The Artist and Cathedral

It was gray again. The water drops on the windows raced one another down the glass and into a puddle. I looked passed them but not to anything in particular. I found it dreadful that I was so affected by circumstances that I could not change. It wasn’t my fault that it rained all the time here. Cars slowly drove in and out of the parking lot. Their lights would occasionally light up my face and then quickly disappear again in the direction that they were going.

“Hey Cam?” Someone lightly knocked on the door behind me. I swung around back to my desk as though I had been working all along.

“Yeah, go ahead.” I gestured my hand up in the air as if he could see it through the frosted glass. There was a quiet struggle at the door before he figured that the door slid right instead of left. It was Thomas. He dropped a sticky note on the ground which led to three other pieces of paper falling as he bent to pick them up.

“Hi Thomas. What do you need?” I asked in order to be polite, and to be honest, because I felt a little pity for him. He was young and awkward but still incredibly kind. He probably looked younger than he actually was. At least, I didn’t think it was legal to hire 15 year olds.

“Hey Cam. Do you have a minute?” Thomas finally won the battle between the folder he carried and his own balance. I was ready for the question. I gave up telling him that if I invited him in it automatically suggested that I had a minute to give.

“Sure Thomas, what’s up?” I asked again.

“Did you watch the game last night?” He adjusted the pile in his hands once more. We both bonded over the game of professional basketball. He especially had the ability to obtain stats that otherwise seemed like useless information. Not to him.

“Yeah, I did. It was a pretty-” I was about to finish but in Thomas’ fashion, he finished the summary of the game.

“Pretty incredible. Did you know that LeBron James is the only one in history to acquire that many points, rebounds, and assists? I mean, come on. That guy is the definition of excellence. They looked horrible in the beginning, but they really picked it up when the second unit came in…” Thomas kept going and so did I. He was unaware that we were going in two different directions. His voice trailed off with field goal percentages of every single Cavalier that played while I sat idly with a frozen interested gaze upon my face.

I had two more hours before I clocked out and sat in traffic. Maybe I would grab a drink at the tavern and work on my book. Anything beat sitting in traffic, and besides, I was nearly done. My first novel would finally see the light of day. Not that anyone cared. I became irrelevant in the art community the moment I became weird. I accepted the notion of God my entire life, but this time I became outwardly convinced. One might even call me a radical. I went on mission trips and loved like some man possessed. I volunteered my life to a new purpose and decided I would use my artistic calling towards this higher virtue. Turns out that the Church wasn’t entirely sold on the idea of art. I ended up being on the Christian version of “The Office” while I stared up at an audience that wasn’t there on screens that I only wished existed. Maybe they did in Heaven. Anyways, I wasn’t even laughing. After a few years, the cute quirks no longer were cute. It puzzled me how many ways one could mess up the brochure or misspell a basic word. No one was interested in my artistic nature. In fact, they were turned off by it. Now I existed in some strange limbo between the Church and my need to create. If you pointed it on the map, I guess it would be the tavern. It was a place where I could perhaps find other creators, but a photo I could never share in the congregation.

“What do you think?” Thomas was staring at me and eagerly awaiting a response. I blinked twice and sat up again in my chair.

“Yeah, I mean… Crazy.” For some reason, this often did the trick. Thomas nodded excitedly.

“Right?” I learned that this was a question that didn’t need a response.

“Well Thomas, I better get back to work. Keep me posted on tomorrow’s game. Should be a great matchup.” He gripped his folder and showed himself out. I got up from my desk, walked over to the sliding door, and closed it. Thomas never did.

I now worked at a paper towel distribution factory as a shipping clerk. It wasn’t a glamorous job. I’ve yet to work one of those. At least it wasn’t the other nine jobs I had taken in order to get here. People didn’t understand a life centered around creating. It just seemed too… risky. Well, it was risky outside the Church. Inside the Church it was called “having faith” depending on what was needed at the time. If there was a dire need to be filled, then it took the proper faith to live a life of outlandish risk. But this often times got confusing. Sometimes faith was convenient and other times faith meant that one must have to bend over backwards to accommodate someone else’s opinion on the matter. It seemed like I could never quite get it right so I decided to trust God’s voice inside of me. It had to be there for a reason right?

