Sacred Art

The Wedding at Cana is my favorite text because there is a lot of humor in it. There's humor in a mother approaching her son and telling him to do something without ever actually telling him to do it. There's his pouty resistance to his mother's non-demand while she completely ignores him and paints him in a corner. There is humor in a raucous wedding reception where the people are so "lit" that the wine has run out. And, for me, it's particularly humorous that there's this huge, beautiful secret of which only a few people are aware.

Those people include Jesus' mother and the select servants who help him pull off the miracle that inaugurates his ministry. Servants are normally meant to be inconspicuous, so I wanted to focus on the servant who goes to the chief steward with a cup full of what, as far as he's concerned, is water.

If Jesus—whose ministry has not started, so there haven't been any wonders associated with him yet—tells you to fill jars with water and draw from the jar to give to the chief steward, what is going through your mind at that moment? I invite the viewer to focus on this servant and all his curiosity and expectation, and think of a time when you were surprised by something God did. What actions preceded the miracle? Did it make sense? What did you know, and what was hidden from you? What "secrets" might God be keeping from you now as God works clandestinely on your behalf?

—Rev. T. Denise Anderson

Loose mustard seeds are nearly impossible to contain. They drift and scatter with the slightest breeze, asserting their own unruly will much like the mustard plants themselves. The mustard plant, dismissed as invasive weeds by some, is cultivated for healing and nourishment by others. Even now, after completing this piece, I am still finding stray seeds in my laundry, my car, my hair.

"They tried to bury us; they didn't know we were seeds," a line attributed to Greek poet Dinos Christianopoulos, has become a rallying cry for separated families along the Mexican-American border. More than a century earlier, Toussaint Louverture—the formerly enslaved commander of the self-emancipated army of Black cultivators in Saint-Domingue (colonial Haiti)—voiced a similar belief upon his deportation and imprisonment in France: "You have done no more than cut down the trunk of the tree of Black liberty. . . It will spring back from the roots, for they are numerous and deep."

From the Corn Mother of Indigenous myth to African women braiding okra seeds into their hair as they were forced from their homelands, many of our ancestors understood the power of carrying life in its smallest form. Seed-carrying is an act of faith. These tiny, unassuming specks hold the audacious hope that wherever we go, we already have what we need to take root and flourish in strange and foreign soils. May our faith and our hopes be just as audacious, resilient, and uncontainable as the seeds which hold the fruits of our faith.

—Carmelle Beaugelin Caldwell

Ladies love Cool Jesus. For real. Women absolutely loved Jesus, and the woman with the alabaster jar is a great example of that. Who else shows up to an event unannounced with expensive oils to not only anoint someone's feet but to then offer their tears and use their hair to wipe the feet clean? I don't think people comprehend the drama within that part of the story. This was an act of love, admiration, and prophecy. To me, this interpretation of the story gives the woman the attention she deserves.

When I thought about the theme, Tell Me Something Good, I realized I had spent much of my year guest preaching at classic church buildings with stained glass windows which told the parishioners the good news of Jesus. It felt most appropriate to bring the concept of stained glass into my art. Instead of the maximalist collage approach that I often use, I chose to let the paint tell the story. The color choice is both bright and vibrant yet softer than other pieces. I selected the yellow purposely to contrast the purple hair. In an attempt to clearly separate the blue sky glass from the rest of the piece, I layered patterns with a red/pink color scale to make the art pop, emphasizing the distinct glass shapes one could find on a church window.

Several aspects of the piece are deconstructed, such as the woman's head and the foot of Jesus, both detached from bodies. I intentionally emphasize these elements to not distract us from the core of the story. The woman was intimately entwined with the feet of Jesus, her hair entangled with his leg. She released tears that would nourish his toes as the rich oil replenished his skin. To be cared for, to be seen, to be loved, that is something good.

—Rev. Nicolette Faison

Throughout Matthew's Gospel, Jesus uses diminutive language to refer to people of importance and describes small, humble things (like sheep, lilies, and sparrows) as precious. He uses a mustard seed in a parable about faith, and tells his disciples to be like children. For Matthew's Jesus, little is a big deal!

For that reason, we should pay attention to Jesus' use of the word "least" in this text. In a book where Jesus talks about little things being loved, the word "least" here takes on new meaning: most loved. Indeed, God loves everyone, but there are certainly those for whom God has a special affinity. As the Confession of Belhar states, "God is in a special way the God of the destitute, the poor, and the wronged."

