I usually sit on the back row at church. It’s not because I take a nap during the talks or because I am a back-row slacker. It’s because it’s a short row, and since I usually sit by myself, I like to take up as little room as possible. Yesterday, sitting in the usual spot, I watched as a young family with several small children came and sat in the pew directly in front of me. The mom, herself a rather smallish woman, was harried by her efforts to get the children to remain quiet during the meeting. The children, on the other hand, were trying with all their might to do anything but. After wrestling with them for several minutes, the wise mother stopped, grabbed three pages of paper from a notebook in her bag, and handed one to each of her children, along with one pencil each. Putting her left arm around them all, she leaned over and whispered to them, saying, “If you were invisible, where would you go first?”
Each child, in his turn, grabbed the offered pencil and started scribbling a picture of the place they would go. The youngest, a tender 3-year old, drew a large quantity of squiggly lines all over the page, an incomprehensible morass of nonsense. The other two drew age-appropriate representations of their cherished destinations. At the conclusion of this exercise the mother again extracted three pieces of paper and handed them to the children. “If you could give one person any gift you wanted, what would it be?” she whispered to each one tenderly.
This went on for most of the remainder of the meeting, when she collected all of the papers and stuffed them carelessly into her bag before grabbing the hymnal. It was evident to me that she’d done this a time or two, as, after the meeting, I watched her enter the library and throw the pages into the trash can.
In July of 1508, Michelangelo began work on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel in Vatican City. Though primarily a sculptor and despite his protestations, Michelangelo was commissioned by Pope Julius II to do some fresco painting on the ceiling plaster. Often very arrogant but always dissatisfied with himself and his work, Michelangelo devised a unique and creative scaffolding system that allowed him to work while masses were being celebrated far below. Contrary to popular belief, he did not lie on his back while painting but was rather forced to bend backwards to paint over his head. From this position, a good amount of his paint/plaster mix dripped into his lungs, his neck and back were almost always in pain and arms were constantly burning. The strain eventually took its toll, leaving his vision such that others had to read to him for the rest of his life. He was also left habitually tired and without much of an appetite.
Michelangelo labored for more than four years on the 5,000 square foot frescoes, often having to redo portions he’d already painted because they’d been damaged by mold or dampness. Unbelievably precise, Michelangelo’s masterpiece was an extension of his belief that every stone had a sculpture within it, and that the work of sculpting was but a matter of chipping away each piece that was not actually a part of the statue.
Viewed from below, the ceiling is an intricate work, depicting the creation of the world, the fall of man and other stories from the scriptures. Viewed up close, its complexity is even more astounding. The artist was so concerned with the final product that he can take credit for almost the whole of the work. Though he had assistants who helped him regularly, they mostly did the work of mixing the daily plaster or mixing his colors. He took exceptional care to examine each square inch of the work, painstakingly scraping off mistakes or damaged parts and repainting them until the masterpiece was complete and revealed to the world in November of 1512.
How grateful I am that my Heavenly Father is more like Michelangelo than the woman in church. Though I’m never really thrilled with adversity, I know deep down that it’s the way Heavenly Father rubs out my mistakes and deformities. Every single minute of every single day, He’s there examining each square inch of my character, rubbing off the mold, repairing and repainting, and helping me discover the masterpiece within. As did Michelangelo, He knows there’s a masterpiece within just aching to get out. His work and His glory is to chip away each piece that does not actually belong to final product.
Viewed from far below, human beings are an intricate work with beating hearts, complex brains and other systems that keeping working for a lifetime. View up close, human beings are even more amazing, with more potential than even they, themselves, realize. There are more than six billion people on the earth right now, each with DNA that is distinct and separate from any other person on the planet. Each has an individual character and personality, though with just about the same number of cells and chromosomes. Each is an individual masterpiece, shaped and chiseled by a loving Father and engineered with exceeding care.
It’s not always comfortable being a masterpiece. Each chip taken off hurts, some a little and some a lot. Each stroke of the brush changes the work in some way, and change is never easy. Mold must be removed, mistakes amended and chips smoothed. But if we are patient and allow Him to do His work, at the end, finally, the masterpiece will be revealed to the world and the great artist will be paid. His payment? To be able to allow us into the Celestial Kingdom to dwell with Him forever.
I hope, at least on my account, the Artist is paid His due.
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