I clicked the bottom portion of my screen which popped up a copy of my book thus far. Sometimes I wrote a lot. Other days I just opened the tab in order to feel as though I had accomplished something. I always needed that feeling. Starting something never felt good to me. It had to be completed. There had to be a point. I swung my chair back around and stared once again at the parking lot. It wasn’t much of a view but it was better than the ones I had left behind. It was starting to get dark now and cars were now creating a light show with mostly reds flickering on and off at the intersection. I decided that the tavern would do me good. I got up, turned off my computer, and headed towards the exit.

The green light of the exit sign hummed in the distance. The walls were plastered with motivational posters and spilt coffee. I didn’t mind working here. That was always the best thing I could say. Yes, “I’m blessed,” as the Church would say. It’s true. I knew it. My travels told me so. It was quite obvious from nearly every article I read or from merely opening my eyes to the world around me. Still, the Church would often remind me any time I would pray for more. It wasn’t a “heart issue” of mine to be resolved. I regularly read my Bible, and most times, had to put it down. It inspired too much in me. I could not read between the lines and find mediocrity anywhere. I tried and failed. I straddled the line of being blessed and wanting more.

Instead of merging onto the hideous freeway where armies of tired workers grew increasingly agitated, I turned left. I pulled the car near a small building with dangling lights from the ceiling. Inside there were only about five people there. Just the way I liked it. I wasn’t into crowds and being seen. I mostly wanted to write, or if so fortunate, delight in a conversation with a friend about politics, world issues, and religion. I fancied myself a C.S. Lewis type who enjoyed a good pub and philosophical debate. I had to do this mostly alone and with a tinge of shame running down the side of the glass. I had given up the drink just as I had everything else. All of my writings that took years for me to compile. Handwritten prose and typewritten songs were all lost in my new commitment to God. I did so gladly and with no pressure at all. It was out of love. I was truly in love. Sacrifice was a part of it. I did not need a sermon to teach me such a thing. I understood right then and there that I was giving up lesser for more. Returning to the drink was not in rebellion. I had spent most of my weekdays and weekends at various Church events. Men’s Bible study, community groups, worship rehearsals, and even working as a laborer to remodel the building. I was present all the time as a hungry and eager student. I only returned to the drink because it paired well with my thoughts and studies.

I got out of my car and opened the door to the tavern. A manila folder closely held the printed works in my hand. The bartender was dressed well in street clothes. A backwards hat, a styled mustache, and a sports t-shirt draped over his skinny frame. He nodded towards me, and without a word, poured me a glass of what I had always gotten. “Predictable,” was what he called me. I’d prefer a disciplined routine.

“One and done?” He was already swiping my card as he said it. He knew.

“One and done,” I replied. I found a seat away from the bar and in a corner that was slightly more quiet than the rest. It was a place that I could think. I tapped my red pen against the pages as I tried my best to read my own story with an open mind. My story was to be human. I was a Christian at a tavern writing, not a Christian book, but a book that was penned by a Christian. There is a unique difference.

Chapter 2: The Bartender

It only took an hour for traffic to die down. For some reason, the general public had yet to discover the art of waiting. I got back into my car and headed home. Tomorrow I was to have a meeting with the pastoral staff on the topic of creativity. It was a foreign topic of discussion to them but my hope was to build a bridge between excellence and... the roots of the Church. Somewhere along the way, culture separated itself from dogma. The modern Church accepted a new form of art. It was called, “Christian art” and no one particularly found it fascinating except for those who did. They mostly mingled together in small groups and reassured one another that their ideas of creativity were perfectly adequate for the outside world. I observed that if the Church deemed you with “the right heart,” they would also reward you with an out of this world compliment.

“You’re so anointed,” a lady would rush up to the stage after a frightening performance from the worship leader. He was a middle aged businessman who picked up an instrument back when the Church was just starting out. I should not be so quick to judge. Neither should I call it a performance. I kept these things inside in order to not commit social suicide. One might call it a conviction on my part, but I had found that if I had spoken up, I would have quickly been questioned as to where my heart was.

This too was always confusing to me. To possess the right heart seemed to be entirely dependent on how one felt that day. If one accomplished something with excellence, it may not be celebrated because the heart was clearly not in the right place. On the other hand, if another person lacked a single thread of talent or skill, it may be applauded for the virtues of humility and faith. Faith being the fact that they had shown up long enough to deserve the anointing. It was then commonplace to have the unfit be encouraged into roles that they clearly were not called for, simply to prove that God rewarded the unqualified. This resulted into a strange culture of mediocrity at best and chaos at worst.