As I meditated on this scripture, the image of a doorway kept emerging, perhaps because the text wrestles with the notion of who is in and who is out. This piece shows an excerpt of the text and the word "least" is, ironically, the largest. Next to it is a door that is partially open, and there is some ambiguity intended in that. Is the door being opened or closed? For whom is the door opening or closing? From the viewer's perspective, on what "side" of the door do they find themselves? Are they being invited in or kept out? Are they doing the inviting or the excluding? In the same way Jesus asks the nations to consider where they will be in his eschatological vision, I invite the viewer to consider where they are relative to where God is. Where does the Savior see you? Where does your neighbor see you?

—Rev. T. Denise Anderson

In this account from Mark, Jesus had compassion. This word, splagchnizomai in Greek, comes from the root splagchnon (meaning "bowels") which has a sense of a visceral, gut-level form of compassion. It intrigues me that this deep, embodied compassion prompted Jesus to teach.

Leading up to this moment, Jesus is trying to get away, to rest. His disciples row him toward the people; however, he is compelled by compassion to teach. As he is teaching, I imagine the crowd turning to one another—What did he say?—repeating his words, passing them along.

In this artwork, the elements of the story are framed in a stained glass window design. Centered, the people gather in circles, passing the scarcely abundant food to one another. Waves encircle the crowd, representing the twelve disciples. The outer architectural elements portray the twelve baskets full of pieces of bread and fish—a representation of abundance from scarcity, powered by collective belief.

Jesus did not have a microphone. It was the people in the front who passed the still, small voice of God back to those behind them. It was the people in the front who passed more than enough food back to those who were hungry. In our propaganda-filled global information system, we must remember: God is not holding the mic. God is present in the still, small voice and in the smallest offerings, multiplying one by one. The message, the compassion, the corners of bread, and the pieces of fish all return in abundance.

—Hannah Garrity

I read this Ephesians text alongside the feeding of the five thousand. I placed Jesus at the center of the image, but he did not feed the crowds alone. He asked his disciples to offer what they had. They responded with meager resources, yet those small gifts were enough.

Through the lens of Ephesians, if Jesus were to ask us today what we have to give, our answer would be: We have the power you have given us to do the impossible. The same power that turned five loaves and two fish into a feast for thousands—with leftovers—empowers us "to accomplish far more abundantly than all we can ask or imagine." Do we allow this truth to settle into our bones and animate our actions?

I'll admit, I tried to avoid this passage because it felt overly optimistic in light of today's world. People still go hungry. Wars rage. The earth groans under our misuse. Yet if we reimagine the systems we created, studies show it is possible for every human being to have what they need. That would require massive restructuring, international cooperation, and the reallocation of resources—but not more than we already possess. We don't need a miracle of multiplication. We simply need to use what we've been given.

In a world convinced of scarcity, this is astonishingly good news. We already have enough. And as my mentor used to say, "Enough is abundance." What will we do with this abundance? Is it too lofty to dream of a world that sustains all of life? Perhaps. Yet I believe it is God's own desire that all may have life, and have it abundantly. This is the work before us, accomplished through the power at work within us, through Jesus Christ. Amen.

—Rev. Lauren Wright Pittman

For my little niece, Angelina, whose art rests at the heart of this composition, and in whose joy we glimpse the Kingdom of God—alongside her sisters, Angelika and Ariana.

At the center of this work is a drawing made by my five-year-old niece, Angelina. I watched her joyfully scribble it in under three minutes, churning out drawing after drawing and handing each one to me with an eager smile. In this piece, she first drew a self-portrait (her wearing a crown), then graciously decided to include me (taking some creative liberties in giving me a third arm!).

I imagine the scene in Matthew 19: toddlers wailing, little ones slipping from their parents' arms, parents offering apologetic glances toward the frowning disciples as the scene around Jesus grows increasingly disorderly and loud. Those of us who've participated in group infant baptisms and baby dedications (when one cries, the chain reaction begins!), have led children's sermon moments with restless kids squirming about, or had the joy of watching our little ones participate in a kids' choir performance that goes delightfully rogue, can easily relate.

The disciples, feeling the weight of being seen as serious leaders alongside their rabbi, Jesus, may have tried to preserve a sense of reverence by shooing away the parents bringing their children to him. Yet here, Jesus reorients his disciples (and us) away from the illusion of control and reminds us that it is the joyful, unruly, sincere presence of a child to whom the kingdom truly belongs. Just a chapter earlier, in Matthew 18, Jesus tells his followers that unless they become like little children, they will not even enter the kingdom. Surely the disciples thought Jesus couldn't mean that literally—right?

