Only Art Can Save Us Now

It was a simple revelation. And by revelation, I mean the lowercase "r," non-supernatural kind. As in the dictionary definition of "a surprising and unknown fact, especially that is made known in a dramatic way."

The message was succinct: only art can save us now.

It was during the first Trump presidency that I came to this awareness. Before this, I had spent a lot of energy trying to move people (mostly conservative, religious people) to change their minds through all manner of persuasion, including speaking, writing, and social media posting. I had even accepted a few invitations to preach at conservative megachurches in the red parts of Pennsylvania and Illinois. I relied on true stories of my encounters with marginalized people to convince and convict hearts and minds to do justly.

I purposefully selected stories that I knew would challenge their political narratives and that would hopefully shift their understanding. I talked about receiving hospitality from immigrants, building bridges with police during Black lives matter protests, being shown compassion by men serving life in prison, and spending an unforgetable night on Lower Wacker drive in downtown Chicago with some homeless friends.

My audacious hope was that hearing these real life stories would not only shift their thinking, it would change the way they live, give, and vote. I knew it wasn't enough to have a personal faith or make a tax-deductible donation, we needed humane and just policy changes.

When 81% of evangelicals reportedly voted for Trump, it was a strong signal, an omen really, that politics superseded religion, or put another way, politics had become its own religion. Whatever the case, it became evident that being paid by evangelicals to tell them about justice may have satisfied a sense of calling in me, but it was not effective at awakening people's conscience, at least not at the polls, where it arguably mattered most.

It was a sobering reality to face, to witness what Ron Sider called "the scandal of the evangelical conscience." Through my doctorate research on mass incarceration, I had discovered a disturbing blindspot for conservative Christians. They were more likely to visit the prisons than liberals, but less likely to advocate for policies that would keep people from being locked up. They were compassionate to individual prisoners, but they weren't able to see, and therefore resist, unjust systems. Their gospel was a modern day slave religion, which sought to address the spiritual condition of those in imprisoned but not help them break free from their physical chains.

Empowered by evangelical support, Trump passed a Muslim ban, built a wall, emboldened white supremacists, and systematically undermined our nation's institutions. He overturned Roe v. Wade, which for many evangelicals covered a multitude of sins. The media, like a dog distracted by a squirrel, was easily manipulated by every outrageous tweet of the president, giving him an endless platform for his divisive and dehumanizing speech.

It was a dark four years of massive lies, distortions, and chaos. Where anything critical of the administration was labeled "fake news." Truth no longer mattered. People preferred the lies over facts, science, and common sense.

For those who did not support Trump, it was four exhausting, depressing, and anxious years. Every day was like waking up with a dark cloud over head. Most of my friends experienced a low key, if not full blown, depression.

Yet it was at this very low moment in world history, that I received the epiphany: only art can save us now!

It was during this time, I started writing fiction. People were too polarized. They weren't listening to those they disagreed with. Conservatives and liberals were both retreating to extreme positions. It was impossible to have civil conversations in this environment.

The only hope I saw of breaking through was fiction. Fiction has always been a medium of truth. Literature and art have a way of holding up mirrors to humanity. Whether it is John Steinbeck writing about the economic conditions during the Great Depression or artist Georges Rouault expressing a vision for humanity during the Great war.

For a while I struggled with the relevance of fiction. Was it overindulgence? Was writing during the Trump administration akin to Nero fiddling while Rome burned?

But no, I realized that art might be the last shelter for truth in an age of spin and misinformation. Art captures the beauty and brutality of humanity. Art makes it hard for us to dismiss injustice. Art calls bull shit to "fake news" and phony leadership.

Connecting through Zoom with an artist friend of mine during the pandemic provided an outlet for creativity, friendship, and hope. My friend and I talked about projects we were working on inspired by Rouault and Hemingway, which we both published later. We reflected on how art was really obsession after all. We couldn't not do it. At the end of a long, tiring day, something within came alive when we turned from the mundane drudgery of life to the creative. We needed to make art like we needed air and food and water. Yes, we hoped our art would have some social impact, but in the urgency of the moment, we needed to make art to stay alive.

Art saves us because art is resistance. My wife, an artist, introduced me to the subversive anti-war artist Otto Dix who said, "art is exorcism." Art exorcises personal and societal demons. Art excavates the soul to plumb it's depths, and fan the embers of hope to flame.

It was also around this time we imagined Story Sanctum, a platform for sacred storytelling. It was a sandbox to play and create. I wanted to invite other artists who had the urge to create to share their work with others. We have published stories and books for numerous first time authors. We have shared stories from people in all parts of the world, in Australia, Trinidad, Cambodia, Africa, Ireland, and people doing a number of day jobs from professors to engineers to retirees to people living on the streets. We centered humanity in a time of rampant dehumanization.

When injustice rears its ugly head, art is often our best defense. It's civil rights leaders singing spirituals as they marched. It's Mexican muralists like Rivera, Orozco, and Siqueiros who left their subversive mark challenging the status quo. It's Marvin Gaye singing "what's going on?" It's poets like Gwendelyn Brooks talking about "an almost desperate reliance on specific human tenderness."

Art isn't always heavy, it can also be humorous and healing. It's silly TikTok dances (R.I.P. TT). It's bad, but uninhibited karaoke singing. It's knitting and finger painting and basket weaving and glass blowing. It's tattoo art and stand-up comedy. It's forming lifeless clay, it's gardening and repurposing discarded objects. Art is really a way of seeing possibilities where they don't yet exist, it's cultivating the essence of life, and projecting our hopes and dreams onto canvas and flesh and abandoned buildings.

When all else fails in society, art is our last resort and our last refuge.

I am not looking forward to the next four years. People's lives will be impacted in negative ways. There will be polarization. Oppression. Protest and unrest.

But I expect this will also be a season of art making. For our own survival, yes, and also for an awakening of conscience.

I for one plan to publish a lot over these next years, my own works and others, fiction and nonfiction stories highlighting our common humanity, what we are fighting against and who we are fighting for.

We may be entering into dark times, when God is co-opted and politics is broken, where institutions fall, and our planet literally burns. A time when despair is as close as our breath and we carry the unbearable weight of trauma in our bodies. But there is light and there is salvation, in art, as obsession and sacred calling, art as exorcism of institutional demons and historical burdens, individual survival and collective liberation, art as story, humanity, community, life, love, and ultimately, audacious and urgent hope.