I returned home and lay awake on my bed. The baseboard heaters creaked throughout the house like crickets in every room. I pressed my eyes together and opened them again after several minutes. My mind was always the last thing to shut off in the day and any thought that lacked logic would be like a puzzle waiting to be solved.

“I don’t understand it,” I began my recurring conversation with God. “You created me. Let’s start with that. You’re a creator. This isn’t new to you, this whole creation thing. You’re neither fearful of creation nor ashamed by it. You’re the ultimate artist. You’re a painter, an author, a designer, and musician. You’ve done it all and you’ve called it good. You sent your son to disrupt culture. He was the ultimate rebel. He was confident in the call he was purposed for. Yet here we are.” I didn’t really need to explain it all out. It was mostly a counseling session for my own sanity. “Here we are.” I just sat on those words for a while before I realized I was having a conversation again. “What is an artist to do in your Church today? Surely an artist cannot survive within the Church’s walls? There’s no need for us there. I was more useful to you as an artist striving to impact outside culture. Instead, I gladly disrupted my plans in order to serve you. Now I am seen as an arrogant man with the wrong heart. I dare not have standards or I shall have no influence at all. Yet, I read your word and am baffled by what I find. Nothing makes sense within these walls.”

I had grown exhausted from my battle with mediocrity. It was as though my standards were forced out the window the moment I engaged with the Church. If I admitted my exhaustion, I knew what would follow. Predictability was the Church’s strong suit.

“Pray about it.” This was the first step because I had not thought of this on my own.

“Perhaps this is not your call. It shouldn’t be this hard if it’s something you were really meant to do.” This of course could spiral to the opposite end if the listener was feeling a different way. “This must be your call. You need to fight through in order to break through.” The advice given was dependent on the theology of the people involved.

“Rest in the Lord,” because peace shouldn’t be fought for. If I had said such a thing then it would be said, “Jesus fought and paid the price for all. He died for your peace.” The merry go round kept operating and I wanted off. I wanted to move. I no longer could sit on a ride and pretend that we were advancing anything at all.

I slowly drifted into sleep. In order not to be rude, I finished my prayer. “If I am to continue operating as a smiling face then so be it. Do unto me as you please. Use me as you please. I simply cannot stand this merry go round. Amen.”

I’m not entirely sure if I uttered “amen” before I was fast asleep. A thick blanket draped over my entire body and I was gone. It pushed me down further and further into my bed until I was swallowed whole by the mattress. It wasn’t the feeling of falling that manifested into a jolt of the legs and back into full consciousness. If I had awoken, I was not aware. I did not suffocate by way of cotton sheets, no, I was instead clawing the black air that engulfed me until…

I was sitting at a pub again. The entire room was full of chatter and smoke from pipes. One man laughed hysterically in the corner while a woman enthusiastically told a story in another. I sat frozen at the far end of the wooden bar. I had never seen anything like it. The bar that is. It was cut all entirely from one tree with gorgeous lines that told its story.

“Can I get you something?” A thick Irish accent appeared all at once over the counter. I was still studying the wood and trying to figure out where I was. Fiddles and violins traded measures on speakers that I could not find. The laughter continued all around me which crescendoed whenever the music would pick up. “Can I get you something sir?”

I looked up at the man who patiently held a coaster in his hand. He was a magazine cut out; a bartender’s bartender. His beard was perfectly gray and full. His hair was slicked back and he wore a black tie aligned at the center of his top button. I could very well have been in an advertisement for high end whiskey. I looked down to check my attire. I already felt underdressed by the workers in the bar. To my surprise, I too looked quite dapper. A three piece suit checkered in different hues of grays fit perfectly against my skin. I clicked my shoes, and they to were shined brown and in pristine shape. I instantly felt better, but still had no idea where I was.

“I’ll just take…” I tried to find any source of a menu. To avoid embarrassment, I resorted to his recommendation. “I’ll take the whiskey of your choice.” I regretted my casual tone. I just ordered a random whiskey from man I didn’t know, in a foreign place, and without even checking my wallet.

“Right away,” he smiled. He turned towards the towering wall of spirits and tipped a bottle off the rack and into his hands. Everything was beautiful here. Even the bottle. The whiskey was housed in a glass casing that I knew I couldn’t afford. He began to pour as I checked my front pockets for some cash. “Don’t worry mate. This one’s on us. One and done?” He slid the glass over to my hand and gave me a wink.

