Sometime in elementary school, a guest artist came into the class and showed us the basics of drawing. I'm no natural artist by any stretch of the imagination, but there was something about the project that entralled me.

The premise was to create a city block. You started with one straight pencil line down the middle of the paper that represented the corner of a building. From their, parellel lines stemed at angles to give the scene some depth. The teacher showed us how to make buildings and streets just using lines and the same set of angles.

Soon, a corner shop and sidewalks and street signs erupted on the page.

When I got home, I continued my masterpiece, absolutely enthralled with the project. I had been shown the key to creating something that looked semi-realistic. At least it wasn't a flat 2D picture of a crooked house with a sterotypical two windows hovering over a big red door. This was sometihng more.

I began to add text and posters and vines crawling up ancient brick buildings. It came to life as I added more and more details. It was some of the best art I've done to this day, if I do say so myself.

But then I decided to color it.

I had wrestled with whether or not to color it. Afterall, why taint Aboslute Perfection? Eventually, however, I wanted to take it to the next level--to have a masterpiece like the masters of ol'. I was already surveying the web for a baret and reseraching how to grow a goatee as an 8-year-old. My French accent was impeccable. I was going to be a legend.

Eventually I settled on the medium of colored markers. As soon as I started shading in a building, I then realized I choose poorly. Markers would not truly do justice to my work of art. It just didn't "work."

It was then that I fell into my first but certianly not last artistic depression. I bemoaned my failure as an artist, the insanity of my choice of medium. I longed to erase the marker and start over--I should have went with colored pencils!

With only a square inch or so of marker on the penciled drawing, I abandoned the project. I hid it in the depths of my closet. I put down my pencil and resigned to never draw again (okay, maybe not--but you get the idea). I don't know where that drawing is today, but in my mind, it remains a sordid reminder of an artistic mistake.

Speaking of artists, you've probably heard God as the master artist. And it's such a good description. God is the Supreme Artists, every earthly artist a pale shadow of the Living Creator. All beauty is ultimately a refelction of God's being. Though it's not just sunsets that God paints; God creates us.

Famously, Psalm 139:13 says, "For you formed my inward parts; you knitted me together in my mother's womb. I praise you, for I am fearfully and wonderfully made."

The Psalmist praises God because God gave each of us attention to detail. We are made wonderfully. I'm not sure the Psalmist exactly had our ligiments and central nervous system in mind, but it's clear that our selves--body, mind, and spirit--are impressive. Thus we praise God.

The Bible many times uses what scholarly folk sometimes call "creational arguments." In other words, because God is the originator and creator, God gets to call the shots and run the show. It's similar to the way parents get to make the rules for their kids. You create 'em and you get some sort of say in their life.

God spent time making us. God put in the work. However, it's hard to think of ourselves as perfect creations. I've looked in the mirror lately, and even when covering one eye and squinitng with the other, it's hard to call myself a "masterpiece" by anyone's defintion. Plus, I know my heart. I know my mind. I know that I'm prone to error and sin. So it sure seems like God should treat us like the city corner I abandoned. When there's a mistake, it's time to toss out the art.

But that's not what God does.

God continues to work with us despite our track record being absolutely dismal. I suppose it helps that Jesus' death provided us the gift of reconcilation and forgiveness. We can be "counted" as righteous despite all our obvious flaws.

There is nothing we can do to reverse the irreversable damage of our canvas. That's God's job alone. Nevertheless, we are called to be as beautiful art that we can be in such an ugly world.

Ephesians 2:10 reminds, "For we are his workmanship, created in Christ Jesus for good works, which God prepared beforehand, that we should walk in them."

Thus, we have a specific purpose in our creation. Living out that purpose makes us look beautiful. Ignoring that purpose or worse going against it results in more complicated scuffs and scratches and spills on the canvas of our lives. We are created to walk with God.

I wonder sometimes how life would be different if I stuck it out and finished coloring the picture. I'm not sure it would have changed my direction in life or anything drastic. But I wonder sometimes if that image would be hanging on my wall right now. Who knows. The unfinished artwork still haunts me, yet God reminds me that God doesn't abandon the art when things go wrong. God keeps with us, molding mistakes into masterpieces.

We are God's masterpiece. So we need to act like it.

A Masterpiece in the Making,

Jake Doberenz