the art of perception

This month's issue of Smithsonian magazine features a fascinating article written by Neal Hirschfeld titled "Teaching Cops to See," which describes how art historian Amy Herman helps police officers refine their observational skills. In her course "The Art of Perception," Herman challenges officers to interpret the scenes depicted in various works of art without allowing them to read the associated labels. She also forbids them from using the words "obviously" or "clearly" as they describe what they see, since what one person thinks is obvious may not be clear to someone else. The goal of the course is to help officers fine-tune their attention to detail, a critical skill in the crime-prevention/solving business.

At one of her classes at the Metropolitan Museum of Art, Herman showed a group of NYPD captains a painting by Caravaggio (see above). Noting the coins on the table and the men's gestures, the officers assumed that a crime had taken place and the guilty party was being fingered. After their discussion, Herman revealed the truth: the painting was titled The Calling of St. Matthew. The young man hunched over the coins is Matthew, the tax collector, and the finger-pointing man in the shadows is Jesus Christ: "As Jesus went on from there, He saw a man named Matthew sitting at the tax collector's booth. 'Follow me,' he told him, and Matthew got up and followed him" (Matthew 9:9).

Reflecting on what he had learned in Herman's class, one officer commented, "Amy taught us that to be successful, you have to think outside the box. Don't just look at a picture and see a picture. See what's happening."

After reading the article, I thought about my own powers of observation. How often do I allow preconceived ideas to influence how I read a given situation? What details am I overlooking? What context is missing? Where is God in the midst of the scene and how is He calling me to respond? It's time for me to learn to think outside the box.

patience

"Don't pray for patience," some folks warn, "or you'll get it!" Somehow I don't think that a prayer for patience is a trigger for God to orchestrate a difficult set of circumstances in order to allow us to get on-the-job experience in the field of patience development. Instead, I believe that when we pray for patience, the Holy Spirit convicts us of our pre-existing impatient tendencies, prompting us to examine ourselves to uncover the reasons why waiting gets us so riled up.

During the past two days, I have had ample opportunities to reflect on whether or not I am making patient progress. On Monday I sat for nearly three hours with my parents in an uncomfortable oncologist's office waiting to get a report on my mother's recent scans. On Tuesday I sat in a hospital room for six hours with a friend while her husband underwent surgery. In both cases, I had expected a lesser wait. But in both cases, I kept frustration (and worry) at bay by refocusing my attention. Where was God in the midst of these situations? What good could I find in these extended periods of waiting?

“Patience is not an additive we take to withstand the perils of life, but rather an opening up and breathing in trust as we hope that God is indeed with us as we wait,” Bill Kees wrote. Waiting is never easy, even when you're anticipating that something wonderful is about to happen, but God is indeed with us as we wait.

"Therefore, as God's chosen people, holy and dearly loved, clothe yourselves with compassion, kindness, humility, gentleness and patience" (Colossians 3:12).

praying the Psalms

I have recently returned to the practice of using Robert Benson's book Venite during my times of prayer. The book grew out of Benson's personal attempt to find a way to participate in the ancient prayer. I love the rhythms of the daily Offices, and even as I offer these prayers alone, I am aware that countless others are observing the same practice, praying the same words privately and corporately in faith communities around the world. The pattern of praise, confession, hearing the Word, and going forth is profoundly meaningful. I particularly love praying through the psalms in a 31-day cycle, and the timelessness of the psalmist's words never ceases to amaze me.

When I awoke this morning, I was mindful of the date - September 11. My mind drifted back to the events of 2001, and I prayed for those whose grief is heightened by this anniversary. Then I opened Venite and began to observe the Morning Office. The first of the three psalms to be read for the morning of the eleventh day of the month is Psalm 56: "Have mercy on us, for our enemy is hounding us. All day long the enemy assaults us and oppresses us. But whenever we are afraid, we shall put our trust in You. In You, Whose Word we praise, in You we trust and will not be afraid. You have noted our lamentations, and collected our tears in Your bottle. Are they not recorded in Your book?"

How those words must have resonated in the hearts and minds of those who uttered the ancient prayer on that morning eight years ago! Once again, God's Word strikes a deep chord. "In You, whose Word we praise, in You we trust and will not be afraid." Good words for the day. God's Word for the day.

walking on a leash

On my morning walk at Radnor Lake, I encountered a young woman who was trying to walk a Cavalier King Charles Spaniel on a leash. I emphasize the word "trying" because the woman was heading up the hill while the puppy was attempting to travel in the opposite direction. When the woman saw me watching her struggle, she explained with a smile, "We're still trying to learn how to walk on a leash."

As I watched the dog straining to distance himself from his master, a stanza from Robert Robinson's classic hymn "Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing" popped into my mind:

"O to grace how great a debtor
Daily I’m constrained to be!
Let Thy goodness, like a fetter,
Bind my wandering heart to Thee.
Prone to wander, Lord, I feel it,
Prone to leave the God I love;
Here’s my heart, O take and seal it,
Seal it for Thy courts above."

Like the spaniel, I'm still learning how to walk on a leash. Like the spaniel, I am prone to wander. Like the spaniel, I need to be bound to my Master.