“Um, yeah, one and done.” I sat there with the drink in my hand still surveying the place. “Hey, may I ask you where I-” I turned and the bartender was gone. The glass in my hand was heavy and of high quality. It seemed as if everything was. I circled the glass two times, wafted the drink for just a moment, and cocked back my head in a fair motion. I never tasted anything quite as smooth and rich in flavor. I was no expert in any fine drink, but the whiskey tasted ancient. Something that must have cost at least one hundred dollars for a small swig of liquid.

I surveyed the room once more. The chandeliers were shined crystal and elegant. They dispersed light so to illuminate each face, but to also capture the dim ambience of conversation. There were shelves of countless books on the walls with a ladder that rolled along the edges of black piping. The laughter came from every table of finely dressed men and women. One man with a dark mustache and vest puffed on his cigar before captivating his small audience with the story he was telling. It was a story of a dragon and an eagle. At least, this is what I thought I overheard. It was night outside. Behind me there was a tall glass door that featured the night sky. All I could tell was that it was dark and that we were on ground floor.

“Excuse me, do you mind watching my drink?” A large set fellow beside me had tapped me on my shoulder and nodded towards the restroom.

“Oh sure, I most definitely can,” I replied almost in auto pilot. He smiled and began to make his way behind me before he paused.

“It’s not because I’m worried that someone would do something nefarious to my drink. It’s because they keep this place so dang clean.” He patted me on the back three times and once again was on his way. I watched him for a few moments before I heard glass softly collide with glass beside me. I turned around. The magazine bartender was grabbing the restroom man’s drink and wiping the table.

“He’s actually on his way back.” I tried pointing in the general direction that he went. “He wanted me to look after his drink.” The bartender listened intently as he casually dumped the drink in the sink and reached for a clean glass out of a mahogany cupboard. I stared at the bartender, wondering if he had heard me over the crowd noise. He picked up small silver tongs, grabbed two molded ice cubes from a chest, and tossed them in another expensive looking glass. Turning around, he danced his fingers across four different bottles before finally making a gesture with his finger.

“That’s the one,” he said only to himself. He poured the drink back into the restroom man’s new cup and slid it to the same place it had been. “He’ll never know.” He winked again, and again, he was off to serve others.

“I appreciate it.” The heavy set man was back. “Cheers,” he waved his glass in the air and raised his eyebrows.

“Cheers,” was all I could say. I shifted in my seat before realizing that I may have just made a new friend. “Hey, can you tell me where we are?” The heavy set man swallowed his drink and cleared his throat.

“Yes, of course. We’re in Carol’s Pub, the best pub west of Gideon.” A few down the line must have heard us as they all chimed, “Here here!” This didn’t help me much at all. I mostly wanted to ask where my bed was and if I was in need of a new mattress.

“Right. Carol’s Pub. And in what city would this be?” I asked as nonchalantly as I could. I didn’t want to come across strange. As if I had randomly appeared at a bar as I closed my eyes to sleep. He swirled the drink around casually in his left hand.

“You my friend, are in the City of David.” He took his final swig and gently placed the glass back onto the surface of the bar.

Chapter 3: The Barber

The City of David. I looked back at the door once more. I hadn’t stretched my legs out yet and wasn’t entirely sure if they even worked here. Besides, I was asleep right? I guess I could just stay here at Carol’s Pub until I decided to wake up. This was a dream that was unlike the rest I had every experienced. I was fully in charge here. At least, thus far I had been. I slid off my barstool and nodded to my new friend.

“Cheers,” he said. Weaving in and out of laughing crowds, I finally felt a cool breeze wafting in through the small crack below the door. I stood outside the glass to first observe where I would be going outside to. A red cobblestone street was the instant feature of a classic looking town. I suppose it was described as a city, but it was nothing like the cities I had known. There were no large buildings that jutted into the clouds or large groups of people scattered about. I opened the large glass door, unknown to the forecast on the other side. It was not the weather I had experienced back… Above my mattress. Instead, it was as if I was on a pier in San Diego. My shoes made distinct noises every time I picked up my feet to walk. I was distracted by these sounds before looking up and realizing I didn’t know where I was going. On each side of the streets were distinct and beautifully crafted stores. It was a painting.

