In these murky days, I remember where the way is illuminated. See, I’m an art lover, and I have a favorite gallery where the light is always on—and I can visit it whenever I like. To me, it’s the best place in the world. And I’ve even been to the Louvre.
I know this gallery well, and I love it so much I almost have it memorized. My heroes live on the walls there, and the sight of them makes me smile. It makes me cry too.
But no matter what, each time I visit that museum, I’m refreshed.
I can do this thing, I say to myself when I see how these amazing people lived. Like them, I can make it to the other side too.
And so today, I stroll down the Hall of Faith* once more. And there are those faces again. I admire their pictures, some of them painted in blood—all of them in struggle. During my visits, I marvel; what these humans went through to make it into Holy Writ gets me in the gut every time.
As I gaze at each portrait, I ask for new eyes, a fresh understanding. And since wisdom is never withheld from us when we request it, I get a generous portion. I see a couple of characters who never stood out to me before: Moses’ mother and father. But aren’t we more interested in the man himself and not so much the ones who brought him into the world?
I zero in on the masterpiece anyway, and the ancient parents come into focus.
By faith Moses, when he was born, was hidden for three months by his parents because they saw the child was beautiful, and they were not afraid of the king’s edict.
Wait. They weren’t? They weren’t afraid of Pharaoh’s killing spree, aimed to take out all the infant boys? I always envisioned worried Amram and anxious Jochebed twisting both their hands and the bulrushes they used to form the basket-turned-miniature-boat for the baby. Weren’t their actions woven out of both faith in God and fear of man?
Before moving on, I sit awhile in the reminder of the mutually exclusive states. Fear had no part in the motivation of the famous leader’s parents—only faith. And the two can’t mix.
Still mulling over the piece, I amble on to the next frame. And here in the age-old gallery is something new: a mirror.
In the reflection, I see fear, at one time my sin of choice, now ebbing away, worn down by life and loss, circumstances and surrender, and in its place stands faith. It isn’t complete yet, but it will be.
I know one day it will be.
Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.
*The “Hall of Faith” is located in Hebrews 11.
