No Accounting for Taste

by Jenny Lippert

Recently, my husband and I were hit by a wave of nostalgia for oldies Christian music. I don’t remember exactly how it came up, but we soon found ourselves amazed at how many Michael W. Smith, Amy Grant, and DC Talk songs we still remembered all the words to.¹ Most significantly, through this jaunt back in time, we rediscovered the earthy, honest music of Rich Mullins, which came back to me like an old childhood friend. Roll your eyes as much as you want at the lyrics of “Awesome God”, you still get the sense that it’s at least a more honest attempt at worship than a calculated marketing piece to a bland Christian demographic. And this quality of honest attempt and failure I have found these past couple of months to be a Rich Mullins theme. Through a bit of youtube rabbitholing, I found myself not only remembering how much I had enjoyed his music (and still do), but also found myself developing a deeper affection for the man himself.

Referred to as the “uneasy conscience” of Christian music, he retreated from the evangelical Christian music scene to move to a Navajo Reservation in New Mexico. When asked about why he chose to move, he responded, “I think I just got tired of a White, Evangelical, middle class perspective on God, and I thought I would have more luck finding Christ among the Pagan Navajos.”² Woah.

I dislike sentimentality. Fluffy talk and feely-goodiness activates my gag reflex and makes me want to punch something. It isn’t real, it isn’t genuine, and it isn’t nourishing. This aversion to empty niceties or sweet nothings also extends to art and music. If it savors of something secondary--something which depends on pre-conditioned responses to saccharine symbology, count me out. This is why the music of Rich Mullins so appeals to me, I think.

In between songs at one of his 1997 concerts,³ he brought up the idea of taste. Quoting Picasso, he said he believed that “good taste is the enemy of great art.” He explained, “Good taste has all to do with being cultured and being refined and if art has to do with anything it has to do with being human. And one of the reasons I love the Bible is because the humans in the Bible are not very refined. They’re pretty goofy if you want to know the whole truth about it.” He goes on to say that he doesn’t believe God has any taste.

Initially, I found this statement jarring. If you were to say about another person that they had no taste, it would be pretty insulting. So, why is it so hopeful when asserted about God?

I started thinking about what “taste” is, and why we seem to value it so much. One type of taste, that is preferences for things, is pretty innocuous. You like vanilla ice cream and I like chocolate. Okay.

The type of taste that Rich Mullins is talking about, though, is an ideal or standard that we set up for ourselves--a way for us to separate ourselves into “in” groups and “out” groups.

I started to reflect on all of the ways that I brand myself, what circles I desire to be a part of, and what circles I would refuse to associate with. Even as someone who considers herself rather contrarian and wannabe-edgy, I still cling to certain identities--certain tastes--because they are comfortable. I have my “in” group, and though I may be willing to step out of it for a moment in the name of “charity,” goodness knows I will return to it. My self-identifcation with a clean and easy cliche--a life that I’ve imagined for myself--allows me to ignore those broken, sinful, and weak parts of myself.

But this isn’t reality. And if Scripture is any indication, it seems that God really doesn’t have any taste in terms of his “in” and “out” groups. He chooses the goofballs and the screw-ups and the uncultured. He chooses elderly immigrants to father his people. He works through jealous brothers to save His people from starvation. He uses sinful kings to build up His kingdom. He makes a pagan prostitute a heroine who harbors His spies. He uses his eccentric cousin, clothed in a hair garment, to proclaim his coming. He chooses a peasant girl to be His home on earth.



In short, he chooses humanity. And any attempt I make to insulate myself in anything less than human insulates me from Him. The taste of human standards is not God’s taste. And the more I align myself to human cliques and ideas, the more opaque my life becomes, the less I can be used by God. I make myself into the Hallmark cliche that I so despise.

God glories in our weakness far more than in our “perfect” lives. As Rich said, “[Be]cause God takes the junk of our lives, and he makes the greatest art in the world out of it. And if he was cultured, if he was as civilized as most Christian people wish he was, He would be useless to Christianity. But God is a wild man.”

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1 This may or may not have led to listening to “Secret Ambition” on repeat for the next few days...What a throwback.^↩

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2 This whole interview, despite the poor recording quality, is well worth watching.^↩

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3 Again, the whole bit is worth watching.^↩

Lessons from “Calvary”

by Jenny Lippert

One of my all-time favorite films is the 2014 drama “Calvary.” It follows a week in the life of a Catholic priest, Fr. James (played by Brendan Gleeson), who pastors a small town parish in rural Ireland. The movie provides a very dark look into fallen human nature. The characters of the town are about as broken and sinful as they come. As we follow Fr. James in his ministry, the movie deals with heavy issues like suicide, sexual abuse, domestic violence, adultery, alcoholism, atheism, homicide, prostitution, and even cannibalism. (Perhaps you’ve inferred that this is NOT a family-friendly film.) Other than Fr. James, the people of the town of Sligo approach faith as something—at best—nominal, and—at worst—foolish and contemptible. Each character lives out his or her own kind of despair.