While I've been busy making art, Angelina has been busy being an artist. I surely could learn a thing or two from her about inheriting the kingdom.

—Carmelle Beaugelin Caldwell

They keep taking my neighbors. Chicago and other cities associated with the Democratic party are going through a humanitarian crisis under a fascist regime. Cars are being left vacant on random blocks and parking lots. People are being disappeared while their children are being zip-tied at 3 a.m. We clergy and religious leaders have been shot with pepper spray and rubber bullets while demanding the freedom of our neighbors. No one deserves to live like this. This piece does not truly capture the pain I hold every day, between keeping track of what is happening in Gaza, resisting fascism, and dealing with yet another economic collapse under capitalism.

But let me tell you something good. . . I still believe in humanity. When I watched people in Gaza prepare basic meals to break their fast during Ramadan during a genocide, I saw something good. When local neighbors saw our public vigil for disappeared people and chose to join us for a time of lament, I saw something good. When Colin Kaepernick paid for the independent autopsy of one of the Black men recently lynched, I saw something good. The good is people still choosing to be empathetic and compassionate in times of crisis. That is what Christ calls us to be.

The stranger who enters foreign land is often forced to flee their own home. It is rare for people to risk their entire livelihood and their family for anything other than necessity. For that reason, each portrait has a halo deeming them holy, sacred, and divine. I used sparkling gold paper to break up each distinct image. Look deeply at these portraits. The top left is inspired by the Maasai people, a nomadic group that dwells across borders. The top right image is an indigenous woman and her child, a nod to Mary and Jesus. She has a red palm across her mouth which is a tribute to Missing and Murdered Indigenous Women and "Two-Spirit" people. The bottom left is a slightly aging man from Mesoamerica. The bottom right is a woman in hijab, which is commonly targeted in Islamophobic spaces. Look at the people some consider to be a threat. Look at our neighbors. Migrants are sacred. Fuera ICE.

—Rev. Nicolette Faison

I often wonder about the backstory of the woman from John 8:2-11. What were her circumstances? How did they "catch" her in the act of adultery? In flagrante delicto? Was it less graphic than that? Was she allowed to explain herself? Did she protest? If she was about to be stoned, what happened to the person with whom she was accused? Was this a loving relationship? Was it even consensual?

Whatever her story, the Pharisees bring her to Jesus expecting him to uphold the law's punitive prescription. Jesus knows it's a trap. If he concurs with the law, he initiates and must bear witness to an act of extreme brutality that would traumatize anyone who had to watch. If he counters the law, he's a heretic and should probably be stoned himself. But he outsmarts them and turns their self-righteousness and rage back onto them.

In what should have been the end of her life's story, this woman now finds herself standing. Whole. Alive. Freed to a new future. And through it all, Jesus is just drawing on the ground—like you do!

I wanted to show this woman standing in her wholeness, right after the crowds have dispersed and right before Jesus rises to meet her as an equal. She's backlit in a way that suggests the sun has set, indicating the end of a saga. What will she do at the end of a nightmare with a new life ahead of her? What decisions do we face at the dawn of a second chance?

—Rev. T. Denise Anderson

In this series of scriptures, gathered crowds drew my attention. Jesus always drew a crowd, but so did the voices of hate in his time. In our current historic moment, this dichotomy of crowds for justice and crowds for injustice confounds me. Are all crowds worthy of joining? In the background of this piece, I dyed and collaged together torn newspaper, representing the fabric of the world, to portray the cacophony of crowds gathering. What is drawing them in? Is everything that compels us to gather right and good? No.

The clarity comes in this scripture: "For you tithe mint, dill, and cumin and have neglected the weightier matters of the law: justice and mercy and faith" (Matthew 23:23). Most especially, in the context of Jesus denouncing the scribes and Pharisees, the crucial point is that gathering to enact justice is good and gathering to enact injustice is not.

The crowd depicted in this artwork is inspired by the 100,000 who gathered strong in Budapest, Hungary, in June, 2025. The Hungarian parliament had outlawed Pride as part of a larger systemic effort to take away the rights of the LGBTQIA+ community in Hungary, and a "wider effort to curb democratic freedoms ahead of a hotly contested national election next year."

In the four corners of the artwork, symbols of justice, mercy, and faithfulness echo the clarity of Jesus. Gathering for justice is the work of the gospel.

—Hannah Garrity