Rembrandt, Sunday School, and a Weary Heart
by Donna-Jean A. Breckenridge
Church has already started. The book-lined walls of the Pastor's Study are paper-thin, and I can
hear the congregational singing, the latecomers entering through the doors, the children's
teacher prompting the class ("Ready? Now say it all together: Zaccheus, you come down!" ).
I'm sitting in my Dad's chair at his desk, looking at the brass-framed faces of my Mom, my kids,
and one of my brother and me when we were little. With my shoes kicked off, I'm as curled up
as I can get, and I feel pretty crummy...yet I can't help but have a sense of wonder.
I wasn't going to come at all today. I got sick last night, and felt worse this morning. But at the
last minute, I stuck on a skirt and sweater, ran a brush through unwashed hair, and determined I
would at least teach my Sunday School class.
It turns out I wasn't the only one struggling. Six-year-old Timothy walked in, took one look at me
and announced, "I'm having a bad day!," before he slumped into his chair. I had a moment of
hesitation - maybe this wasn't the time to try something new. Oh, well - too late to change my
plans now, I thought.
I sat down at the table with the rest of the kids and pulled out from my tote bag my oversized art
book "Rembrandt and the Bible." It's a collection of all of Rembrandt's works that corresponds to
Bible stories and events. I opened it to the one entitled "Storm on the Lake of Galilee."
"What do you think of this?" I asked them. "What do you see in this picture?"
As soon as one started, the others joined in. They noticed how dark it was, how tipped the mast
was, how the sails were coming off, how the wave was splashing into the boat. They counted the disciples ("All 12 are there!"), found which figure was Jesus ("He has a little more light around Him!"), and decided that one of the disciples was throwing up ("I threw up once on Poppop's boat," Timothy told us. His nine-year-old brother Daniel looked at him with disgust. "You did not!" Timothy lowered his head. "Well, I gagged once," he muttered.) I looked closely - well, there was one guy hanging over the edge. I guess it was possible he was throwing up...or at least gagging.
I handed out pieces of blank paper and got out the crayons. It was a pretty motley bunch of
crayons, jumbled up in cleaned-out Cool Whip and Baby Wipes containers. I made a mental
note to get some new markers for next week, and then told them to draw the painting while I read
to them.
I turned to Mark chapter 4 and began to read through the account. They listened intently, and
interrupted frequently.
"Where are the other little boats?"
"I don't know - let me read this, OK?"
"The stern - that's the back of the boat!"
"Yes - very good! And then it says..."
"Why did they call Him Teacher?"
"That's the word for Rabbi - that's what they called Him."
"Rab - what?"
And by the time I got to "Even the wind and the sea obey Him!," said with as much gusto and
reverential fear as I could muster, my six-year-old Nathan had had enough. He scooted across
the floor on his chair, making rumbling noises with his mouth, and shouting, "I'm one of the little
boats!"
"Well, what happened to the little boats?" Daniel asked me.
"It doesn't say here - maybe we could look it up in another passage." But as I was about to
explain, elementary-age style, all about the Synoptic Gospels, Nathan's little boat acquired a
high-powered motor and excessive speed, and I knew it was time to switch to a more physical
activity. The little boats would have to wait.
"Now its time to do the painting!"
"We're going to paint?!"
"No, I mean we're going to be the painting! We're going to act it out!"
My eyes scanned the big toddler classroom where we were meeting and fell upon a large
wooden toy shelf. It looked sturdy enough. In fact, I had seen many an adventurous toddler or
two climbing on it over the years. I moved it away from the wall and announced, "Here's our
ship."
I didn't need any further invitation, for all of the kids began to scale the shelf and mount the
deck. Sunday shoes and small fingers battled for position, with a few yelps and cries here and
there.
"What can we do to expand our boat? We need a bigger one!" I told them.
The kids grabbed some chairs and sat them against the shelf, and spread some story-rugs
(those carpet samples of various colors and textures) next to the whole thing. It was time to
assign parts.
"Who's going to be Jesus?"
"Andrew can!," his older brothers declared. So four-year-old Andrew curled up on a story mat, all
ready to sleep in our boat. My two-year-old Hannah leaned precariously over the edge to
attempt to wake Him up, Daniel appointed himself 'the guy throwing up,' and Nathan and
Timothy got ready to show expressions of intense fear and terror.
"OK - when I say freeze - you make like you're the painting of the Bible story!
One...two...three....FREEZE!!"
It was like that great moment of expectant silence before the last line of the Hallelujah Chorus.
And for a few glorious seconds, several wild boys, one little girl, and a brilliant painter from long
ago joined hands to portray a great event in Bible history. I thought too late of the Polaroid
camera in the church office, but I took the picture in my mind.
Whispers and giggles from the hallway broke the spell. Robed choir members, on their way to
the sanctuary, peered through the half-door to see what on earth the quiet was all about, and to
wonder at the bizarre mannequins perched on a toy shelf in the toddler nursery. I applauded my
class of artistic actors and told them it was time to gather up our stuff.
A few minutes later, we stood at the door and took turns praying for each of the children's
classes that would be held during the regular Morning Service, the Pastor, the choir, the sound-
man ("That's my Dad - can I pray for him?"), even the Kids' Library. Then we headed through
the narthex for the church bell, gathering several arriving children as we went. Church members
paused while hanging up their coats to smile and watch this growing flock of boys and girls
alternately skip, walk, and run past them.
We got to the long, thick rope that hangs from a hole in a high-up ceiling tile. The bell can't be
seen, but - thanks to the kids - it can certainly be heard, and soon the whole community knew
that the Chapel on the Hill was ready to start another service. Then the children scattered for
their regular classes, and I was released from my responsibilities for another week. My husband
Bill, between teaching the Adult Class and doing his part in the Morning Service, stopped to ask
me quietly, "Are you feeling OK?" "Sure, I'll be fine," I reassured him.
So here I sit in my Dad's big chair, listening to the occasional loud toddler, a teacher's helper
rushing by for some missing craft supply, a person coughing, and then the sound of the water
fountain to ease their discomfort. I can hear my Dad preaching. It's a sound I have heard
throughout my entire life. In fact, my earliest memory is of him preaching. I can't hear the words
he is saying as I listen through these office walls, but I know for certain that he is proclaiming
God's Word.
"And the Word became flesh, and dwelt among us." I think about Jesus in the boat in the storm,
and how the disciples were safe all along, even though they did not realize it. I think about how
He helped them, despite their lack of faith. And I think about His words, "Peace, be still," and I
suddenly hear them in my anxious heart and for my weary body. I sense a calming of my own
troubled waters.
I'm so glad I came.
by Donna-Jean A. Breckenridge
Liberty and Lily Ministries
