The Living Artist

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The artist, done right, is an arm pointed up and a loud voice, one that shouts There is more to this than you and me. The one who, rather than just muttering to himself, mutters clearly and purposefully into a microphone to speak truth, to sing truth, and to smile while doing it. Who worships in breakfast, lunch, dinner, and everything in between. A drum in his hands and guitar at his fingers are alive, or a paint brush, held firmly, a second mouth with which to praise through color.

An artist is joyful, but dissatisfied. Fully enjoying the metaphor of this life, but longing for the reality of the next. And he just can’t shut up about it (in the best possible way). This tongue, these hands, these lungs- were they not meant to be used?! he cries. Songs worshiping his Father, depicting Him, glorifying Him, burst from his lips like tall tales from a seven year old, except these are true, only failing in that they can not be more true.

He, whether toting brush, camera, shaker, or pen, is a miraculous spot of color in a black and white photo; infinite glory for but a moment grasped. He is always doing something – bringing tears to your eyes, or an ache in your heart, or a smile that tugs at the corners of your mouth like an overexcited dentist.

The artist speaks/writes/sings of death with certainty, courage, humility, but knows that only in death can he be truly Alive. That death is reaching for the Unattainable, and having the Unattainable reach back with broken body and nail-torn hands. The artist is, more than anything, alive, and made immortal in his trust, love, and faith in the One who is greater.

Praising God for Jeremy Erickson, an artist who will never, ever die.


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