The Parable of the Artist by Davin Dahlgren, March 2000 My spirit is an artist, painting a mural on the canvas of my soul. My heart is the hand that holds the brush. Every impulse of my heart places a single brushstroke on my life. As I paint I find no beauty, for I have neither vision nor coordination. Then I offer my hand to the Master Painter, who takes it in His own and begins to paint. At first I see nothing, but the firm hand of the Master moves gracefully across my soul, sketching shapes, then adding details. As forms develop, I am struck with the beauty of it all and in my excitement, I move to paint. At first, the Master gently resists my motion, but as my hand continues to add new strokes He releases me and allows me to paint unhindered. The beauty is gone. For a moment I was Michaelangelo, now I am Picasso. “I have ruined it!” I cry. I look to the Master who remains silent. He holds out His hand. I place my hand in His again, and He paints. But the beauty does not return. It grows darker, uglier, more hideous. “Oh! I have truly ruined it,” I think. “No! This is not me! This is not what I am!” But the painting only grows more painful. Unable to restrain myself, I wrest my hand from His and change colors. I paint over the ugliness. I paint over the blood and the death with flowers and bunnies—happy things. But it is futile. There are no flowers or happy bunnies. There is only mud, filth, and decay. I am broken. “This is my best work,” I shout. “I am a miserable, no-talent hack!” Again I look at the Master. Again He silently holds out His hand. Despairing of ever making anything beautiful out of my life, I offer my hand yet again. He takes it and moves it with such precision and grace that I scarcely can fathom it. Yet soon my hand is moving in perfect synchronization with His. And there is beauty. The ugliness is transformed. He has not painted over any of it. Instead, He uses every part of it. Every mistake, every careless stroke, every brushstroke that expressed my bitterness, anger, and frustration is made beautiful through His artful touch. The blood and the death that I found so repulsive is the foundation of a greater beauty that I could not see through my pain. The beauty grows as He continues. At times, I find myself still at odds with Him over certain details—artistic differences. Each time, however, I find that what I mar, He is able to transform, if only I yield my hand and brush to Him. [Return to Spiritual Studies]