Trump and Tikkun Olam


Contemplative crafting: thinking and listening, pondering and praying, replying to Creation with creation, making stuff and making meaning – that’s the practice I am trying to develop and sustain.

But now I’ve done this – these pieces of … art? –  and I don’t understand what it means. I want to be able to explain it, but right now the work is coming from beyond a place of my knowing. I do know it has something to do with the fact that Trump is small and the God of my understanding is great. I know it has to do with the truth that love is greater than hate, or fear, or indifference. I know that it involves my wrestling with the fact – and for me it is a fact – that we are all, without exception, BELOVED children of God. Even Trump? What can that mean? I can not understand. I am repulsed and fascinated by the ugliness in his expressions, by his twisted face, by the evil gleam in his eye and the meanness on his lips. I can’t bear to look and I can’t look away, and I don’t know if the slathering on of love and welcome and blessing and peace makes any sense at all but I feel called – compelled – to do it. I do this as I remember the liturgy at my church and the calls to action there and in my community, as I listen to the no-good news and to podcasts about prayer and pain and peace. I slip back and forth on these snowy indoor days between snipping, assembling, gluing, rearranging and Google searches: Does God love Trump? Does God hate Trump? I ponder anew: Who is God? Who am I? What tiniest bit of Tikkun olam can I offer to this hurting world with my art and my prayers? I have questions, not answers, and for now, I only follow the compulsion to clip another word from the page – love, welcome, grace – and place it on the very source of all those words are not.



a heart full of neart


A bit of crafting created during last weekend’s Celtic Christianity seminar with Carl McColman

This Irish word – neart – is an odd, misspelled-looking little word for a beautiful and expansive concept. It is the idea of the spiritual energy of all living things, of the creative power of God. The ancient Celts asked God to strengthen them with the neart, and it has occurred to more than one person that “May the Force be with you,” might be an appropriate shorthand for wishing that another be blessed and made bold with their personal claim of neart.

I’ve learned this word, and others too, along with stories, poems, and prayers of the earliest Irish peoples in a weekend seminar on Celtic Christianity, presented by the engaging and wise Carl McColman. I’ve returned home reminded that God is not elsewhere, but is in my very breath, my very body, and surely in the breath and body of every atom of this earth and of this universe – how mystical is that?! And beyond that sheer euphoria, what does that mean for living a life?

A few weeks ago, I joined a group of friends from my progressive church to watch a movie, one that would not have been a likely choice for viewing save for the fact that several scenes were filmed in our real-life sanctuary and some of our own congregation members appeared as extras in the worship scenes. The movie is Miracles from Heaven, and it tells the true story of a mom whose faith is tried, trampled, and ultimately restored as her daughter suffers through a rare incurable illness. Like many in our small audience, I came to the viewing with skepticism about the theology of the film, and there were indeed a few scenes that expressed beliefs different than my own. But overall, the story was well-told, well-acted, and well-representative of one family’s experience of making sense of the realities of this life. It was one line popularly attributed to Einstein in an impassioned speech by the mom of the story that has stayed with me since I heard it. That idea is this:

 “There are only two ways to live your life. One is as though nothing is a miracle. The other is as though everything is.

The idea of seeing miracles everywhere, of seeing God’s presence in all places, is older than Einstein (who according to researchers likely never made that specific statement as such, but never mind) and older even than the life of Jesus; Celtic peoples converted to Christianity from a history of seeing gods in all things to seeing God in all things.

Seeing God in all things, sensing miracles everywhere, being strengthened by the creative power of God – that creates a heart full of neart. So may it be for all God’s people – AMEN!

Selling is hard, but eating is good

I’ll be selling my work at a few events this fall – On Saturday, November 11, I’ll be at the Park Avenue Baptist Church Artist Market. A few weeks later, on Saturday, December 2, I’ll be at the North Decatur Presbyterian Church Alternative Gift Fair (link coming soon).

