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The Master Builder
by
David Robinson
Natures scrap yard a place where the master walks searching for stones to build
his church. stones that the builders rejected had been sought out from every
corner of the earth. The master had searched the valleys of pain, the mountains
of sorrow and brokenness even the open planes and fields of adversity felt his
footprint. He had dredged lakes of offence, panned the streams of sickness and
fished the oceans of hurting human kind; he never sought out the refined man
made stones so popular with fast build, quick fix builders of fine sanctuaries.
Not for him stones carved by human genius, nothing fashioned by sweating rough
hands, not one stone that someone could point to and say, ‘that’s mine, the work
of my hands, the sweat of my brow’
The seeker sought for stone worn by years of being crushed by the weight of
sorrow, he looked behind every hill for living stones, stones with stories to
tell, horror stories of the abused, the addicted, the despised and the rejected.
Nothing clean cut, nothing uniform in shape or size, nothing was passed by as
being too small or too insignificant or too dirty, nothing that anyone would
ever wish to pay for.
The master draws them all to himself, building a strange collection of colours
and shapes some rounded by years of being washed in the fast moving waters of
adversity, others jagged and rough having been broken by the sledgehammer of
hurting stinging words. Pebbles too small to make an impact, insignificant in
their natural environment and sand? I mean who needs sand and silt? The off
scouring of once proud stones now reduced to being the least of the least.
Scoffers scoff, as the master stands and stares at the pile of precious rubbish
he had accumulated, drawing pictures, laying foundations as deep as the furrows
on his brow, creating in his heart that which he will soon fashion by nail
scared hands. He moves as only a master can leaving aside the small for the
large, beginning with the tough in order to enslave the weak, his hands bring to
light the foundation stones first. Never hesitating he rolls them into place and
stones that never kissed in daylight blushed as they touched with an intimacy
born in light, they rocked gently as the assembled crowd laughed jostling for
the best view of such madness.
Un-groomed fingernails tear at the dirt and sand finding small stones to stop
the rocking setting them in between the larger pieces, each stone beginning to
realise unity was the masters great plan for stability. The misshapen, and the
disabled unify the big and the bold, stone uniting stone as one; the broad
shouldered, the unshakable, the proven, the stalwart realising their absolute
need of once shifting sands. All of them once stubbornly grounded in the soil
and mud of the earth now willing, now useful; a new reason for being a stone, a
reason for being a pickle of sharp sand...The once proud now fallen and set into
place being gently reminded of their need of the small, the castaways and the
forgotten.
Laughter fills the air as onlookers mock the creator at his work, the potter at
his wheel, the carpenter at his bench, the mason works on in silence like a lamb
before his Shearer’s, dumb, he never speaks he just smiles knowing that soon
they would understand. The walls grew higher as more stone was deftly set in
place, every gap in the ever growing wall welcomed the small stones once thought
of as unimportant, gold and silver gathered from deep darkened caves of
oppression glistened but added no real value. To the onlookers they were
precious stones but to the master they were just building blocks that survived
the pressures of life.
The laughter and the mocking voices melt with each row; each layer brings a
surprised gasp from a crowd who are beginning to see what the master builder is
creating. The professional men, the self made who had built so much by their own
labours, men whose hands were calloused and rough saw the ease with which he
builds his house. The mighty men gasped at the dexterity with which he worked
amazed at his speed and sure way he built each stone fitly jointing them
together securely in the right place.
The building rises, the rubbish heap grows smaller until there are no more
stones, suddenly a little child carried a stone and racing forward gleefully
places it in the hands of the master, immediately the child led others to bring
more, surely a little child shall lead them, children ran to and fro and
gathering stone upon stone they placed all at His feet. Soon there was a deluge
as people brought in lost stones, stones that had been deeply buried deep by
deceit, crippled by abuse, the cast-offs, and the worn out all fell silently at
His feet. Someone even brought a piece of wood from a mountain top nearby and
another sheepishly carried three rusty old nails and placed them quietly before
busy hands that had once felt their sting.
Suddenly the builders became servants, no longer doubting His ability to build
using materials they would have rejected, no longer desiring to compete with
someone who made all their efforts and plans look foolish and time wasting.
Wise builders now brought stones instead of advise, no one dared to use man made
stones, no one wanted to place their name over the door and claim it as their
own. ‘More stones, more rocks, more sand and pebbles’ came the shout as people
spread out and searched far and near for building materials, strange uncharted
ground yielded new colours and new shapes, New ground was combed, new lands were
opened up, new territories brought different hues and colours all which made the
master smile. People became interested in heeding the master’s call to go into
all the world, to build his house; as stones were gathered, pain, brokenness,
adversity, sin, offence, abuse and hurt were removed from the land, the land and
nature groaned as they had awaited this day for what seemed an eternity.
Every stone fitly jointed together, no schism, strength in unity, unshakable as
large held tightly onto small, and in turn the weak onto the mighty. The less
comely were admired for their courage; even the less honourable were given
places of honour.
Each played a vital role; each made to feel important as they settled where they
were planted happy just to be part of the Master’s work. Those stones that
needed to be cared for found a warm embrace from cold stone as the Master
builder tempered them together setting them in place as he wills. Each rock,
each stone, each pebble, each grain of sand all played their role to perfection,
all had a special part in his house. They were diverse in size, in ability, in
strength, in structure and in where they were used but it was the same master
builder that worked all in all, they became one even though they were many. Gone
were the territorial claims, the prejudices, ‘the other crowd, the other sort’
were fashioned to become ‘us’ and we became ‘that other lot’ no difference
between English stones and Irish stones after all or indeed between stones of
different colours.
The passers by stopped passing by and stood instead in awe, changed by the sheer
beauty of the building, they came to view, not to mock, they came to witness a
unity never before seen. Now they could believe that the stones of the earth
were his as they stared overcome at the union of stone to stone, now they could
believe that the Master was really who he said he was.
Finger pointers, scoffers and those who had once laughed at the Master realized
that they too were under construction, they too were being restored and being
reborn...
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