This darkness is more than just individual despair. A major issue in the film is the clerical sexual abuse crisis in Ireland and the failure of the Church to respond. References are made to it throughout the film and even though Fr. James is innocent of any sort of abuse, he endures cruel, lewd remarks, unfounded suspicions, and even a death threat. The hierarchy of the Church is portrayed as disconnected from the concerns of real people and more interested in maintaining a status quo. Despite Fr. James’ seeming impotence in the face of human brokenness (even his own), we see him faithfully, quietly, and humbly serving the people around him.

This film has been on my mind in the wake of the current crisis in the Church. As news began breaking earlier this summer, anger, sadness, and disgust filled me by turns, as well as questions of why, how, and who were involved. I have felt helpless and frustrated and betrayed. I oscillate between a desire to bury my head in the sand and the urge to be responsibly informed.

I will be the first to admit that I am not as knowledgeable about our current crisis as I could be. I have avoided social media and most news outlets because they seemed to show such reactionary, political, and divisive accounts. I find myself overwhelmed by questions of who to trust and what to do. In answer to the doing part of that question, the example of the fictional Fr. James—the silent, faithful ministry of presence—has been edifying.

My first response, too, is silence. Not silence in the sense of remaining unresponsive, but silence as I listen mournfully to our brothers and sisters who have been betrayed—listening without pretensions of an easy fix through human effort. For me, this has not meant seeking out every testimony of abuse that I can get my hands on, but rather has meant keeping informed and truly mourning and standing with victims.

My second response has been fasting and penance. Jesus commands this, and even says that some evils can only be cast out with these weapons. If the Church is truly the Body of Christ, then the things that we do (for good or ill) impact her. We are so profoundly instrumental in the life of the whole. This is why this scandal hurts so much; members of this body have done harm in a very real way. It has reminded me in a sobering manner that my sins, too, harm this sacred body in a real way. And yet it has also given me great hope. While sins and failings cause harm, fasting, prayer, and penance can heal. I am not powerless in the healing of the Church.

When news first broke about former Cardinal McCarrick, I felt a quiet invitation from the Lord at daily Mass to fast that day, and to offer my fasting specifically for him. I have felt that invitation deepen as this period of the Church’s suffering continues. This, by no means, is something great and heroic on my part, but I do believe it to be an invitation to take part in something real and powerful, by the grace of God. Nor does my participation in the Church’s process of spiritual conversion need to be purely invisible.

My husband and I had the opportunity to attend a prayer service for the victims of abuse, organized by a grassroots young adult group. We knelt at the steps of our Cathedral with dozens of other Catholic young adults, petitioning God for healing and guidance. The atmosphere of unity and peace among that group of young adults invoking the graces of the Holy Spirit, was another testament to the power of God working in even the weaknesses of His Church, bringing renewal out of brokenness. That experience of His Spirit at work in a physical gathering, a physical ministry of being present, was another note in the fullness of being Catholic in difficult times.

Perhaps the most comprehensive response to the scandals (so far) has been, for me, to live out my Christian vocation to the best of my ability. To love the people God has put in front of me at each moment. To seek holiness through my marriage, my teaching, my relationships. To glorify God in the little moments of opportunity that He gives me, through little acts of love. To sanctify my small corner of the world, and to till my garden.

The end of the movie “Calvary” is a silent montage of all the various characters, before the movie leaves them to their own devices. Much like real life, the loose ends of all these characters’ stories are not neatly tied up—the issue is still in doubt. There is not a clear moral of the story, and the viewer may be left to wonder if Fr. James made any impact at all. The only hint of his influence is found in one brave person who silently struggles to imitate his example, with what success or sense of fulfillment, we do not know. And yet, it seems to me that his steadfast, quiet presence in the midst of great sin and despair, opened up the possibility of redemption to all those he met. He opened up for them the possibility of selflessness, of finding oneself in giving oneself away, and the possibility of hoping even against apparent hopelessness. As Fr. James says to one despairing penitent, “God is great and the limits of his mercy have not been set.” The decision to receive that mercy or not would remain their own.



Throughout the film, the stunning cinematography pans the rocky crags of Ireland, holding out with the gray waves tirelessly beating against them, a powerful image of God’s mercy on a stony heart, while a few souls venture out to surf the depths. Words attributed to St. Augustine appear on the screen: “Do not despair; one of the thieves was saved. Do not presume; one of the thieves was damned.” The mercy of God still beats on our hearts, and in receiving Him, we can be one more instrument of His besieging of the hearts of the cold, the hurt, the broken, the sinner.

