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MARRIAGE OF THE ARTS


YWAM Discipleship Training School - NUREMBERG 

JMEM Jüngerschaftsschule - NÜRNBERG

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MARRIAGE OF THE ARTS


YWAM Discipleship Training School - NUREMBERG 

JMEM Jüngerschaftsschule - NÜRNBERG

 

start here. go anywhere.

 
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WELCOME TO MOTA


HERE'S WHAT WE'VE DONE. 

WELCOME TO MOTA


HERE'S WHAT WE'VE DONE. 

PHOTOGRAPHY BY MARCO MOLINA

KENYAN PORTRAITS BY STEFAN ZOLTNER


PHOTOGRAPH BY JOEY MASARAEK TAKEN IN INDIA

PHOTOGRAPH BY MARCO MOLINA

DANCING IN AFRICA

VON ZOE TRILLITZSCH

Als meinen Art-Track habe ich Tanz gewählt, da es meine Leidenschaft ist. Nicht weil ich perfekt darin war, geschweige denn bin. Ich hatte seit drei Jahren kein Ballett mehr getanzt, dennoch wollte ich dieser Leidenschaft wieder neuen Raum in meinem Leben geben. Ich hatte noch nie selbst choreografiert, sondern immer das getanzt, was mir jemand vor gemacht hat. Ich hatte nie meine Form oder Art zu tanzen erforscht oder herausgefunden. 

Als ich nach Nürnberg kam wurde ich damit herausgefordert: Wie möchtest du, dass dein Tanz aussieht? Was soll er ausdrücken? 

Als ich dabei war meinen finalen Tanz vor dem Outreach zu choreografieren, hatten wir als MOTA-Studenten die Aussicht, in einigen Wochen die Welt zu bereisen, um Jesus groß zu machen und von Ihm zu erzählen. Egal ob wir uns würdig oder bereit fühlten. Wir waren uns bewusst, dass wir uns nicht selbst dafür ausrüsten können, sondern Jesus allein. Wir mussten Ihm sagen, dass wir da sind und seinem Ruf folgen wollen, egal wo uns das hinführen wird.

Darum habe ich das Leben von Petrus zur Inspiration für diesen Tanz gewählt. Obwohl er ein unperfekter Mensch wie du und ich war, hat Gott Ihn für Unglaubliches gebraucht. Petrus war nicht bereit. Er wusste nicht, wie Alles geht. Doch trotz seiner Fehler, hat er sich immer wieder dazu entschieden, das zu tun, wozu Jesus Ihn, sowie uns alle, berufen hat: Gott und die Menschen zu lieben.

Wo du dabei bist und wie du das machst, ist eigentlich nicht so wichtig. Wenn du dich zur Verfügung stellst, wird er dich benutzen. 

„Aus eigener Kraft sind wir dieser Aufgabe nicht gewachsen; es gibt nichts, was wir uns als Verdienst anrechnen können. Nein, unsere Befähigung verdanken wir Gott“, 2. Korinther 3,5.


PILLALU GIRLS

Embarking on this project brought to my mind the hundreds of portraits of orphans that litter all of our news feeds, tv screens, and the guilt inducing tri-folds on every church’s coffee table. None of those photos represent the children. They represent the circumstances that they are in, and this isn’t okay with me. I painted this series to show these girls’ beauty, and they each contributed their own paintings to show the world the things brewing inside them, because that’s what they should be known by.

BY SARAH DION


PHOTOGRAPHY BY CAMI ROSE TAKEN IN KENYA

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"I wish we had used art in missions"

Pulling threads of vague forgotten hope from our heads, we let self evaluation sheets feed the processing of our time here on Lesvos, Greece. Working to the clockwork of shifts at the refugee camps on the island, we had found little opportunity or even inspiration to use arts, especially in our ministry. Our team was full of creative potential; musicians, fine artists, videographers, photographers, graphic designers- armed with our weaponry of cameras, paintbrushes, and guitars our battle cry had fallen relatively flat in the five weeks spent handing out tea to tired hands, giving dry clothes to people sodden and desperately frozen by the icy crossing of the Turkish/Greek border.  We had created deeply within the confines of our team, sketched on sea rocks, written lyrics and poems and music, but these depths were lost on ears familiar to the truth of what our art carried in it's essence- something of His name.

Time had fled well behind us and we were loaded weary limbed onto a ferry that would carry us twelve hours over choppy waters and under astral night skies to the docks of Athens. Our baggage buried in the deep of the iron ship, we made our way to middle decks of polished wood, heated sofa areas, yellow light cafés and bars. It seemed bizarre that we were surrounded by luxury when just above us, resigned to the sparse top decks were the people who had journeyed across wild lands and dangerous tides only to be segregated from freedom once again.