One of my newfound heroes, the late craft artist Paulus Berensohn, speaks so beautifully about creative practice and the challenges around selling one’s work in this beautiful video. He does begin, however, by saying that at one point he sold enough work at a single show to “buy the farm,” and he means that quite literally – I don’t have a farm to buy, but there are bills to pay and meals to eat, so this is how it has to go, at least for now. I dream of a day where I pick up a few 10K grants here and there that allow me to make for the sheer act of creation – someday!

I am delighted with these pieces and the stories they tell. On the back of each piece, I post this note:


They are lovely little artworks, possibly perfect gifts for newlyweds, new homeowners, or friends who offer their hospitality. Mostly I’m centering the mandala around the word welcome, but I’ve also used, peace, love, sanctuary, and other words that appear in these bulletins. If you’d like to request a specific word or set of colors, or just get more information about making a purchase, just email me at ellengadberry [at]

2017 – Twenty seventeen, ten months in and it’s all still a new year

Back on the first day of 2017, my husband and I wished one another a happy new year, as one does. On February 1, we said happy new year again, laughingly agreeing that January was on some level just an arbitrary starting point, and each month since then, it’s been a bit of a game to be the first to offer the little blessing to the other. We’ve already done that TEN times (!!), and I know that in the blink of an eye we’ll be back at January all over again. Before the full onslaught of the Hallothankmas season, though, I want to catalog a few high points from the happy new experiences I’ve had so far in 2017.

Last February, I spent a weekend in Montreat, NC, in a 3-day workshop called “Illuminating the Text,” where I got to put my own two eyes and my own two hands on the exquisite St. John’s Bible. This class was the next in my progress toward a Certificate in Spiritual Formation through the Center for Lifelong Learning at Columbia Theological Seminary. The wise and wonderful Dr. Ann Laird Jones led us through art experiences inspired by the text and illustrations of that exquisite bible, and I truly felt like a kid in a candy store.

In June, I returned to Montreat again to spend an entire week making pottery with Ann and liturgical banners with her colleague Hannah Garrity. Another friend and CTS classmate, Ally Markotich, came along as well and wrote so thoughtfully about the experience on her blog, Creative Soul Kindling. I returned home inspired to create my own art and was fortunate to have summer access to an unused classroom at my church, North Decatur Presbyterian.

July brought a trip with best friends Jake and Marlene Pomeroy to the Wild Goose Festival for four days of art, music and story. It was, as the organizers promise on their website, a “transformational experience grounded in faith-inspired social justice,” and a fun, energizing time. Later that month I led a series of kids’ papermaking workshops on behalf of Paint Love, one of my favorite art initiatives ever.

Things really got hopping in August – I began an eight week course with Atlanta Mindfulness Institute, found a great new friend and creative collaborator in Darci Jaret at Park Avenue Baptist Church, returned to weekly volunteering at Refuge Family Literacy, and started teaching art again for adults at the county jail. Time turned into September in the blink of an eye, which brought another unique opportunity: a weekend workshop called “The Painting Experience,” that was all about the process of letting image come forth from the self through the brush and onto the canvas. I also began a weekly internship at Centerform, a co-working space and “dynamic community of Christian change makers.” And just like that it was October, where on that new year’s day, I attended a silent meditation and yoga retreat with my mindfulness group at Hard Labor Creek State Park, a hidden gem of a state park just an hour away from my home.

I’ve had a lot of new starts and new things going on in 2017! As I look over this list, I can see why I’ve felt fairly scattered for much of this year – I’ve been sowing a lot of seeds and kind of thrown my very self all over the place in the process. There is still more to come, with another course at Montreat this month on Celtic Spirituality, ongoing commitments to teaching art, holiday and family events… perhaps it will not be until sometime after 2018’s first happy new year wishes that I will have a sense of where all of this seed-sowing will lead, what the garden will yield.