Christ still lives in His broken earthly body. Christ wants to live in you and me.

Heights and Depths and Memoria

by Jenny Lippert

“The glory of God is man fully alive.”

These words of St. Irenaeus came to mind as I gazed upon the cathedral in Chartres, France on my recent honeymoon. Chartres is an architectural gem, rising 371 feet tall, with enormous asymmetric towers, and imposing buttresses all around. The solidness of this centuries-old structure expresses a permanence and stability. It points to something unchanging, and stands in stark contrast to the modern mindset of convenience and ephemera.

I much prefer the cathedral in Chartres to Notre Dame in Paris largely because Paris is so swarming with tourists that one can hardly breathe sometimes. The relative emptiness of Chartres allows me the space to be quiet, to contemplate, and to appreciate the beauty of this great work of art. There is room to breathe and room to pray.

At present, Chartres is somewhat of a unique look back in time. It’s currently in the midst of a dramatic (and apparently controversial) restoration in which nearly 800 years of grime is being cleaned from the interior and it’s being painted to resemble what it would have looked like in the 13th century. The contrast between the restored and unrestored sections of the cathedral are dramatic. The light, colorful nave is so remarkably altered from the dark, grimy sections.

Restored on the left | Unrestored on the right

Not only is the building itself a marvel, but the amount of artistry inside and outside the cathedral is staggering -- meticulous stone reliefs, enormous stained glass windows, statue upon statue upon statue. Hundreds of artists and craftsmen put forth their efforts to enshrine God’s glory in stone and glass.

And yet, there is no signature on this masterpiece. No one knows the names of the architects or artists of Chartres. They remain anonymous to history, though their work endures.

In the rather strange docudrama “F for Fake,” Orson Welles gives a short monologue about Chartres, touching on this very thing:

“You know, it might be just this one anonymous glory of all things, this rich stone forest, this epic chant, this gaiety, this grand, choiring shout of affirmation, which we choose when all our cities are dust, to stand intact, to mark where we have been, to testify to what we had it in us to accomplish [....] Our works in stone, in paint, in print, are spared, some of them for a few decades or a millennium or two, but everything must finally fall in war or wear away into the ultimate and universal ash. [...] A fact of life. We’re going to die. ‘Be of good heart,’ cry the dead artists out of the living past. Our songs will all be silenced — but what of it? Go on singing. Maybe a man’s name doesn’t matter all that much.”

These words echoed in my mind the day after our trip to Chartres when we toured the catacombs under the streets of Paris. The Paris catacombs are an extensive network of tunnels and ossuaries deep underground that contain the bones of more than 6 million people.



Once you get over the initial creepiness of walking through millions of bones, there is a definite sobering effect to the experience. You begin to realize that what you can see on the tour (which seems to go on and on), is really only the tip of the iceberg. As you look on unmarked skull after unmarked skull, you register that each of these belonged to a person, an individual, who had a family and a life and a story and a legacy. Perhaps some of them were great artists, perhaps there were authors, poets, scholars, statesmen. There are no names, only staggering heaps of bones with inscriptions of where they are from and when they were moved. Even King Louis XVI and Marie Antoinette are there, laid to rest in a vast pile of bones with everyone else, in anonymity.

One particular monument features a line of poetry from the poet Gilbert, surrounded by two plaques that read “Silence, mortal beings” and “Vain grandeur, silence.”

Roughly translated (thank you, Google Translate), the poem reads:

At the banquet of life, unfortunate guest,
I appeared one day, and I die:
I die, and on my tomb, where slowly I arrive
No one will come to shed tears.

When our tour guide brought us to this spot, he asked us eagerly if anyone knew of the poet “Gilbert.” Met with silence, he revealed, “that’s the joke. No one has heard of Gilbert.”

The message of this particular monument was to say that you will all end up like these people and your name will not be remembered in the end -- a rather dark message, but perhaps with the ring of truth to it. At some point in the future, our names will likely not be remembered. What will be remembered of us?

Our tour guide pointed out several times inscriptions that denoted a romantic view of life and death. In a nutshell: we will all die, so live life passionately--full of emotion and intensity. This is, perhaps, how many people approach the inevitability of death. If it feels good, do it. Make a splash. #yolo

Inspirational bracelets for sale
in the in-flight catalogue on the way home

On the other hand, we have Chartres -- the unsigned masterpiece. A sacramental sign of God’s truth, goodness, and beauty. A testament to what man can accomplish with God. A “grand, choiring shout of affirmation” about life and humanity and God.