“That must be it. I’m inside a painting,” I reasoned aloud to myself. The street lamps spread out neatly, constructed by heavy iron and glowing bulbs. Each store was distinct in character and design. I wanted to go into each one regardless of whether I would purchase whatever they were selling. I chose a direction. The fading noise of laughter and clinking of glasses grew slowly distant. “Just a well dressed man walking in a dream,” I thought. I walked passed Carol’s Pub and stopped at the next store. I had caught my reflection from the blackened windows. I stood up a little straighter, and I admit, admired the taste of whomever dressed me. Did I dress myself? Whatever the case, I was pleased. Then, from that same reflection I could see a man leaning against the doorway from the storefront behind me. I turned my head to face him.

“Good evening!” He cheerfully spoke loud enough for me to hear. “Can I fancy you with a haircut?” I looked back into my reflection to check my hair. It was already looking clean and kept. No bedhead from flailing around in my blankets. Regardless, I faced the man once more and smiled. Why not? I may be able to strike up a conversation as to what this place is. I walked maybe twenty steps across the stone before I was directly in front of him. He shook my hand with a firm grip and chuckled as he did. It was a fatherly handshake, if there was such a thing. “Right this way,” he motioned into the shop.

I took off my jacket and hung it by some chairs on a rack and sat down a plump leather seat. Once again, the barbershop was fascinating. The chairs for waiting were neither cheap nor poorly selected. They were built for conversation; seats that could be sat on for hours and perhaps they were. There were no tabloid magazines slopped together on a table top. Instead, more books like Carol’s Pub were neatly shelved between every chair. On a desktop sat a small bar, wooden boxes of cigars, and a glass container full of water and sliced lemons. The floors were a dark hardwood which paired well with the darkened brass of the sconces that lit the entire shop. An old record player was on the opposite end of the room and it slowly turned a Duke Ellington number. The barber turned my chair towards the mirror, lightly placed a black cloth over my attire, and tied it snuggly against my neck.

“Same thing, just a little tighter round the edges?” He was reaching towards a brilliant old cabinet that was remarkably kept and tidy. Inside there were threes of everything. Three silver scissors, three razor blades with ivory handles, three containers of product, and three folded towels.

“Sounds great,” was all I could think to say. I looked better than I ever had above the mattress. I didn’t know who I was trying to impress down here, but if all failed, I was already impressed. I caught myself thinking “down here,” as if I was somewhere other than a silly dream. Any moment now and I would wake up and forget any detail that surrounded this rather bizarre hair experience.

The barber took the scissors on the left and began to trim my hair. “Is this your first time here?” He asked.

“It is,” I replied. “Gorgeous shop,” I added and I meant it. He nodded at the compliment as if to say thanks.

“And why are you here?” He asked. It was a polite interrogation but dreams can be frivolous sometimes. I thought of an answer. Why did I fall through my mattress and wake up in Carol’s Pub, the best pub west of Gideon in the City of David?

“Well, I heard it’s a nice place to visit.” It was the only answer that I could come up with quickly enough to not come across rude. He quietly laughed. I guessed his age at around 40. His hair was dark brown, parted to one side, and gelled. He too was impeccably dressed with a dark blue plaid shirt, khakis, and his black canvas apron that matched his shoes. It seemed like a perfectly good answer to me.

“So you’re not here because you’re tired of drib drab?” He asked, spinning my chair slightly to the right in order to get a better angle.

“Sorry, drib what?” I hadn’t heard of such a term. Was this another city?

“Drib drab. Mediocrity. Apathetic pish posh.” The barber glanced up at the mirror as if this made any sense to me. He sounded more like an english hip hop artist that I could not understand.

“Oh yeah, pish posh.” I blew some hair that had collected on the cloth above my chest. “No, to be honest I just kind of showed up here.” It was a dream after all, so why not just tell the truth? “I’m actually from the North West of America where it rains without mercy and we’ve been robbed of our basketball team.” I made a reference he clearly didn’t understand. I went on. “This may sound crazy, but I had a drink, said a prayer, and fell quite literally asleep through my mattress. I mean, I really fell. This is where I ended up. I actually like it here; this dream that is. Suits me well.”

He spun me now to the left and brushed the collected hair off my neck. “You’re here now and that’s what’s important.” I instinctively nodded my head in agreement but did not comprehend such a thought. “And this place you speak of- describe it to me.” He took out a pair of circular glasses from his breast pocket, placed them on, and trimmed methodically behind me.

