God's Greatest Masterpieces Have Heartbeats

Have you ever walked through an art museum and noticed how people linger longest at certain paintings? They lean in close, studying brushstrokes, stepping back to take in the whole composition, perhaps even returning to that same piece before leaving. There's something magnetic about witnessing mastery—we instinctively recognize when we're in the presence of something extraordinary. Yet imagine if someone insisted you could only appreciate the artist by looking at their signature, never their actual works. Absurd, isn't it? But this is precisely what we do when we try to understand God's work in the world while ignoring the living canvases He has painted throughout history.

The Divine Collaboration

Scripture reveals a startling truth about how God chooses to work: He consistently invites human participation in His redemptive purposes. This isn't divine necessity—God could certainly accomplish His will without us. Instead, it's divine generosity. When Paul writes, "we are God's fellow workers" (1 Corinthians 3:9), he uses the Greek word synergoi, literally "co-workers" or "collaborators." The Creator of the universe chooses collaboration over coercion, partnership over mere power display.

Consider the Exodus, that defining moment of Israel's identity. God could have simply transported His people from Egypt to the Promised Land in an instant. Instead, He called Moses—a stuttering, reluctant fugitive—to be His spokesman. He worked through Aaron's rod, Miriam's songs, and Joshua's sword. Even the midwives Shiphrah and Puah became instruments of divine deliverance when they defied Pharaoh's murderous decree (Exodus 1:15-21). God's greatest act of liberation in the Old Testament was thoroughly mediated through human hands, human courage, and human faith.

This pattern intensifies rather than diminishes in the New Testament. Jesus Himself, the Word made flesh, represents the ultimate investment in human participation. As Irenaeus of Lyon observed in the second century, "The Word of God, our Lord Jesus Christ, who did, through His transcendent love, become what we are, that He might bring us to be even what He is Himself" (Against Heresies, Book V, Preface). The Incarnation wasn't just God visiting humanity; it was God permanently joining humanity to Himself.

 

Greater Things Than These

Perhaps the most audacious claim Jesus ever made about human participation in divine work comes in John 14:12: "Truly, truly, I say to you, whoever believes in me will also do the works that I do; and greater works than these will he do, because I am going to the Father." Greater works? How can anything surpass raising the dead or calming storms?

Augustine of Hippo helps us understand this mystery: "It is a greater work to preach the Gospel to the world than to heal the sick... for in the former, souls are healed; in the latter, only bodies" (Tractates on the Gospel of John, 72.1). The "greater works" aren't necessarily more spectacular miracles but the worldwide expansion of God's kingdom through ordinary believers. When Peter preached at Pentecost and three thousand souls were added to the church (Acts 2:41), this was the beginning of those "greater works"—not because Peter surpassed Christ, but because Christ was working through Peter on a scale that His earthly ministry had not yet reached.

 

The Cloud of Witnesses

This brings us to why the testimony of saints, martyrs, and church fathers matters so profoundly. The author of Hebrews speaks of being "surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses" (Hebrews 12:1). The Greek word martyron (witnesses) eventually gave us our word "martyr," but originally it simply meant those who testified to what they had seen and experienced. These witnesses aren't passive spectators; they're active testimonies to God's ongoing work.

When we read Polycarp's fearless words at his martyrdom—"Eighty-six years I have served Him, and He has done me no wrong. How then can I blaspheme my King and Savior?"—we're not merely reading history. We're encountering evidence that the same Spirit who strengthened Stephen continues to empower God's people. When we study Teresa of Ávila's interior castle or Dietrich Bonhoeffer's costly discipleship, we're observing what happens when the divine Artist continues His work in new canvases across centuries and cultures.

John Chrysostom, the golden-mouthed preacher of the fourth century, understood this dynamic relationship between honoring God's work in people and honoring God Himself: "When we honor the martyrs, we honor the One who made them martyrs. When we praise the saints, we praise the One who sanctified them" (Homily on All Saints). To ignore or dismiss these testimonies is like visiting the Louvre and refusing to look at anything but the museum's cornerstone.

