The poor artist sat staring at his last canvas. It was all he had left. Far too often he was forced to choose between a full belly, and new painting supplies. His rent payment was late again. The artist was unsure if his landlord’s patience would last another month. But perhaps, the worst hardship of all was - he had lost his inspiration. Nothing came to mind. No genius image to create. Nothing to elevate his career. Only one large canvas left, the one he spent his last money on.
“I must succeed! I simply cannot fail! I must paint a masterpiece!!” The desperate artist fell to his knees.
“Dear God, please give me an image to create! The image that would give glory to your name! The image that will help me succeed in life, by honouring you!” He cried out with tears streaming down his cheeks.
A strange light blinded his eyes, and he heard a Voice.
“I shall give you a choice. Choose the image that would depict My Love in all its beauty. Look, and choose wisely!”
The artist saw the first image. A King stood near a recently built temple, the temple built in God’s honour, trimmed with precious stones, and gold, and flowers. Thousands bowed to the temple, and the King, dressed in silk, and velvet smiled at this magnificent creation.
“Oh, truly this is the sight I should paint!” the artist exclaimed.
But then a second image was shown to him. An image that should’ve been hidden from a decent man’s eyes; a woman had just given birth to her son. She was exhausted, her conditions were pathetic – she gave birth in a stable. Dirt, animal droppings, and hay covered the floor. The woman half-sat on a stack of hay with her blood-covered infant wrapped in clean cloth in her arms. There was no beauty to her tired face, though she was young. But the love in her eyes was pure and tender, and her husband kneeled looking at the child. They were poor, miserable, and tired from a long journey, and the unexpected labour.
The artist looked, and he recognized this image.
“Now choose!” the Voice urged him.
“I am probably wrong, but my heart says I should choose the second image. The birth of this Child, though it is not a beauteous sight, and maybe not even a decent one, does give more glory to God, for this Child shall become God’s eternal temple in the flesh.”
“Good. Look again!” the Voice went on.
The artist saw two more images. The first one was a serene picture of peaceful adoration of God – ten immaculately dressed maidens kneeled in a prayer, surrounded by snow white marble columns of an ancient monastery. Their pure eyes were looking upward to the sunlight coming from the windows, bathing them in light.
“What a masterpiece of humility, and worship!” the artist said in awe. Surely, this would be the image to bring him success!
But then the second image appeared. A dirty street. A dirty woman sitting in the dust. Her torn clothes displayed her body openly. She was dragged into the street to be stoned to death, because she was a whore. Magdalene was her name. Her accusers mocked her, shouting slurs. There was no beauty to the woman; she cried insanely, tears, and snot all over her face, her dirty hair messy, her skin covered in bruises from all the violent lovers she had endured. She cried from regret, she cried in repentance. Her dirty forehead touched the sandals of a man standing near her. A simple man. They said he was a prophet. He didn’t mock her, he didn’t call her names, no rock he held in his hand. He looked at her with sympathy and love. He said, she’s forgiven. The woman’s bloodshot eyes looked upward, a smile full of hope, and gratitude graced her dirty face.
“Choose now!” said the Voice.
“I know this story,” said the artist thoughtfully, “I don’t know what to choose. Both images give glory to God. But a single sinner returned to God’s light honours His Name more than ten immaculate souls. I shall choose the second image, though it’s ugly and indecent. It will not bring me wealth, or fame.”
“Good. Look again!”
Another two images awaited for the artist’s decision.
The first image blinded his eyes; it was a magnificent sight of the purest, handsomest angel ever seen. His clothes bathed in pure light, his hair shone in gold, and rainbows, his eyes brighter than the bluest skies, his skin perfect. A flawless creation of God. What could be more impressive than this?
The artist gasped. The image was glorious.
But before he had exclaimed his decision, the last image floated into his view.
A nearly nude man, hanging on a Cross. It was truly the most terrible sight. It wasn’t just indecent, it was obscene! The man’s skin was mangled, he had been beaten to a pulp. Not a patch of his skin was intact. Torn, wounded, bruised. His face swollen from taking punches, his lips bleeding. An ugly thorn crown sat on his greasy hair. He was nailed to a roughly-made wooden Cross with large black nails sticking out his palms, and feet. He suffered in agony, covered in blood, and dirt, and sweat. No decent man or woman dared to raise their eyes to the shameful sight of him. Those who did look, shook their heads, or accused him of every crime they could think of. Surely, he was a villain, or a pervert. Surely, he deserved his suffering. He was a mockery to God. He probably deserved such a horrific death. Did this image honour God’s Name? It couldn’t possibly, it was an abomination!
“Choose! This is your last chance. Choose now!” the Voice brought the artist back to reality. He sat thinking for a long while.
“I am bound to fail. I know the last image cannot bring me success, yet in all its ugliness, it still honours God’s Name the most, because nothing brings God more Glory than His Son’s Sacrifice,” the artist replied, hanging his head.
“Good. You made the right decision. The first image you rejected showed a man glorifying the creation of his own hands. The second image you rejected depicted the self-righteousness of the prideful ones. The third image showed the beauty of Satan before he fell. You chose well. Now go, and paint!” The light, and the Voice left the artist sitting on the floor. He got to work, and did not step away from his easel until his work was done.
“Listen here, where’s the rent?! I refuse to wait…” the artist’s landlord barged into the room, but he shut his mouth at the sight of the painting. The man wiggled his mouth like a fish, eyes wide, cheeks red, then he rushed out tripping over himself. The artist sighed. He’ll probably call the authorities to arrest me for depicting such realistic indecency, he thought.
The landlord returned with a priest, but not just a priest! The Cardinal of the local Cathedral.
“Look! Look!” the landlord beckoned the Cardinal, “look, cousin! Is this not impressive? The perfect Altar painting for our Cathedral! The one you needed to replace, the one truly giving Glory to God!”
“Indeed, it is perfect for our Cathedral. I shall look no further! Deo Gratias!” The Cardinal thanked the Lord.
And so, it was. The church bought the painting. And commissioned two more. The artist became famous, and wealthy overnight. He thanked the Lord every day, and lived humbly, devoting his life to painting God’s Glory in all its beauty. His every brush stroke contained a prayer. The images he painted might have appeared improper to some, but they depicted the beauty of God’s love nevertheless.
Thank you for reading!
Kathrine, this is so good. Thank you. I was captivated. ox
Lovely! Just lovely, and pure! Thank you.