In a post enlightenment world, art seems superfluous. It does not serve any immediately obvious practical purpose. Reading a good work of fiction is not going to help me earn more money. A beautiful painting uses up skills and materials that could have been better spent by the artist helping his neighbour fix his house. Listening to a beautiful symphony is time wasted, time which could have been used to make more money. It seems that art is unnecessary and, in fact, gets in the way of bigger and better things. This notion, however, is completely bogus. The first obvious indicator of this is that we as humans are captivated by good art and continue to create copious amounts of it. Cultures that have sought to suppress good art (like many of the Marxists regimes) have also always seemed to devolve into places of misery and despair. These two things are related. There is something about the creation and enjoyment of art that is tied up with what it means to be human. I came...
I’m called to stand before the throne and, knowing well my countless crimes, must stand and ponder which has caused my lord command my presence here. My father’s sin, ‘fore I was born, alone would forfeit me to death, or for my flight in youthful sins, a fall for which I’ve payed the price. I, a worthless Benjamite, for all my wretched wrongs, am brought to give account without defense, and destitute to justly die. Yet as I fall down in the dust I fell my judge’s steady hand, which stoops to lift me from my grave. He kindly calls me by my name, then leads me to a place prepared. He bids me eat his bread and wine, and that same lord, ‘gainst whom I vied, now seats me at his noble side.