By Charlie Miller
Pastor, High Plains Baptist Church, Clovis, New Mexico
After going through a very difficult time in our ministry, my wife, April, recommended, “Take an art class — you’ve always wanted to — maybe it will help you to relax!” She was right. I signed up for a sculpting class, bought my tools, and secured my 25-pound block of cool, gray modeling clay.
I considered making an ashtray — everyone’s first project. I decided that it lacked a certain relevance for this Baptist pastor. A friend recommended replicating Michelangelo’s David — but modestly clad with the minimal undergarments “girding his loins.” Not certain on whether to go with boxers or briefs, I remained stumped. Finally, I decided upon a personal hero, John Bunyan.
If Baptists had saints, icons, or relics, the images and figures of John Bunyan would be among our favorites. He stands as a prolific writer and passionate pastor. In addition, he sports quite the massive mane — joining Guy Penrod, and a few others, on a very short list of acceptable Baptists whose locks linger beyond the collar.
As I began to work and shape the pudgy figure of little John, I mused, “So this is how God made Adam?” I shaped his body and skewered him to a clay stump. I glanced at little John and then studied the photo. There still was much work to be done.
It was at this point I recalled hearing about some famous sculptor who said, “In order to sculpt David (for instance) simply remove everything that does not look like David.” I looked at my tools. They were small, but intimidating instruments — wooden knives, scrapers, and a very pointy thing resembling the business end of the compass I used in geometry. I proceeded to scrape, and scrape, and scrape some more. “Remove everything that doesn’t look like John Bunyan…” I muttered. I continued until the blurred image of a man’s face emerged from the miry clay.
Before I knew it, class was over. “What do I do with this?” I asked my instructor.
“I dunno…” he said, “You could leave it here.”
I clutched little John and drew him close. The thought of leaving him exposed and out of my sight was frightening. “What was this?” I thought, “Why do I care so much about this lousy lump of clay?” I realized I had some measure of affection for little John — probably because I created him.
Surprisingly, little John is rather high maintenance. While scraping and squeezing, you must spray him with water. When you are not shaping him, he must be kept sealed in an airtight bag. Too bad for John — he spends his whole life in a bag and is only released to be shredded or sliced. Once I reached a stopping point, it was back into the bag — poor John.
By the time you read this, little John will be gone. As of this writing most of the scraping is done. The large chunks are gone. All that is really left is the refining. The refinement during his last hours is very tender. There will be no cutting, poking, or prodding. In fact, there will be no instruments — only water and the pressure of the creator’s fingers. At this time, little John will be exactly what I intended for him to be — the image that was born in my mind. My fingerprints will be all over him.
Then it’s into the kiln.
Sound a little harsh? I agree. But it’s the only way he can stay in my house forever. It’s the only way he can fulfill his purpose. It’s the only way all the changes can remain permanent. His life, as he knows it now, must end to inherit his place on my mantel. He will never be scraped, sprayed, or bagged again. He can stay with me forever. I already have a place for him.
Why are we poked, prodded, and pounded? It hurts — it seems cruel. Our Creator severs us from everything weighing us down and hindering our growth. We have become attached to the very things that threaten our life. The sin, the hurt, the rejection, the fear, the pain, and the anger — all of it must go. It’s not that God desires to change you — as much as He longs to release you from these things that are not “you” at all. Do not merely assent to the fact that God has made you; accept the feeling that God is making you. He’s not done. It’s not over. God knows when to twist, where to touch, how to be tender. His fingerprints are all over you.
Then it’s to the kiln.
The transition from mortal life to eternal life is difficult. I have seen some make this leap — from the finishing table to the Creator’s mantle. This transition refines us and leaves us perfectly in the image God intended for us. Death is only tragic on this side of the fence. Through death God’s changes become irreversible and permanent. Then you are able to shine as a trophy of God’s grace. Not bad for something that started as a lump.