The night after the first Reflections of Christ gallery showing, 700 people came through. The next morning I went back in to straighten up before we opened again, and I was mortified. There were fingerprints all over the gallery-level glass on the Resurrection picture.
I called my framer, Rob, in a panic. "Rob, how do I wash this?" He gave me a special cleaner and a microfiber cloth and walked me through it. I cleaned it off.
That night 1,200 people came. The next morning, even worse. Fingerprints everywhere again.
This time I paused. My gaze happened to land on a large Bible we had on display. The pages were slightly water-damaged.
Finally I started putting it together. People were crying by the Bible and sneaking over to touch Jesus' scarred hand on the picture.
Those fingerprints turned sacred to me.
People touch this art. They reach up when no one is looking, and they leave a little of themselves behind. A canvas keeps the mark. That is just what happens when you hang Resurrection art on your wall. It invites people in.
I think I understand why.
On Resurrection Day, some of Jesus' Apostles were together, hiding behind locked doors, afraid. The newly Resurrected Savior appeared in the midst of them. Instead of focusing on His perfect resurrected face and body, they fixated on the wounds in His hands, feet, and side.
He kept them.
He came back with a body that could pass through walls, and He still chose to keep the marks. They were the symbols of His love. They were the proof that He had been all the way down and was now all the way back. And He held them out, on purpose, for Thomas to touch.
Something ugly, like a scar, is glorious when it is touching Jesus.
That is the whole offer of the Resurrection collection. Not a clean ending. A risen Christ who kept His wounds, who shows them on purpose, who lets us touch.
The night after the first Reflections of Christ gallery showing, 700 people came through. The next morning I went back in to straighten up before we opened again, and I was mortified. There were fingerprints all over the gallery-level glass on the Resurrection picture.
I called my framer, Rob, in a panic. "Rob, how do I wash this?" He gave me a special cleaner and a microfiber cloth and walked me through it. I cleaned it off.
That night 1,200 people came. The next morning, even worse. Fingerprints everywhere again.
This time I paused. My gaze happened to land on a large Bible we had on display. The pages were slightly water-damaged.
Finally I started putting it together. People were crying by the Bible and sneaking over to touch Jesus' scarred hand on the picture.
Those fingerprints turned sacred to me.
People touch this art. They reach up when no one is looking, and they leave a little of themselves behind. A canvas keeps the mark. That is just what happens when you hang Resurrection art on your wall. It invites people in.
I think I understand why.
On Resurrection Day, some of Jesus' Apostles were together, hiding behind locked doors, afraid. The newly Resurrected Savior appeared in the midst of them. Instead of focusing on His perfect resurrected face and body, they fixated on the wounds in His hands, feet, and side.
He kept them.
He came back with a body that could pass through walls, and He still chose to keep the marks. They were the symbols of His love. They were the proof that He had been all the way down and was now all the way back. And He held them out, on purpose, for Thomas to touch.
Something ugly, like a scar, is glorious when it is touching Jesus.
That is the whole offer of the Resurrection collection. Not a clean ending. A risen Christ who kept His wounds, who shows them on purpose, who lets us touch.