“Sure. We have rivers, and lakes, and a giant sound that goes through-” I was interrupted mid sentence.

“No, my apologies. I meant describe your cathedral.” His snipping was meticulous and rhythmic. I thought for a moment of what my cathedral would be.

“You mean my Church?” I asked.

“Yes, that’s right. Describe to me your Church.” It was a strange topic for a barbershop located within a dream.

“Well, we’re about 300 large located in the heart of a major city. We are definitely blessed. The elders are anointed and our leaders shepherd us well. Did I say we are blessed? We are. It’s quite anointed and-” He interrupted me again. This man was rude and polite at the same time.

“Enough with the rubbish,” he abruptly paused and looked up. He collected his glasses off his nose and placed them back into his pocket. “I’m a barber. Your secret is safe with me. Let’s start with your craft. You’re an artist, yes? A musician if I heard correctly. Describe your rehearsals.” I laughed as if he was in on the inside joke. He stared at me sternly and I cleared my throat.

“Right. Rehearsals are…” I searched for the Church words to say in order to hide the blatant falsehoods. I again caught myself. This is all a dream, and like he said, he’s a barber. He’ll never see me again. “If rehearsals start at 7, the band trickles in around 7:40. There’s a dinner for community’s sake. The dinner is the best part and the most productive. We’ve been building community for years, but none of us know a thing about one another.” I stop to see if the barber was bored. He was listening intently so I proceeded. “And if we must, we eventually get our instruments. Most have a hard time investing in anything decent, and tuning is an option that only some partake in. No one has practiced on their own except for the rehearsal of the prior week. This works since we play the same five songs over and over and over…” I get lost into a dream within a dream and I snap out of it. “Anyways, it’s a problem that no one tends to fix. It wouldn’t be of the right heart you know.” This time I found myself winking.

“And the standard?” He asked. The question puzzled me.

“The, I’m sorry?” I raised my eyebrows in a question mark.

“The standard. What is the standard that everything is measured upon? The consequences for missing the mark. The measurement of progress. The challenge of culture.” He had stopped trimming and awaited my reply.

“Oh yes, there’s none of that.” I blew another hair that tickled my chin. There was a silence as the record was changing songs. I looked up to the barber still awaiting a further reply. “Standards hurt feelings. They separate community. They divide. To suggest a standard is to admit arrogance. To challenge culture would acquire relevance within that culture. At least, to some kind of scale. No…” I shook my head. “Standards will not do. I’ve tried and failed and looked quite rebellious doing so. Standards will get you in trouble. Showing up is key. As our leader would say, ‘You can choose to be excellent within the band.’ Nice sentiment but doesn’t exactly work when the drummer is learning to keep a simple beat.” I sighed. “No, standards are the plague. There’d be hurt feelings and the sense of hierarchy would be stripped away. I once questioned if the Lord Almighty wanted to hear these same old songs over and over and over…” I trailed off again.

“Well, what happened?” The barber was reaching towards one of the towels.

“What happened? I had to pray for correction of course. These were the songs that were played. We stayed the course. We waited for the direction of the Lord, which seemed different than the direction he gave me. But who knows… I have to prove faithful first before I move up the ranks.” He patted down my shoulders and my neck and unbuttoned the black cloth.

“You’ve brought this up as a member of your cathedral?” He asked.

“Of course. I prayed, I fasted, I held my tongue. It would always bother me reading the good book, you know. Never quite added up. I’d try in the most encouraging manner to push the bar a tiny bit higher and I’d instantly be shown my place. Sheep need to be prodded. I’d read of Nehemiah, or Jacob, or David and I’d always get the same verse on love. Remember that love is patient, love is kind. Remember to pray. Let God. You know, the answers that seemed to me a little bit lazy. ‘It’s all about Jesus,’ was a big one. They always got me there.” I knew I was being sarcastic and rather impolite. “As if I hadn’t given up everything for the sake of that one person. I had to be more like Mary, not Martha. Sit. Relax. After awhile I understood.”

“Understood what?” The barber asked while reaching for a wooden broom.

“Understood that they didn’t want creativity. They wanted predictability. I was disrupting patterns that had been established. I mistook carelessness for ignorance, but then somewhere down the road I realized it was placed there on purpose.” The man finished sweeping. There wasn’t much at all to sweep, but the look on the face was one that I hadn’t seen a while. It was of deep concern. It made me uncomfortable so I interrupted the moment with a question. “So what do I owe you?”