Two of us prayed for inspiration to minister, and committed to keeping awake against the rocking waves to love on the people sitting above. Then the idea struck up like a match in our heads; we would play them music.

Still, grabbing a guitar seemed like a reckless move, and the view up top confirmed this- people exhausted and asleep in their grey survivors blankets. But there was joy in the room here, quiet but tangible nonetheless. A man pulls out a chair and we sit, and we sweat, and we play. People begin to crowd around us, and we sing, we drum, we play. They begin to take videos, iPhones thrust into our bemused western faces, then they begin to clap, to cheer, to dance. We play on, a crowd gathering, men women, children, and they are all clapping with joy to the songs God has gifted us with. So we begin to declare His name in this place, singing in Spanish how "He Loves Us', singing with joy and genuine love in that moment for the people around, and for our God. Then suddenly they pick up the cry, and they are singing too, this little battalion of refugees, crowded round us with hope, declaring that He loves them. And He does, he loves the faces of His children whom he made with deep, deep affection. The ferry thrums steadily into the night through the salty tides, ports dotted around as gold and silver lights twinkle undeterred from the shore. One AM, 2AM, it doesn't matter, and we stop playing and start listening to the music of the stories they feel compelled to share. A woman is sketched by a team member, a portrait of a daughter beautiful and loved, photos are taken of God's precious children. We are them too.

WRITTEN BY LUCY PETERS / PHOTOGRAPH BY JOANNA ALVAREZ

 

...


"I wish we had used art in missions"

Pulling threads of vague forgotten hope from our heads, we let self evaluation sheets feed the processing of our time here on Lesvos, Greece. Working to the clockwork of shifts at the refugee camps on the island, we had found little opportunity or even inspiration to use arts, especially in our ministry. Our team was full of creative potential; musicians, fine artists, videographers, photographers, graphic designers- armed with our weaponry of cameras, paintbrushes, and guitars our battle cry had fallen relatively flat in the five weeks spent handing out tea to tired hands, giving dry clothes to people sodden and desperately frozen by the icy crossing of the Turkish/Greek border.  We had created deeply within the confines of our team, sketched on sea rocks, written lyrics and poems and music, but these depths were lost on ears familiar to the truth of what our art carried in it's essence- something of His name.

Time had fled well behind us and we were loaded weary limbed onto a ferry that would carry us twelve hours over choppy waters and under astral night skies to the docks of Athens. Our baggage buried in the deep of the iron ship, we made our way to middle decks of polished wood, heated sofa areas, yellow light cafés and bars. It seemed bizarre that we were surrounded by luxury when just above us, resigned to the sparse top decks were the people who had journeyed across wild lands and dangerous tides only to be segregated from freedom once again.

Two of us prayed for inspiration to minister, and committed to keeping awake against the rocking waves to love on the people sitting above. Then the idea struck up like a match in our heads; we would play them music.

Still, grabbing a guitar seemed like a reckless move, and the view up top confirmed this- people exhausted and asleep in their grey survivors blankets. But there was joy in the room here, quiet but tangible nonetheless. A man pulls out a chair and we sit, and we sweat, and we play. People begin to crowd around us, and we sing, we drum, we play. They begin to take videos, iPhones thrust into our bemused western faces, then they begin to clap, to cheer, to dance. We play on, a crowd gathering, men women, children, and they are all clapping with joy to the songs God has gifted us with. So we begin to declare His name in this place, singing in Spanish how "He Loves Us', singing with joy and genuine love in that moment for the people around, and for our God. Then suddenly they pick up the cry, and they are singing too, this little battalion of refugees, crowded round us with hope, declaring that He loves them. And He does, he loves the faces of His children whom he made with deep, deep affection. The ferry thrums steadily into the night through the salty tides, ports dotted around as gold and silver lights twinkle undeterred from the shore. One AM, 2AM, it doesn't matter, and we stop playing and start listening to the music of the stories they feel compelled to share. A woman is sketched by a team member, a portrait of a daughter beautiful and loved, photos are taken of God's precious children. We are them too.

