The Touch of the Master’s Hand

by Myra Brooks Welch

‘Twas battered and scarred, and the auctioneer

Thought it scarcely worth his while

To waste much time on the old violin,

But held it up with a smile.

“What am I bidden, good folks,” he cried,

“Who’ll start the bidding for me?”

“A dollar, a dollar. Then two! Only two?

Two dollars, and who’ll make it three?”

“Three dollars, once; three dollars, twice;

Going for three…” But no,

From the room, far back, a gray-haired man

Came forward and picked up the bow;

Then wiping the dust from the old violin,

And tightening the loosened strings,

He played a melody pure and sweet,

As a caroling angel sings.

The music ceased, and the auctioneer,

With a voice that was quiet and low,

Said: “What am I bid for the old violin?”

And he held it up with the bow.

“A thousand dollars, and who’ll make it two?

Two thousand! And who’ll make it three?

Three thousand, once; three thousand, twice,

And going and gone,” said he.

The people cheered, but some of them cried,

“We do not quite understand.

What changed its worth?” Swift came the reply:

“The touch of the Master’s hand.”

And many a man with life out of tune,

And battered and scarred with sin,

Is auctioned cheap to the thoughtless crowd

Much like the old violin.

A “mess of pottage,” a glass of wine,

A game — and he travels on.

He is “going” once, and “going” twice,

He’s “going” and almost “gone.”

But the Master comes, and the foolish crowd

Never can quite understand

The worth of a soul and the change that is wrought By the touch of the Master’s hand.

During the pandemic, a family asked me to officiate their loved one’s funeral. I arrived twenty minutes early at Westview Cemetery, but a long line of cars already awaited the funeral procession. I nodded to the funeral home director, passed all of the guests, and parked behind the hearse.

At the appointed hour, I led the family and friends to the grave site. I parked down the road to make room for the family. After pulling on an overcoat and mask, I walked to the funeral tent with my Book of Worship.

A brass trio played jazzy spirituals as the crowd gathered. Then I saw a stranger dressed in a clergy robe who held a Bible. Huh. I didn’t recall any of these details in the funeral plans. Looking around, I also did not recognize a single soul.

I was about to officiate the wrong funeral.

Turning quickly on my heel, I hurried back to the truck and pondered my next move. Westview Cemetery contains 100,000+ gravesites scattered over 600 acres; and I had five minutes to find the right one.

I had never sped through a cemetery before, but I would have given a NASCAR pole winner a run for his money. After a frantic few minutes, I finally spied a likely crowd gathering around a freshly turned grave. I drifted around a final curve and came to a head-snapping stop.

I hurried to the graveside—only to discover the pastor co-officiating the service was running late. After a deep sigh of relief, I prepared to celebrate a life lived long and well.

All my life I’ve heard the saying, “You’ll be late for your own funeral.” Turns out the adage is true for officiants as well.  

Everyone’s Irish on Saint Patrick’s Day! Today the church celebrates the patron saint of Ireland. Although March 17 commemorates Patrick’s death date, many choose to observe the feast day in more, shall we say, pagan ways!

When it comes to Saint Patrick’s life, fact, fiction, and myth are inseparably intertwined. Historians date his life sometime in the fifth century. Abducted by an Irish raiding party, the young man spent years in captivity before escaping to England. Later Patrick returned to Ireland as the first Christian evangelist to proclaim the gospel.

Legends about the saint abound. He purportedly used a three-leafed shamrock to teach pagans about the Trinity. After snakes distracted him during a fast, Patrick banished all serpents from the land. During a lengthy sermon, his walking stick grew roots and bloomed into a living tree.

We’re all Irish on Saint Patrick’s Day. So, kiss me because I’m Irish! Wear the green, beware the leprechauns, and toast the saint.

Also, recall that beyond the myth was a man who faithfully served God and others. Self-sacrificial love put the “Saint” in front of Patrick’s name.

Saints of God, let us go forth and do likewise.

This Sunday the United States observes Pi Day. In numeric form, March 14 is 3.14, which forms the first three digits of the mathematical constant of π. The symbol represents the ratio of a circle’s circumference to its diameter. Don’t ask me to expound on the topic—I’ve already told you more than I know!

Pi Day was first observed in 1988 by Larry Shaw at the San Francisco Exploratorium. In 2009, the US House of Representatives passed a resolution observing March 14 as National Pi Day.

I double-majored in History and Religion, so math is not my strong suit. However, the mathematical underpinnings of the cosmos fascinate me. The Creator crafted the universe to interrelate in fantastical ways that humanity continues to discover.

The Almighty’s fingerprints cover creation: from quantum mechanics to cosmological calculations, from subatomic particles to expanding galaxies, from mathematical equations to Shakespearean sonnets, from a baby’s cry to a senior’s sigh . . . God is with us.

Psalm 19:1 reminds us, “The heavens declare the glory of God; the skies proclaim the work of his hands.”

This Sunday celebrate Pi and eat some pie. Then join us for worship online or onsite at Northside Church as we declare, “Our God is an awesome God!”

Once upon a time a nobleman left 17 camels to his 3 sons. The eldest brother received one-half of the camels, the middle son one-third, and the youngest boy one-ninth.

The three brothers argued vehemently about the fairest way to divide the livestock, and no one would compromise. Finally, they sought the advice of a wise man in the community.

After listening to their predicament, the sage devised an intriguing solution. He gave the three brothers his only camel. The boys now had 18 animals.

Then the man divided the camels according to the father’s wishes. The oldest brother’s share was one-half or 9 camels. The middle son received one-third or 6 camels. The youngest boy’s share was one-ninth or 2 camels.

Add the numbers up. 9 + 6 + 2 = 17!

The three brothers returned the 18^th camel to the wise man.

After extensive ciphering and cogitating, the fable’s math escapes me. No doubt one can learn many lessons from the tale. Since my experience with camels is thankfully limited, I might be missing the subtler nuances of the parable.

The most impressive element is the character of the wise man. Rather than viewing the situation as a win/lose confrontation, he sought out a win/win solution. In the end, everybody got what he wanted.

The story reminds us that brothers are always more important than camels. Such a concept has applications for individuals, families, churches, communities, and nations.

• In our personal relationships, seeking first to understand the other’s perspective gives us new understanding.
• Parents and children who talk with each other defuse explosive situations.
• Marriages endure when spouses think of themselves as “we” and not just “I.”
• Churches grow stronger when we cherish diversity and difference.

In the best of all worlds, brothers and sisters would never argue about such trivial things as camels. However, I suppose that would make the story a real fairy tale.