“It’s on me,” he said without breaking eye contact. “Perhaps you should meet my friend across the street. You see that black brick building across the way?” I looked and indeed saw the building he was pointing to. It was shaped like a perfect box with large glass windows and a small modern garden in the front. “Knock on that red door will you? He should be home by now.”

I normally would object to any invitation that required an uncomfortable encounter with a stranger, but the barber was a wonderful listener. Perhaps his advice would be better taken. He stretched out his arm and gripped my hand firmly.

“In all things excellence,” he said. I pursed my lips and nodded. I had no idea what he was talking about but I faked a quiet assurance that I did.

“I appreciate it, I really do.” I headed for the door and showed myself out. I waved again to the barber who stood there with his broom still in one hand. My shoes once again echoed as they touched the cobblestone ground. I caught myself glancing at my watch that wasn’t there. “Right, this is a dream…” I passed the small garden and made my way up two concrete steps towards the red door. I could see through the giant glass window a pristinely kept house with modern paintings on the walls. I shrugged my shoulders, took a deep breath, and knocked on the door.

Chapter 4: The Author

I stood there for only a moment before turning around to explore this obscure city that looked like a town. Before I could, the door swung open.

“Cam, welcome. Come on in.” A man who must have been in his mid 50’s stepped to the side of the door and motioned me in. I obliged and walked back up on step and through the giant red door. The inside bright colors of cedar contrasted the outer layer of charred brick. There were stairs that led up to an exposed 2nd floor protected by a steel balcony. An entire wall housed books that I doubt he could ever reach. They looked old and well read. Everything else looked brand new including his mustard yellow jacket paired with a white button down.

“Do you guys have a dress code here?” I asked. The question made him smile as he closed the door and once again motioned his hand towards two seats by a fireplace. It wasn’t set ablaze as it was already warm outside.

“If we did, it looks like you have found your place.” He pointed to my fitted suit. I guess he had a point. “No, it’s just that we’d like to dress with intention in mind.” He was fixing two glasses behind a large marble countertop. Two glasses, two ice cubes, and liquid from a beautifully shaped decanter. He handed me a glass and sat down.

“How’d you know my name?” It seemed like a decent question for me to ask. I don’t normally stroll into stranger’s homes after getting a haircut. He nodded and quickly took a sip as though he had forgotten to formally introduce himself.

“I apologize. My name is Winston and I’m an author. Some of these books behind us are my own.” We both turned our heads slightly behind us at the towering shelves of books. I realized I hadn’t gotten the name of the barber. He had trimmed my hair for free and I left rudely without a name. I also realized that I hadn’t asked for Winston’s name. I asked how he knew mine. It must have not been important in the City of David. People knew each other. When was the last time I asked such questions in a dream any way?

“The barber sent me over here to talk to you about…” I paused. I couldn’t remember the exact reason that I was sitting with a man named Winston admiring his book collection.

“About your cathedral.” He finished my sentence while taking another sip.

“Right,” I said. “My cathedral. I’m not sure where exactly I’m supposed to start…” I paused hoping to make things awkward enough for him to once again interrupt me. I took a sip and then another. He finally understood my silence.

“I guess I’ll start by asking on what foundation does the cathedral stand?” He asked. I was looking at the fireless fireplace and thinking. He must not mean quite literally. It had to be concrete I suppose. No, he meant something different.

“If what I assume you to be talking about are ideas, I’d have to say community. The idea that the community is centered around is the belief in Christ.” I said this in hopes to not insult his question. It was a straightforward and basic answer that I hoped would satisfy whatever point he was trying to make.

“I hear you are a musician and-” He was mid sentence before I rudely interrupted him.

“Was. I was a musician.” I stated before apologizing. “Please continue.”

“Right,” he went on. “You were a musician. As a community member you brought in your craft to lay down an important aspect to the foundation. What brought you there amongst a body of people was the common story that Christ had become your Saviour.” I was expecting for him to continue but he stopped to take a drink. I kept quiet in order to allow ample room for him to navigate his thoughts. “My understanding is that you lived a life as an artist prior to such a revelation.”

“I did,” I nodded.

“And you did not simply transfer the same passion in your craft into your cathedral?” He asked while crossing his legs. I laughed but it was a forced laughter. It wasn’t that he said anything particularly funny but that I had often pondered the same thing. Wouldn’t it be wonderful to just transfer passion from the secular to the Church?