WRITTEN BY LUCY PETERS / PHOTOGRAPH BY JOANNA ALVAREZ

 

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Fashion Outreach in Addis Ababa

WRITING AND PHOTOGRAPHY BY NICOLE ENS

God is faithful in using our passions as a form of reaching the unreached and serving Him. This was proven true to me in the last few weeks of our time in Ethiopia. Since I was young, I have been interested in shooting fashion and working with models. This is something I have pursued for the past few years but I would have never imagined that I would be attending Ethiopian Fashion Week and shooting headshots for model portfolios on outreach in Africa. I have so much appreciation for a DTS that creates space for art as outreach. I can see now that God uses the space we give Him to drop opportunities right in front of us. 

We were walking the streets of downtown Addis Ababa scouting out stylishly dressed individuals to photograph for a street style series with the hopes of starting a good conversation. We approached a girl dressed up who told us she was heading to a fashion show tonight. She invited us to meet her at the venue. Dressed in our thoroughly worn and stained clothing, we decided to attend the event full of stylish Africans designers, models and business people. The fashion show opened up opportunities for us to meet models and the organizer of the event to arrange for our outreach band to play the following night. 

With our whole team prepped in our extremely creative outfits pulled together from each others more stylish pieces, we headed out to take on Ethiopia Fashion Week. As the band played we had conversations with attendees and captured moments of the event. Iwas so fortunate to meet some of the models and set up times for photoshoots. 

Kiya and Bethlehem are models who are striving to work internationally. They captured my attention immediately with their striking appearances. Our plans came together and I was excited to have Shelby, a makeup enthusiast, along to help with makeup for the shoot. It was such a cool opportunity to serve these girls with our interests and abilities. The shoot was improvised to say the least. Makeup was done in the bathroom of a cafe and after being kicked out of the cafe, makeup was done on the streets where men peed. Africa places you in some unique situations. Despite all of the unusual circumstances, the photoshoot was a success and great images were produced for all of our portfolios.

The most meaningful moment during this whole experience was the relationship I developed with one of the models. Over Ethiopian coffee we talked about dreams, aspirations, religion, faith and Jesus. She shared with me her hardships and together we prayed as tears streamed down her face as the power of the holy spirit worked in her heart. This moment, sitting in the cafe, across from my new friend, speaking to our God with honesty was a specific point during outreach that especially stands out to me. It was the moment that gave me faith that God gave us our interests for a purpose and that He desires to use them for his glory when we offer them to Him.

PHOTOGRAPH BY KOBIE VAN JAARSVELD 

ARTWORK BY INDIANA JOHNSON

ARTWORK BY INDIANA JOHNSON

 

PHOTOGRAPHS BY DOUGLAS FREER

PHOTOGRAPH BY ANNA PETZOLD

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I frequently sat with a pen in hand, writing in-genuine  words with a false representation of what I had experienced. I was trying to cover up the hard truths by wrapping them in old bandages stained with another’s blood. It exhausted me.

    Fortunately, I realized I was aloud to be honest. I finally understood that my writing was aloud to be filled with every raw emotion that I had experienced. People are moved by the truth, and they need me to be honest. Honesty is freeing, and it releases people to speak out about the internal scars they frantically try to hide.

    I want to write about the beauty I have seen or even the kind I have tried to possess. I need to share about the pain I have seen, and the wounds that I saw healing. These writings might offend, but they also might inspire. We must realize we are not alone, and together we can use our words to revive what has died, and water what has been waiting for a chance to grow.

 

II.Beauty.

I told her to do it.

Everybody was in the other room, and it was the perfect timing.

I convinced her to take off her clothes, wrap up in her towel, and then go wait for me in the bathroom.

She turned on the water so no one could hear in. I also told her to remain silent, and listen carefully to my instructions.

As I spoke she did everything I asked. Step by step. I watched as she stuck her finger further into her throat.

It didn’t make her gag.

“Harder.”

Finally, I stood there watching her convulse, and as her convulsions grew stronger, she was finally able to relinquish control.

Everything was finally emptying out of her stomach, and it was all I could do not to smile.

“We did it.”

I was finally able to help her get to the place she wanted to be. Eventually her face will be thinner, her stomach won’t be bloated, her legs will be slim, her arms will become slender again, and its all because of me.

When I saw her face lift up from the toilet I expected her to look at me in the mirror and smile, maybe even say thank you.

But I saw nothing of the sort. I Only saw tears; big ones.

She wiped her face, and I could see that instead of relief there was pain.

There was pain festered inside of her heart.

I’m confused? I thought I heard her compare herself to all those old photographs? I thought I heard her complain after every meal? I thought this was the only way?

I did something wrong; terribly wrong. I created a downward spiral. One that keeps drilling and drilling until she herself realizes she is screwed.I should have told her that the beauty she sees in these people is in her. I should have told her that the words she was speaking over others were for herself.

