FAILURE IS NOT FINAL

Violins have been handmade by master builders for centuries. Many would say that by just listening to the timber, resonance, and tone of each violin, one could tell which master builder designed and fashioned it.

Legend has it that such a violin was unknowingly found in the personal effects in the attic of a person of some wealth. His only remaining heir inherited his great debt as well as his personal possessions. Not desiring the estate, she auctioned off his material assets in hopes she would be able to pay off his considerable debts and break even.

Auctioneers, sensing desperation, sat on their hands. They low-balled their offerings for the things, and it appeared that the auction would be a failure, and she would be straddled with her estranged father’s debt.

The final item for auction was a dusty, scratched violin with bow. Auctioneers yawned in dissatisfaction desiring for the thing to be over. They had made some once in a lifetime bargains and were satiated.

The auctioneer cleared his throat with a bit of humility and sadness understanding the dire problem of the heir, “Ladies and gentlemen, we have for final presentation to the auction block, a violin with bow, circa early 1900, with a grade of C and a provenance of some ambiguity. May we open the bidding at $1000?”

Silence stifled the room. Embarrassed and nervous, the auctioneer’s eyes implored someone to make a sympathetic bid. He saw no one.

Rudely, from a portly gentleman, a comment darted to the front, “Can we get on with it?”

In a small break of decorum, the auctioneer disciplined, “Indeed you have all made out quite handsomely. I am sure we can withstand a few moments, before you obtain the gains you have pinched from this estate.”

Discomfort spread through the room. A strong but wrinkled hand raised in the back. “Sir, may it be permitted that I play the instrument?”

Whispered grumbling and exasperated hands went into the air in objection, but no one remarked out loud. Looking at the heir, the auctioneer waited for an answer. Imperceptibly, she nodded.

Slowly but with resolve, the elderly, stately but diminutive, gentleman made it to the front. He had a familiarity to the auctioneer, but there was no outright recognition.

Gathering the bow from the auctioneer, the gentleman pulled out a block of Lebenzeller rosin and prepared the bow. Gingerly, he grabbed the violin and placed it gently but firmly above his clavicle. With slight pressure, he placed his chin and fixed his fingers on the thread.

The downward stroke of the bow did not erupt into Violin Sonata in G Minor by Handel, but it was the first note of a familiar hymn, “Precious Lord, Take My Hand.” Beautiful notes erupted from an ugly, dusty instrument. Closed eyes could hear voices singing, not wood, strings and pegs. The last notes resonating off the walls of the room were met by the muffled sniffles and tears of its inhabitants.

Before the auctioneer could resume the bid, the same portly man raised his paddle, “One million dollars.” Some say what ensued was unlike anything they had ever seen. A bidding war erupted, and the violin was sold for several million dollars.

After the auction, the grateful heir thanked the auctioneer but wanted more than anything to find this mysterious violinist. Weaving through the still-excited crowd, she found him encircled by many including the portly gentleman who was adamantly apologizing.

Through tears she asked, “How did you know?”

Carefully and with strained sentimentality, he explained, “I’ve known that instrument for years. I know every peg, string, the body, and the string board. I know every crack, scratch and flaw. I know what it should sound like and how it should be played. I know it, because it came from my hands.”

It matters whose hands you are in. A scrapped violin becomes an instrument of great music because it was placed in the master violinist’s hands.

A basketball in my hands is worth about 40 dollars, but a basketball in Lebron James hands is worth about 40 million dollars. A football in my hand is worth about 30 dollars, but a football in Aaron Rodgers hands is worth about 33 million dollars. Barber scissors in my hands will make you mad, but scissors in a barber’s hand will make you handsome.

Cancer in my hands will get you treatment, but cancer in Jesus hand will get you cured. Your sins in their hands may get you condemned, but your sins in Jesus hands will get you forgiven. Your flaws in their hands will got you judged, but your flaws in Jesus hands got you redeemed.

I’ve had everything in my hands and screwed up royally, just like Moses. I have shared a darkened room with Jacob because I’ve felt the sting of losing everything that mattered. The woman at the well and I have cried long nights and endured longer days of unanswerable questions. Like Abraham, I have wrestled with my failures and wondered when I would get it right. The shame that the woman caught in adultery felt, I have not only believed, but deemed I deserved. The embarrassment of carelessness because I made a dumb, foolish decision like the son who left his father, I know intimately.

Throughout the shame, the pain, the humiliation, the embarrassment, and the guilt, I have come to know a few things. We have a Savior who redeems, a Holy Spirit who guides, and a Father who loves.

I know what I hope you now know: Your flaws are not fatal, and your failures are not final. More than anything, you remain in His hands.