Art as Incarnation

Yesterday I attended a Sunday School class on the book, How (Not) to Be Secular: Reading Charles Taylor by James K. A. Smith – I didn’t take notes, but after a conversation today about art, culture, and the church, I remembered that I wanted to get a better overview of Smith’s writing on Taylor’s work, so I went to YouTube and found this 25 minute interview with Smith from Eerdmans Publishing.
I was especially intrigued by the conversation there around “excarnation,” so I Googled “excarnation Taylor” to learn more and landed at this blog post, where there is a reference to Charles Taylor’s definition of excarnation as “the steady disembodying of spiritual life, so that it is less and less carried in deeply meaningful bodily forms, and lies more and more ‘in the head.'” Another blogger has a beautiful response: “So what do we do, as Christians? We rediscover the incarnation: the paradoxical place where the divine and the human occupy the same space without either being diminished by the other: As Taylor says, Christianity, as the faith of the Incarnate God, is denying something essential to itself as long as it remains wedded to forms which excarnate” (p771).
And a Google search for “art as incarnation” led me to a soul-affirming post that says
God allows us to share in [the] power of creation. We are artists, and we are tools in the hand of God. Rather, to be an artist is to be a tool in the hand of God.
The art I am making – hand-drawn mandalas, repurposed paper collages, paper tile mosaics – is not about the made thing, which is a fabulous relief since the end products are lowly and humble in the grand scheme of things (or even in the modest scheme of things.) Instead, the art is in the making itself, in the incarnated expression of creation for creation’s sake, loveliness for loveliness’ sake. It is my communion and my prayer, my chance to be, as Mother Teresa once said “…a little pencil in the hand of a writing God who is sending a love letter to the world.””
And a late-evening addendum: I just got home from week five of the Mindfulness Based Stress Reduction course I’m taking through the Atlanta Mindfulness Institute. The conversation was about strengthening the parasympathetic nervous system in order to be more in the body in order to be more grounded. When I sit in meditation, as when I’m in the flow of creating a piece of art, there are fleeting moments where I can get out of my head and into my body. Different context, but this takes me back to incarnation (and excarnation). Everything’s connected!


Light and dark

The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. John 1:5

Today I’ll be creating scratchboard art with a group of women who have known darkness, that place that feels forlorn and barren and hopeless. We’ll talk for a moment about their experience of the eclipse and what that might symbolize for them. Then, out of the black of the page, we’ll scratch away the dark to reveal the color and light that is already there. While I probably won’t be so explicit with the participants, privately I’ll be reflecting on the ideas of Pelagius, Erigena, and Michelangelo, each of whom had convictions about the goodness within that needs only to be released.

Red roses – and green and blue and yellow ones…

This project took place over two weeks with a group of summer camp kids. The first week, campers tore scrap construction paper and discarded office memos into “coin-sized bits,” tossed them into a blender with some water, then whirred the combo into soupy fibers. The mix was poured into a circular mold over a window screen, squeezed out a bit, and left in the sun to dry. The second week, the dried discs of lumpy, bumpy paper were carefully torn into spirals that were reshaped into colorful rustic roses and mounted onto contrasting color disks to be gifts for mom or mementoes of happy camp crafting.


This is where projects begin – as ponderings! I have way more ideas that I can ever follow through on, and sometimes the ideas are enough in themselves, or serve as springboards to other good ideas. Sometimes I just need to get them onto the computer screen and off the racetrack in my brain. Take a look and let me know what you think!


What is a contemplative practice? James Finley of Center for Action and Contemplation, calls it:

any act, habitually entered into with your whole heart, as a way of awakening, deepening, and sustaining a contemplative experience of the inherent holiness of the present moment. 

This notion of contemplative practice speaks deep and true to the dignity that has been present throughout time and place in the flourishing of a paintbrush, the wielding of an embroidery needle, the sculpting of clay and all making of new things from old that are the hallmarks of the creative spirit.

For me, crafting as both an artistic endeavor and a spiritual one means sinking deeply into a mindful and meditative place of seeing, hearing, imagining and creating. Contemplative crafting yields not only new works but new ways of thinking and knowing and being in the world.

Welcome to Contemplative Crafting, a website designed to affirm and celebrate this truth: We are created to create.