A few weeks ago during our Easter Worship Gathering I had had one of our writers (Julia Pelsinski) write a piece or two about Lent, Good Friday, and Easter. She posted them to facebook and I am finally getting around to posting them for you to read and reflect on. I am deeply privileged to work alongside a talented group of musicians, writers, artists, etc... who make up our Veritas community and I want to make sure that I give them the space to create, and the recognition that they deserve. And this blog is one way that I can do that.
the only masterpiece by Julia A. Pelsinski
The canvas cloth was pulled tightly over the wood frame That was hung on the wall of the museum The cloth had no stain that touched it, it look as though it belonged to the wall There was just something different about it, it had some kind of glow or softness. Crowds from all over heard of this flawless masterpiece The room of the museum was filled with people of all different worlds The room would be silent, some would stare for days at this canvas Others would be ashamed and walk in the other direction. All they wanted to do was touch the softness of the canvas, the turns of the wood frame. Somehow, people would leave changed, washed clean Outside the museum doors people would be yelling and proclaiming what this picture has done Others claimed they were crazy. But, still the crowds would come back and stare, sit, listen, stand, wonder Who has created this perfect piece of white? Where do i find the artist? Others that belonged to the crowded had enough They had enough of this canvas that everyone wanted to see They were tired of never finding a flaw, or a spot of ugliness in it They pulled the canvas off of its wall Dragging the down the museum stairs Screaming, yelling and crying was heard outside of the museum doors. It did not stop them, they propped the frame against the doors, so all could see Where is your artist now, masterpiece? The others yelled. The canvas was slowing ripping from the frame And as it laid against the door. People were in shocked, The once pureness of white was slowing turning to red The darkest of red, That just bleed from the rip in the canvas Dripping down the stairs. The crowd wept, some walked away, others fell to their knees. Some stayed and waited until the others pulled the masterpiece away. The museum was silent and empty for three days On the third day There was word from someone in the crowd that the masterpiece, the same masterpiece is back The artist brought to perfection back! They all ran, pushing open the museum doors And there the pureness, holiness and wonder hung. It was wrapped in linen that filled the room with peace
let go by Julia A. Pelsinski
“And he said to all, “Anyone would come after me, let him deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me.”
Jesus, love, hope, newness, life, walk, death, openness, dry, hands, feet, seasons, soil, bloom, shine, heaviness, cross, lamb, green, shadow, freedom, knees, broken, mended, silence.
The picture has been painted and it still is being painted in and around me. I am still staring at the colors I have splashed onto the white canvas, trying to figure why it all does not match, The white canvas is not so much the background anymore. I have replaced it with shades of myself. Imagining I know what looks good ontop of white, as if the color of my skin can cover that canvas Or the the blend of childhood and my adulthood can be faded by the brush. I thought if I just continued to paint over it all, I would start to see the white again. The clear white canvas that once was that perfect shade of holy, only now was covered in my selfishness and brokenness.
I let the canvas dry, I stepped away from all the colors that were splashed and poured out That were now staining my own hands and feet. The canvas sat there for days, I walked right past it every time As the days went by the smell of the paint was not as strong a different color would be washed off my hands.
As those days passed, I was effortless, I was weak and I was slowly fading. But when that day came when my hands were clean, and I looked at that picture that I had thought I was painting. I turn my eyes There was nothing, just that clean white canvas And all I could say was thank you