BY MELISSA LAUBER Each year, 36.5 million people visit Italy. While there, most give more than just a passing glance to the artistic masterpieces that seem almost strewn with abandon about the country for people to appreciate. At the pinnacle of those masterpieces is Michelangelo's sculpture of David, hailed by most as a symbol that artists could be more than craftsman, they could rival a creator God. With David, the winds of the Renaissance rushed through Europe. Man became the measure of all things. But the people at the Galleria dell'Accademia in Florence who line up for a glimpse of David, often hurry past four unfinished statues by Michelangelo. These statues contain figures trapped in marble, with suggestions of what they might become. One of these is the Gospel writer Mark, another is called the Awakening Prisoner. It portrays a weary Atlas carrying the world on his shoulders. Art historians aren't entirely sure why the statues weren't completed. Michelangelo left a number of unfinished works. Each is significant and treasured, yet they don't rival David or the soul-catching story of creation that unfolds on the ceiling of the Sistine Chapel. But on a recent tour of Italy, with Wesley Theological Seminary's art and spiritual program, I found myself more drawn to the prisoners than to the masterpieces. The elements of spiraling shapes and drama in marble are present in the four large chiseled slabs. But they are works in progress ? forever in creation. I loved the 'in-betweeness' of them. They startled me with their potential. There was vulnerability and invitation in their incompleteness. The evening I returned from Italy, I picked up a suitcase and headed straight to Baltimore for annual conference. Not yet fully home, I found myself living in a kind of in-betweeness and began to recognize it in others. During his state of the church address at annual conference, Bishop John R. Schol punctuated the points he wanted to make with people from the conference who are involved in remarkable ministries. The first person he lifted up was Henry Stewart, a member of Emory UMC, who will be starting a church in a nightclub. This church will have very little to do with bricks and mortar, membership, liturgy, offerings or tradition. It will exist as a response to a living God. That's the thing about out-of-the-box thinking ? it casts you into in-between territory, where prophets lurk, visions are born and faith comes in whole new
colors. In this territory, there are seldom any maps, and things aren't as pretty as they might be when they're fully finished. It's a place where churches can both stumble and thrive, where joy can bounce wildly off the walls. It's a place worth exploring. Back in Italy, I was also moved by a simple, tiny chapel nestled inside the grandeur of the Basilica of St. Francis of Assisi. Francis, it turns out, lived deeply in those in-between spaces. When he was a young man, while worshiping at St. Domiano's church, a crucifix spoke to him. 'Francis, seest thou not that my house is in ruins? Go and restore it for me,' God said to Francis. Because his family had cut him off, Francis was unsure how to start. And so, legend goes, he began by asking for a brick. He collected his chapel ? stone by stone ? and raised it to the glory of God. He went on to become one of most beloved figures in the Roman Catholic Church, in part because it was not Christianity, but Christ, that Francis loved. His life became a poem of praise and thanksgiving to celebrate that love. It was hard to file past Francis' tiny chapel and not linger for hours. A priest was chanting in English inside the small building, and a monk stood by the doorway lost in prayer. It was a quiet and profound celebration of worship. I found myself wondering how we in today's church will respond to God's call to build his church. My mind wandered back to the sculpture of David. According to Marco, our tour gbwc_superusere, Michelangelo fell in love with the block of marble he created David from. But it was an extremely flawed piece of stone. The artist, Marco said, didn't care. He knew there was something amazing within it. Michelangelo is quoted as saying of one block of stone, 'I saw the angel in the marble and carved until I set him free.' He was, in his own words, 'a man who lives and loves in God's peculiar light.' This seems to me to be one of the better ways to respond to God: fall in love with what's before you, even if it's imperfect, and then create something remarkable. At least it's a first step ? out of the familiar and into that in-between place where possibility, risk, joy and passion enable us to give something new and noteworthy to God. | 
Login/Register to leave comment