Incredible results are born from this…
He sat in his apartment in Florence in the winter of 1494. Michelangelo was looking out the window at the snow cover all around him. As Mr. Benett describes it, Michelangelo was sad because his friend Duke Lorenzo de' Medici had just died. And Lorenzo had recognized Michelangelo's brilliance and had given him blocks to carve. And now he was gone. Instead, his son Piero was now ruling who had no interest in artists, whatsoever. He was interested in games and horses. So Michelangelo was sad for he knew his talents and his dreams were going to melt away.
And there was a knock at the door. One of Piero's messengers at the door. "This is your day." Piero summons the famous sculptor. "He wants you to carve a statue for him." Michelangelo was stunned. Piero had never called. He couldn't believe his ears. He hurried to get his coat. He scurried downstairs. He walked beside the messenger with his mind racing. "This is the day you've been waiting for, to sculpt again for the Medici family." Moments later in the palace Piero is surrounded by friends, greeted him with a cheer, and said, "You probably thought we'd never call you. But today, we have need for your talent. You do have great talent, do you not, my friend? Go down to the gardens, find all the white marble that your heart desires lying heaped on the ground. I'm giving you dinner tonight. And I want guests to see one of your brilliant statues. Of course, tomorrow, the sun will do away with your hard labor but nothing lasts forever."
Michelangelo was stunned. He, the pride of Florence, was supposed to build a statue out of snow. The anger welled up in him. His chest heaved. His throat clenched. He glared at the laughing crowd. He felt ashamed they were wasting his talent and mocking him. Something made him stand where he was. He was young but also confident. And he knew he possessed a special gift. Nothing was going to stand in his way. So he quietly said, "I will do your bidding, O Great Medici." And he left and he went down and he looked at the snow. And he thought to himself, "I'll show you what I can do even with snow."
How could he possibly work for someone he loathed like that? He didn't want to use his gift but he did. He worked quickly. He scooped up snow. He packed it for hours. And he built a huge stack and he began to carve, a head, then limbs, then hands, then feet. And the icy mass came to life until at last it was done. As he finished, he saw Piero standing behind him. His sneer was gone. "Snow. Not snow. Something this beautiful should never pass away," Piero said. And so it was that Michelangelo proved his mettle.
Years passed and he won all of it to his praise until he was called to Rome to carve statues for Pope Julius II. He went to the famous marble quarries to select gigantic blocks, six wonderful months selecting the marble. His mind full of images to come. He got back to Rome, and Julius changed his mind. Julius led him instead into the Sistine Chapel, a huge narrow box of room, high walls, curved ceiling. And he said, "I want to decorate it and I want you to paint it." Michelangelo was stunned. "I'm a sculptor. I'm not a painter." "Well, didn't you learn to mix colors in the studio of your master? Don't you remember the lessons he taught you?" "I haven't painted in years. Get Raphael to do it. He's skillful with a brush." "Nonsense, he's busy. I've seen your drawings. Nobody can match them." It's an age-old argument. "It's not what I really want to do." Michelangelo looked up, 10,000 square-foot ceiling to be filled with pictures. It would take months while the marble lay useless. "This isn't what I want to do."
He choked back his rage and his disappointment again. But he consented. With a heavy heart and up the ladders and the scaffolding went. It was torturous work. Colors dripped on his face, burned his eyes. He hated the job. "I'm a sculptor, not a painter," he muttered over and over. He hadn't painted for years. Truth be told, he was afraid to use his gift for fear he couldn't do the work. He asked others to help. But he found them to be more of a hinderance than a help. He erased what they had done and he worked alone and he saw no one but the color grinder and the pope. "If it had to be done, it would be done right," he told himself.
In silence and solitude, he lay there on the scaffolding painting. Then to his horror, the surfaces began to mould. "I told you I wasn't a painter. All my work has been destroyed." He found he'd made the plaster too wet and harm would result, and he kept going. The days began at dawn. And many nights, he didn't even leave the chapel at all. He lay on his back, and he painted. He grew so used to that cramped position that when he received a letter, he had to hold it over his head and bend backward to read it. He didn't eat much, just a crust of bread usually. And he became ill from the exhaustion. But he kept going.
The pope was impatient, continually checking in and saying, "When's it going to be done? When's it going to be done?" Michelangelo would say, "When I'm done." Gradually, he merged some of the most perfect scenes ever created by a human hand. God the father separating light from dark. The creation of Adam and Eve, the fall of man, the great flood, more than 300 figures from the tips of his brushes. After four years of fatigue and isolation, four years, the task was completed. The scaffolding camed down. The doors opened. The crowds entered, amazed. Raphael himself came in and knelt and thanked God that he had been born in the same century as Michelangelo.
Think about it, Michelangelo hated the work. He hated most of the people he was working for. He wanted to do something other than paint. But Michelangelo worked for The Lord. And as he painted, in spite of himself, God's hand worked through him to create a witness for all time. Challenges and difficulties may come in big ways. For some people, they do. But for most of us, they come in small challenges and little persecutions along the way. What do you do? What will you do? Patiently endure, persevere, press on, remain faithful. By your endurance, you will gain your lives. By your endurance, you will gain your lives. [music]