Likely none of us will be tasked with building a great cathedral. But what are we doing with the time given us? What small corner of the world are we quietly and anonymously beautifying? What ground has God given us to till and what will we make of it? In the end, all of our material works will disintegrate. What are we doing to build up God’s kingdom here and now? What are we doing that will bear fruit in eternal life?

Adulting Like a Child

by Jenny Lippert
(the now-married artist formerly known as Jenny Klejeski)

“Look at the birds in the sky;
they do not sow or reap, they gather nothing into barns,
yet your heavenly Father feeds them.
Are not you more important than they?
Can any of you by worrying add a single moment to your life-span?”
-Matt. 6:26-27

My recent wedding brought with it an extended visit from my sisters and their families, meaning my parents’ house was taken over by 7 nieces and nephews, ages five weeks to seven years. There is a particular kind of joy and exhaustion that comes from over and over bumping down the stairs with a 2-year-old, or doing the same sleight-of-hand magic trick for the endlessly stupefied 4-year-old, or soothing a floppy 5-week-old, or repeatedly letting a toddler use your body as a jungle gym, climbing up and flipping upside down.

My oldest nephew, Linus, likes to express himself in superlatives. When I gave him a big push on the swing: “I didn’t think it was possible to go so high!” “I’m a cardinal! I’m a blue jay!” “This is the most fun I’ve ever had!” I think I could have pushed him on the swing 50 times in the same way, and each time would have been the “most fun” for him. He also enthusiastically declared my wedding cake as “the best wedding cake he had ever eaten!” and my wedding dance as “the most fun wedding dance ever!”

His fervent accolades made me giggle, but in another way, caused me to see life through the profoundly genuine, childlike eyes of a 7-year-old. His innocent sincerity made me realize that he really did mean that it was the most fun, or most delicious, or most {insert adjective}. There was a newness and a freshness to each experience for him—an acceptance of things as a wonder-filled gift. It also made me realize how often I use superlatives for cheap effect, as a means of getting a reaction from my audience or as a tired way of trying to imbue meaning into otherwise shallow experiences (e.g. “that is literally the cutest puppy I’ve ever seen,” “you are the worst,” etc. etc.). Reality, rather than being treated as God’s sacramental self-revelation, becomes an arbitrary occasion for me to express myself, to define myself and my own experience, to make of the world a closed-circuit of self-expression.

Linus and his expressions of childlikeness have been bouncing around in my mind in a particular way during these first few weeks of married life. Certainly, these days have been marked with the delighted realization of having joined my life to that of my best friend and the novel excitement of setting up our new home together. Newness is everywhere. But also creeping in are the subtle anxieties of unprecedented adult responsibilities, the desire to categorize and control, and the temptation to fear that I’ll be an inadequate wife.

I want to be the best wife, the best homemaker, the best teacher I can be. And the best Christian. That’s an overwhelming burden. It makes me feel at every moment as if I’m supposed to be doing something else, or being someone else, accomplishing some other goal which feels impossible. Out of this anxiety, I find myself neglecting how God is speaking to me in the moment while frenetically attending to fringe duties with a sense of panic and anxiety. In doing so, I forget entirely what it means to be a child of God, failing to receive the gift of God in the moment, failing to work with the methodical peacefulness and joy, alongside Christ, that life affords me when I approach it rightly. Jesus promises me peace, peace not as the world gives, but as He gives. And He promises it to a disciple still on the journey—to a still-growing child.

My new husband shares my nephew’s childlike tendency to speak in superlatives. Like my nephew, he doesn’t do this, I think, as a mere rhetorical device, but as an authentic expression of how he experiences reality. Just the other day, as we were driving home from dinner and admiring a beautiful sunset, he declared it “the most beautiful evening I can remember.” It was a beautiful evening, to be sure. Was it literally “the most beautiful evening?” Well, it didn’t strike me as so, but maybe that’s simply because I wasn’t paying attention. I wondered if I even had it as a mental possibility to experience things in superlatives anymore. I’ve experienced so many beautiful evenings; is it possible even to expect to have a “most beautiful” one? Or do I just have a category for “beautiful evenings” now, that each new addition gets tossed into, without a moment’s appreciation of its uniqueness and possibility?

What to do about this?

In the Gospel reading at our wedding, Jesus commands, “learn from the way the wild flowers grow. They do not work or spin. But I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was clothed like one of them.” Jesus is inviting me to recognize myself as a flower, a lovely creature that he himself sustains. He is inviting me to enjoy the rains and the sunshine of his grace, and to know that His providence is providing for all that I need. He is inviting me to trust that, with His grace, He is gradually unfolding me, petal by petal into what He desires me to be. He wants me to pay attention to the gift of now and to allow now to be the now-iest now that ever now-ed.

"Do not be afraid, little flock, for your Father has been pleased to give you the kingdom.”
-Luke 12:32