The Lay Preacher

This is the story of a man named Vincent. This man, Vincent, would come to nothing in his life. Vincent would die by his own hand unable to heal the wounds no one else could see. Perhaps they could see the madness in his eyes, or his uneven temperament would fall in them like a strange and violent blade, but his wounds, save an ear, were concealed from the world. Or, the physical manifestations were not left to be discovered on his person.

Vincent failed at many things. A misfit born for his time is a misfit for all time, but his failures were the only abundance afforded to this destitute life. In a life wealthy with so many shortcomings, there are many unlikely steps off the carousel forever tilting on its crooked axis toward more defeats, the necessary cuts made to gnaw a man down to bone. One of these in auspicious footings was that of a man of God. 

Vincent was a lay preacher. Vincent was an unordained preacher with his unrefined ideas sent to men who could level with these ideas and see the parts of themselves, both godly and unrefined. God's unfinished preacher sent to shepherd the hard scrabble flock to what valley may give respite if the low, peaceful valley was never intended for these crude cut souls.

Were his sermons about God's love? Did he speak in analogies of light and color? Did he simply read from the good book, monotone, another illformed station in this world chafing his uneasy mind?

This is the story of a boy, a man by all accounts with his eyes sunk into his shadow box face looming over paunch and stubble, but very much a child. He never cared much for the things hung in stone edifices with their large souvenir tickets and guided audio tours. He preferred the weight of books in his hands and the shaft of light from projector screen, but art--the cadavers splayed cold on examining tables in galleries the world over--was distasteful. These things required an explanation. These things so needed an arid mausoleums to subsist. These things could not cast their own shadow. These things were the murder of art, art as some fictional sentiment worth believing.

 This is my story. This is the story of my visit to the lay preacher.

Mine was never to sit in his congregation. There was no tumbledown church with creaking, unfinished pews and an endlessly circling collection plate for a new roof or hymnals. All of this was gone, and I was left only to observe his sermons rendered mute. His fables and lessons preserved by those who knew the value of his message even though he was gone. Teachings now housed in a palace bearing his name, the sort of glittering cathedral this lay preacher might scorn and strive for in his unpredictable, irradiated colors of fugue. 

There was the sinister and funny parable of the smoking skeleton. There was the parable of the many workers of the field. The allegory of the potato eaters, though an early, perhaps overwrought attempt, was a cornerstone. Like his beatitudes, the flowers who turn their face to the sun revealed a tenderness never before known to me. So many grasps at capturing himself, an attempt to understand the face peering back, because the true kingdom of Heaven lies within. The words of the men circling the prison yard fell deep into me. His final doctrine, the almond blossoms--branches aching toward an untouchable blue sky, dotted with delicate hands waving white, never made to ascend beyond roots bound to soil, and in defiance of this resolute fate they unfurl their beauty as a sacrifice portending their flutter into the abyss of indifferent earth where unforetold rebirth can finally begin anew--this was the benediction.

It's easy to like the Vincent, the lay preacher. Perhaps my new found devotion to this man is simply a cart set on rails greased with years of repeated references to the mad genius and his work, omnipresent, peering down from classroom walls and bedroom doors. But, his work appeared next to that of his contemporaries, and none held sway, not like Van Gogh.

Among his finished masterworks, there were sketches and model drawings. His footsteps retraced, removed from infallible icons of his genius, the struggle is revealed. Misshapen drawings of farmers. Stilted lines of perspective. Influence of admired peers shown through too much. Techniques refined in art schools in which he could never survive. This is the story of a man named Vincent. In slavery and starvation, in unrequited passion, crippled with unseen sickness, he was united with his place in this world. 

I have no reason to believe Van Gogh was a good preacher. All the same, I want to go back. A man is always an artist, a man is always mad. I want to put on what modest overcoat my means afford. Button up a shirt laundered and saved for Sundays, my wedding, and my funeral. Sit on the wincing, un-lacquered benches, look on to the hymn book with four others, and listen. Perhaps not the most brilliant orator, maybe even in some circles tiring and droll, but when one can unite the sullied masses with a profound sensation outside themselves, this is the power of the lay preacher.

Many Sundays he is so meek you can't hear his voice at the back of the hall. But some Sundays, the right Sunday, he speaks a truth. The unheralded scenes of forgotten lives unfold above his pulpit toned in horror, yet haloed in vivid color. We sing "Down By the Riverside," and he leads with a booming, ragged voice. And before we part, he reminds us, filled with the spirit, when all things are brought out--darkness or light--they, for those willing to see it, crawl with unexpected and articulate beauty.