I wanted her to know she was beautiful, and this freedom that she was carrying was a freedom that she was able to have.

Written by Anna Grace Kennedy

...


I frequently sat with a pen in hand, writing in-genuine  words with a false representation of what I had experienced. I was trying to cover up the hard truths by wrapping them in old bandages stained with another’s blood. It exhausted me.

    Fortunately, I realized I was aloud to be honest. I finally understood that my writing was aloud to be filled with every raw emotion that I had experienced. People are moved by the truth, and they need me to be honest. Honesty is freeing, and it releases people to speak out about the internal scars they frantically try to hide.

    I want to write about the beauty I have seen or even the kind I have tried to possess. I need to share about the pain I have seen, and the wounds that I saw healing. These writings might offend, but they also might inspire. We must realize we are not alone, and together we can use our words to revive what has died, and water what has been waiting for a chance to grow.

 

II.Beauty.

I told her to do it.

Everybody was in the other room, and it was the perfect timing.

I convinced her to take off her clothes, wrap up in her towel, and then go wait for me in the bathroom.

She turned on the water so no one could hear in. I also told her to remain silent, and listen carefully to my instructions.

As I spoke she did everything I asked. Step by step. I watched as she stuck her finger further into her throat.

It didn’t make her gag.

“Harder.”

Finally, I stood there watching her convulse, and as her convulsions grew stronger, she was finally able to relinquish control.

Everything was finally emptying out of her stomach, and it was all I could do not to smile.

“We did it.”

I was finally able to help her get to the place she wanted to be. Eventually her face will be thinner, her stomach won’t be bloated, her legs will be slim, her arms will become slender again, and its all because of me.

When I saw her face lift up from the toilet I expected her to look at me in the mirror and smile, maybe even say thank you.

But I saw nothing of the sort. I Only saw tears; big ones.

She wiped her face, and I could see that instead of relief there was pain.

There was pain festered inside of her heart.

I’m confused? I thought I heard her compare herself to all those old photographs? I thought I heard her complain after every meal? I thought this was the only way?

I did something wrong; terribly wrong. I created a downward spiral. One that keeps drilling and drilling until she herself realizes she is screwed.I should have told her that the beauty she sees in these people is in her. I should have told her that the words she was speaking over others were for herself.

I wanted her to know she was beautiful, and this freedom that she was carrying was a freedom that she was able to have.

Written by Anna Grace Kennedy

PHOTOGRAPH BY MARCO MOLINA

PHOTOGRAPH  BY NICOLE ENS

PHOTOGRAPH BY LILIAN SCHAAD

PHOTOGRAPH BY MARCO MOLINA

POEMS BY DJECKY ADAMS

I

And these paintings are fire, they start with a mark, then a line; lines, then whole canvases. Once drawn, seen, took in, they are set free to burn, to consume the heart of its host with either pain or affection.

Hold your pen, use your pencil and your brush carefully. Don't splatter, don't let out everything that crawls out from your soul.

Dear, start fires, start fires of passion, of love, of selflessness, of biblical devotion and of ways to heal from pain.

Stay away from the dark parts of your heart. Draw from light so it might wither the scary, numbing emptiness in some people's lives. For “how great a forest is set ablaze by such a small flame!”

II

These stories braid themselves under her skin like vines, creating cracks upon the asphalt of her flesh whenever the rays of life bruised its surface.

When that happened, the boston ivy, whose roots are deep inside her, crawl out and bloom, birthing pollen for that extraordinary butterfly which she vomited forth two winters ago and whose home she let have in her back pocket

where he use to place those haikus, sestinas and epics of benevolence.

Some nights, she would wake up to the rattle of the hungry insect's wings, and for a moment, she would think it was his hand sliding one of those love notes into her pocket.

In those moments of disillusion, her skin would crack, the vine would swell and blossom, as tears would gently branch down her salmon-colored cheeks while the creature silently fed.

(the butterfly is a metaphor for pain and how we sometimes keep it and feed it which hurt us so much more than if we were to have let it go)

III

The thought of you wraps my body like

a small flame - consuming me, slowly

taking me from the arctic reality in which  i am living in; where I watch men get drunk on the money they could have used to feed their children, where i see the sick lay on their linen beds never getting well. (because some men would

rather profit on their suffering)

The sights had filled me with such abhorrence

that it caused me to thrust myself deep into a plane of indifference, where not even in my dreams, could I have ever imagined escaping...but you found me, lifted me out, gave me visions; strength, and a hammer to mend the shattered.