Hush. The open windows let in a cool summer breeze, blowing down from the mountains. Dusk is falling outside, its meager light magical. A young woman — my cousin Carolyn — stands half in shadow. Golden light anoints the dusk, cast by the strange network of lamps and lightbulbs we've erected at one end of the studio. She turns, graceful, as the voice of distant music calls.

Watching, I am carried to another time as the power of imagination transforms the little room. Around us, the mossy stones of a simple chapel form. Beyond the walls lies the deep green darkness of a European forest. The legend I told my cousin moments ago takes physical form now. In the dance, she resurrects an ancient world.

The story is a very old one, half-remembered and half-imagined. It is the story of Ursula, a pagan princess who learned to love Christ in the very darkest of the Dark Ages and was eventually martyred for her faith. The story dates back to the 5th century A.D. and is shrouded in myth, but something in it speaks to us.

We piece songs together from various CDs and soundtracks, pausing to smile breathlessly at each other. The story has gripped us both. As the melancholy worship of Gregorian chant fills the studio, Carolyn lights candles and dances with them: little flickering lights, symbols of holiness, of refuge, of God-breathed love that will not die.

Carolyn is a dancer, a student of ballet since childhood, and a lover of Jesus Christ. She's also an actress — one who tells stories without a single word, using music and movement to communicate deep emotion and deeper truth. She and I have been weaving stories and worship together since we met. Recently we've taken steps of a new kind, moving our storytelling out of the ballet studio and into the public eye under the name Soli Deo Gloria Ballet.

I am a creative Christian — a writer — in a family of creative Christians. Art is commonly discussed and explored in our household. I personally know its power well. The grace and joy of music and dance, the stories woven by writers, the visual truth seen in paintings and photography: All of these have ministered grace, strength, hope, and even understanding to me.

Though the story of Ursula has little actual fact to back it up, my trek through time with Carolyn reminded me of one of art's enduring powers. From Haydn's The Creation to Shakespeare's Julius Caesar to the songs and poetry we write to commemorate milestones in our own lives, art has always been used to recall the past. Because art speaks in ways that engage both mind and heart, its presentations of history are powerful. For a moment at least, we go beyond learning about history and live it instead.

Remembrance is central to our lives as believers. The Bible is a book of history, written alongside prophecy, poetry and parable. The word "remember" is a constant scriptural refrain. Psalm 105 proclaims, "Sing unto him, sing psalms unto him: talk ye of all his wondrous works.... Remember his marvellous works that he hath done; his wonders, and the judgments of his mouth" (Ps. 105:2,5).

Throughout the Bible, art is constantly used to engage people with the realities of their past — realities which must never be forgotten. Psalms, allegorical stories, and music are applied to the task. Even drama is used: In the Jewish holidays, God commanded families to literally act out the Exodus, the 40-year journey through the desert and the deliverance from slavery. Historically, Lenten celebrations also used drama, from Passion Plays and palm branches to ashes and meetings in the dark.

Art connects us to the past in a powerful way. It makes yesterday's experiences real, personal, and important on an individual level. Every society knows this. From tribal songs and storytelling dances to movies like Schindler's List and Amazing Grace, art makes sure we don't forget. As traditional and experimental artists weave their vision of history, for a few moments we connect with it. We care about these people of the long-ago past. We feel their emotions and tap into their passions.

As Christian artists, we are able to move remembrance to another level — to inspire others to remember God, to remember faith, to live the past in a way that triumphs over evil. We can remind others of who and what they are: the unique creation of a great God. Through art, we have the ability to help others connect with their very Creator.

Recently, I was moved by the climax of Ballet Magnificat's The Hiding Place — a dance interpretation of Corrie Ten Boom's experiences in Nazi concentration camps as punishment for hiding Jews. Like Corrie's book of the same name, The Hiding Place clearly proclaims that "There is no pit so deep that God's love is not deeper still." The ballet uses music from Adrian Snell's Song of an Exile, one of a trio of albums which the British Christian wrote as he sought to see the Holocaust through God's eyes.

If we can use art to see God in the darkness, we can also use it to celebrate His light. San Francisco Symphony annotator James M. Keller wrote of Haydn's oratorio Creation that "A childlike quality pervades The Creation, as if Haydn were relating the narrative to young listeners who had never heard it before." Haydn's devout faith infused his career, and his art has the power to take us back to the joy of our beginnings. Keller continued, "Haydn seems to be having the time of his life, truly celebrating the mystery of creation, translating it into the most human of terms, infusing it with grace, delight, wit, and humor."

Christian artists have the privilege of calling to remembrance the glorious power, love and creativity of God. As we use art to explore the past, we can also use to it highlight God's fingerprints in our lives and "remember his marvellous works that he hath done."

As Carolyn and I come to the end of our story, the sun has set. Again a breeze stirs at the window. A final song remains.

The music begins quietly, though triumph echoes in its notes. The words speak of the weary road that lies before us and of the hope that will yet carry us over its rough stones — hope that calls us to praise even from the dead. As the martyred heroine arises from the ashes of this world's death, the old sadness and fear is gone. Doubt and shadows flee away. The soft lighting becomes a veil to another world. Life has conquered death.

The music ends in a crescendo. Carolyn and I are left in an oddly-lit studio, candles still burning, spots of wax dripped all over the floor. For an evening, we have lived in the past. Though many of the details we've been playing with are imaginary, the force of the story is not. We have remembered that, in the Dark Ages as now, Christ alone was worth both living and dying for. We have remembered that He is the source of beauty, and we have worshiped Him.

I am reminded, as we lay aside our artistic explorations, that creativity is part of us all for a reason. We are made in the image of a God who created an artistically splendid world and wrote His thoughts in a book. As Christian artists, it is our special task to keep that incredible heritage in remembrance. It is ours to see that the past is not forgotten, but lived — lived until the Christ who has graced each day with His beauty and power returns to walk among us again.