By Lauralee Farrer

Open Call for the New Amateur

As artists we should love the work God has given us; both the art we cannot live without and the jobs God has given us to support it. In fact, we must love — in order to do great work and in order to survive — because no other fuel is strong enough. To paraphrase 1 John, if we do not know love in our art, then we do not know God in it nor do we represent God with it. I’m talking to you now — the artist who is a Christian: if you are doing your art or your job in God’s name without love, you ought to stop.

I am an artist in residence at the Brehm Center for Worship, Theology, and the Arts at Fuller. I want to champion the idea of a new amateur, a lover of one’s work. Amateur comes from the old French, meaning “lover of.” Schooled or unschooled, paid or unpaid, the “lover of” is not driven by money or credentials. You will hear artists say that they cannot turn away from their work because they would die or cease to be themselves without it. There is only one thing that explains the potency behind such an urge to create — it’s because the artist is fueled by love.


Amateurs do by loving — a work ethic that produces profound art and lives. Sadly, the word “amateur” has come to be associated with low quality, which we, as artists of faith, appropriately disdain. In this nefarious twist of meaning we turn away from the power capable of reflecting God. We shouldn’t even have to talk about whether it’s acceptable to do mediocre work in service of the Most High God. God may stretch the canopy of grace to cover your weaknesses and your failures, but you don’t want to start out with that expectation as an artist. We must strive for the best we can offer as amateurs armed with the courage, the insight, and the inspiration necessary for truly transcendent, revolutionary, God-infused work.

And yet success as an artist has come to be associated with money. Professionals make money at their art, preferably enough to live on, and sometimes much more. Sometimes, well-paid professionals come to feel trapped by that money, under the impression that they must work at a form of art they no longer love in order to maintain their standard of living. Sometimes, putting the burden of making a living on your art can be too much for it, akin to treating your art like a pack mule rather than a beloved child. Imagine the disastrous results on the art and on the soul of the artist! Cat Stevens famously left a professional career as a musician claiming, “I’ve returned to being an amateur without any ties or strings attached, which gives me a freedom I never had before.” It was freedom he sought in life and work, and love was the way there.

In ancient Greece, the amateur was the purest form of sportsman — which is why the Olympic games, for most of their history, were strictly non-professional. In the not-so-ancient America of the 1960s, musicians were judged not by how much money they made but by whether or not they had something to say. Martin Scorsese’s documentary on Bob Dylan called No Direction Home observes that the revolutionary artists were consummate amateurs; in fact, that’s what gave their music power. However, the idea that success might be measured in terms other than monetary is so foreign to our view as to appear at least naïve and at worst irresponsible.

Many respectable artists earn money for their work. It is not more noble to work without pay than to work with it. Even the scriptures say that a workman is worthy of his hire. Still, money is an inadequate determiner of whether an artistic work should be done or not. And I say that from within possibly the most expensive art form ever invented: filmmaking. Yes, money is a tool that can make doing the work much easier — like having a hammer to drive a nail rather than a stiletto. But the point is to drive the nail — to do the work!

I cannot count the conversations I have had with artists who find it impossible to conceive of working for anything other than pay, as if the pay were the point: musicians, painters, filmmakers, and singers who agonize over the financial worth of their art or of their time; artists who are actually offended by the idea of working for free, as if their self-worth has been insulted. Curiously, it’s often Christians who have the most disdain for the idea of amateur projects — a natural result of being undervalued and taken advantage of by the church, perhaps.

I have worked with financial resources and without, and the work is hard either way. I find it more difficult to tolerate artists who continually remind everyone of how much they are worth or of how they have to make money. We all have to pay the rent. We all make choices. Where do we get the idea we’re entitled to make money on our art and that we’re failing if we don’t? Often, I find that those whose work seems to be least affected by the tyranny of this thinking are young artists who still feel the fire in their belly or older artists who yearn to feel — once again — the love that propelled them when they were young. Photographer Alfred Eisenstaedt said, “Once the amateur’s naïve approach and humble willingness to learn fades away, the creative spirit of good photography dies with it. Every professional should remain always in his heart an amateur.”

Instinctively, we believe it’s important to do what we love, but it eludes most of us how that is supposed to happen. We have precious little historical examples. Many of the artists we admire ended their own lives in despair, tyrannized by the inability to make life and art work together. Since most of us will live somewhere in that struggle, let’s start talking about how we can successfully live out the twin dicta of faith: to be honorable about our lives and faithful to our callings. Or, as Flaubert put it, “Be calm and orderly in your life so that you may be violent and original in your work.”

Photo: The author on the set of one of her films.

There are many voices claiming that the energy we put into the world is toxic when we are not prompted by love. However, those voices too often conclude that we need to find what makes us happy and make a living from it. But what if you need to make a living at a job that is unloveable so that you can do what you are called to do? Was tent-making Paul’s great passion? What if the thing you love is not something you are likely to make money at? Do you live in denial and ignore the responsibilities of your keep?

Turns out, love is the answer: calm and orderly love (your job) and violent and original love (your art). There’s a difference between those two categories, and naturally, there’s a difference in the character of the love. But whether it’s loving the work you do or doing the work you love, love is the theme. Love the job God has given you for provision — your tent-making — with intent, with dogged determination if that’s what it takes. Love it because it is calm and orderly. (And if it is not, if it steals your creativity and demands your “off” hours, then you need to rethink whether the job is doing what it’s supposed to.)

You also have to do the thing that you love — your art. Do it. Don’t let anything stop you. If it is a calling and God has given the inspiration and the love, how do you dare to not do it because you’re not being “funded”? How will you answer your creator when God asks: what did you do with the talents I gave you? Will you say, “I hid them because no one gave me permission? Because no one paid me what I was worth?” Can you imagine saying that to the all-powerful and empowering God?

There are a lot of ways to make sure your art gets done, and sometimes those ways require painful re-structuring (make a movie on a borrowed flip camera rather than with someone’s million dollars), but the point is that you must do it. As with generosity, you cannot wait until the circumstances are perfect. You must do it especially when the circumstances are wrong. To repeat: love your job, do your art. Most people I know hate their jobs and make excuses for not doing their art.

What kind of art comes out of a person filled up with love on all sides like that? With fear cast out and an endless supply of patience and energy? I am reminded of a story of the desert fathers Lot and Joseph:

Abba Lot went to see Abba Joseph and said to him, “Abba, as far as I can I say my little office, I fast a little, I pray and meditate, I live in peace and as far as I can, I purify my thoughts. What else can I do?”

Then the old man stood up and stretched his hands towards heaven. His fingers became like ten lamps of fire and he said to him, “If you will, you can become all flame.”

This is what I am talking about. Casting out all fear, becoming all love. I can’t guarantee that your work will be profitable. But your life will.

About the Author

Lauralee Farrer is president and principal filmmaker of Burning Heart Productions ; an artist in residence of the Brehm Center for Worship, Theology, and the Arts ; and the senior editor of Fuller’s Theology, News & Notes. The film Praying the Hours — a decade-long endeavor — is her current project combining a feature-length drama alongside a series of eight half-hour episodes that personify the Benedictine hours of prayer through story.

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