation into an example of our image bearing, and she challenged me to do the same at camp but in action instead of in the scholarly commotion in which I encompass myself. Instead of just thinking and talking about being the Image of God, to participate actively in my kinship with Christ through making.
As I prepared, this was the posture I took upon myself: I would teach skills and generosity, not make random crap. Somehow I would reveal co-creation to the 6 year old and the 16 year old alike. I would show them how valuable they were in the image of God and how beautiful God was—all with scissors and glue sticks. Yes, I would do this.
Feebly, I attempted. The last point of my safety talk, after "you better listen to me" and "don't eat the glue sticks," was less safety related and felt clichéd as I recited:"There are no mistakes here, everything you make is beautiful and if it isn’t it will be soon. We make things because God makes things and we are made in his image, so lets be a little more like Jesus and make some crafts.”This line, “let’s be a little more like Jesus and make some crafts” became something of a catch phrase that echoed in my head eight-safety talks later. It had stumbled out of my mouth the first time and I almost laughed at myself when it did, how silly I sounded. Yet, I reflected I realized it was an act of grace. God was teaching me about his image as I attempted to teach about his image. Because when we make crafts we are a little more like Jesus, who stood over the empty waters and made something out of nothing; so we stand over empty tables and we make things too.
I had joked before leaving with that same beauty-finding friend, about preaching theology about co-creation over the girls as they made friendship bracelets. I felt foolish attempting to do so in my own power, during my safety talk and with the small life lessons I had to impart tied into cross-stitching knots. It seemed instead that I was being preached to, by their small hands and wild imaginations taking projects and making them art, useful and generous, recycled and restorative.
To show a girl how something discarded can turn into something beautiful in her hands or to watch her face as she makes something promptly to give it away as a gift; to establish her by validating the products of her imagination or to empower her by showing her she can indeed conquer small frustrations— this is deep theology.
For the ridged and uncreative perfectionist I am it has been not only deep but hard theology. To tell a room of fifteen girls that there are no mistakes is a difficult rule to maintain. It is much easier to look at something you think is gauche and attempt to push it to a cleaner aesthetic than to encourage the beauty of a six-year-old’s ingenuity. It is much easier to give up on the girl who just isn’t understanding the cross part of cross stitching than it is the keep repeating, “No, you are not bad at this, you just are not good yet. You will be good soon, so soon” as you untangle her knots. This became even harder as I worked along side them. I miscounted my long term cross stitching project and it turned out catawampus, to which I complained aloud, and to which a camper promptly replied “there are no mistakes in DIY crafts, Hannah!” Talk about deep and hard theology.
To create a space where girls are not afraid to try anything because they know that there is no failing, a space where the things she thinks and makes are beautiful, is to create a space where God is present. God has been present, along side the North Carolina humidity, in the top room of an old barn with a tin roof where I make crafts four hours a day.
There have been few times when I have seen the image of God more fully than in a first grader proudly explaining why she put which magazine cut-out pictures on her collage journal. There is power in creating things, power in expressing ourselves through simple making, by allowing the image of God in us to manifest itself through our hands. There have been few times when I have felt the empowering force of redemption more fully than when seeing a thirteen year old go from frustratedly making knots to enthusiastically tying anchoring the final cross-stitch on her monogram. Learning to create again has shown me how empowering redemption can be when we find it tangibly. The restoration of the Gospel is so easily found if you take the time to look.
Augustine and Aquinas never revealed the truth of image bearing as well as four periods a day of DIY Crafts. I’ve never understood co-creation better than after a month of chopped magazine scrap sweeping, friendship bracelet string cutting, and small-eyed needle threading. I have seen the face of God so clearly in the motivated smiles, nimble hands, and wild minds of campers. Here’s to another month and a half of seeing so much more.