 

Scripture's Unique Place

Let me be abundantly clear: recognizing God's work through His people doesn't elevate human testimony to the level of Scripture. The Bible remains unique as God's inspired Word, what theologians call norma normans non normata—the norm that norms all other norms but is not itself normed by anything else. As Paul writes to Timothy, "All Scripture is breathed out by God and profitable for teaching, for reproof, for correction, and for training in righteousness" (2 Timothy 3:16). The testimonies of saints and martyrs are valuable precisely because they show us Scripture lived out, not because they replace or supplement Scripture's authority. At the same time, the Scripture isn't a "dead" but a "living" book, and our lives embody its contents. After all, the Word of God was made flesh and dwelled among us, and we've been incorporated into His body, His flesh.

Think of it this way: Scripture is the musical score, perfect and complete. The lives of faithful believers throughout history are performances of that score—each bringing out different themes, emphasizing different movements, but always referring back to the original composition. Some performances are so magnificent they help us hear nuances in the score we might have missed. They don't change the music; they help us hear it more fully.

 

The Living Body

Paul's metaphor of the church as Christ's body (1 Corinthians 12) isn't merely organizational rhetoric—it's theological reality. Christ promised, "Where two or three are gathered in my name, there am I among them" (Matthew 18:20), and after His resurrection declared, "Behold, I am with you always, to the end of the age" (Matthew 28:20). The body of Christ isn't a memory or a metaphor; it's a living, breathing reality that spans centuries and continents.

This is why the artificial divide between honoring historical saints and celebrating contemporary testimonies makes no theological sense. When modern evangelicals share testimonies in church services, they're participating in the same tradition that led early Christians to preserve accounts of martyrs like Perpetua and Felicity. When we read how God delivered someone from addiction last year or how He sustained believers through persecution last century, we're witnessing the same Spirit at work. As Gregory of Nazianzus beautifully expressed it, "God is glorified in His saints, acknowledged in His saints, loved in His saints, honored in His saints, and in His saints He is all things" (Oration 43, 5).

 

Broken Vessels, Beautiful Art

Perhaps most encouraging is that God consistently chooses to work through broken people. Moses was a murderer, David an adulterer, Peter a denier, Paul a persecutor. Augustine lived dissolute years before his conversion. Thomas Aquinas was considered so slow as a student that his classmates called him "the dumb ox." Teresa of Calcutta struggled with decades of spiritual darkness even while serving the poorest of the poor.

These aren't flaws in God's plan; they're features. As Paul explains, "We have this treasure in jars of clay, to show that the surpassing power belongs to God and not to us" (2 Corinthians 4:7). When we see what God accomplished through people just as broken as we are, we're encouraged that He can work through us too. Their stories become what Hebrews calls "an anchor for the soul" (Hebrews 6:19)—not because they were perfect, but because the Perfect One worked through them despite their imperfections.

 

Living in the Gallery

So what does this mean for us today, in our ordinary Tuesday afternoons and challenging Monday mornings? How do we apply this understanding of God's collaborative artistry to our daily lives?

First, cultivate historical friendship. Choose a saint, martyr, or spiritual writer from history and spend time with their story and writings. Let their testimony encourage your faith. You might start with someone like Brother Lawrence, whose Practice of the Presence of God shows how a monastery cook found God in kitchen duties, or Corrie ten Boom, whose forgiveness of Nazi guards demonstrates supernatural grace. These aren't distant heroes but older siblings in faith who beckon us to join them in the grand narrative of God's redemptive work. By immersing ourselves in their stories, we gain a deeper appreciation for the diverse ways in which God has collaborated with humanity throughout history.

Second, embrace your role as a living canvas. Just as God worked through flawed yet faithful individuals in the past, He continues to work through imperfect vessels today. Allow yourself to be a willing participant in God's masterpiece, trusting that He can bring beauty and purpose out of your brokenness. Your life is a canvas on which God paints His ongoing story of redemption and grace.

Lastly, celebrate the living gallery around you. Recognize that the body of Christ is not confined to a distant past or a far-off future, but is present here and now through the believers around you. Take time to appreciate the unique brushstrokes of God's work in the lives of those you interact with each and every day.

After all, the artist is delighted when we praise his greatest works. Still, it is not the clay of the earthen vessel alone that gets the glory, it’s the divine artist who formed it. Yet even so, when we use that vessel, when we drink from it, when we appreciate it—we are truly honoring God, Himself.

 

God Bless,

Judah