“Well… I thought this would be rather elementary. A simple transfer of passion, correct? I once played music for myself and was obsessed with composing beautiful pieces. I was surrounded by such brilliant talent. We understood that creativity must be cultivated and stressed excellence. We hustled and did whatever we could to get in front of audiences large or small. It was my life’s purpose after all. While my peers pursued their degrees in accounting and finance, I was the fool who believed in artistry. The moment that the Lord gave me purpose, I was able to fall asleep. You see, prior to such an encounter, I would stay up begging that the Lord take such foolish ideas away from me. ‘Give me the life of a banker,’ I would cry out. One day I had felt such peace over who I was created to be. I no longer was plagued at night for the craving of purpose. I was purposed for the cathedral. My music could find a deeper meaning that my soul desired.”

Winston’s eyes lit up with excitement. “And?” He asked enthusiastically as if the story had a happy ending.

“Though I neither puffed up my chest or spoke a word, I was instantly deemed as arrogant. My heart was not in the right place. It wasn’t about talent, you know. It was about the heart, and mine for some reason was always in the wrong place. It did not matter what I did. No, that passion has withered away and died. Not the passion for the cathedral, just a passion for artistry. If I desire excellence, give me the secular. If I desire purpose, give me the Church. It seems as though they do not go hand in hand.”

He frowned and clicked his fingers on the side of his chair. I smiled in order to not dampen the mood. His house was too beautiful for such a scene. “Like I said, my passion has not died for the Lord. The foundation is still there, the canvas has simply changed. It’s a strange place to end up as an artist of the modern variety. Perhaps the cathedral was created by an architect, but today we nullify their work by stating, ‘it’s not about the building.’ It’s an understandable statement, but that’s the problem isn’t it? It makes sense and yet, at the same time, is completely nonsensical. Winston, why do you have all these books? Why do you take such great care of your house? It seems as though I can learn much about you simply by observing the work of your hands. What separates this city from the rest?”

Without hesitation his reply exited his mouth. “Identity. Here in this City of David, creativity and artistry enrich the culture you observe. The architect designs the buildings with intention, the musicians create an ambience, the pubs are fit for conversation, and an author like myself paints pictures with prose. To state such a foolish thought of ‘it’s not about…’ seems counterproductive. We are a city of production and we create according to our Creator. Our city has an identity and so does every single building you will find on these cobblestone streets. I sincerely hope you enjoy yourself here Cam. You would find yourself right at home perhaps just down the block.”

“I do like it here,” I smiled again. “I don’t feel so obscure and silenced. Artists are a strange breed. Put them in a room and you don’t know what they’ll create. It’s fascinating and unpredictable. I know plenty of incredibly talented creators who would love it here.”

“Create quality products that benefit the area around you and people will flood your city. It’s as simple as that.” He explained and indeed it sounded simple.

“And of the cathedral?” I asked.

“A cathedral is just one building. You have plenty of foundation to build upon.” He set down his glass, wiped where the water had seeped into his pants, and got up to shake my hand. I took this as a not so subtle way of ending our conversation. “Excellence in all things,” he said.

“Excellence in all things,” I replied. I never heard of such a greeting amongst people, but it seemed to translate into “goodbye.” He gently gripped my shoulder and guided me towards the large red door. “Just one last person I’d like you to meet.” He opened the door and pointed to the end of the city street. “You see that building?” He waited for me to say yes. “I need you to go in there and talk to the architect. He’ll be so happy you came.” He gripped my shoulder a little tighter before letting go and then shut the door.

Chapter 5: The Architect

I was supposed to meet this one last person before I woke up. I had yet to experience a dream where I could set up clear expectations. Had it been any of my other dreams, I would have come to my senses while making my way through crowds at Carol’s Pub. I was a light sleeper and surely a car door shutting in the outside world would jolt me awake. There was a bookstore on my left that appeared 1,000 years old. To my right was a clothing boutique with a tailor looking out the window. At the end of the street stood a cement square building with tall green plants sets apart every two feet. Lights illuminated the building from the ground up and large glass panes allowed visibility inside the second and first floor. There was a bright red Volvo parked in the front before a hanging staircase to a black door. I walked up the stairs and knocked loudly three times.

“Coming!” I could hear a voice on the other side.”Coming, coming, coming.” After a few moments the sleek steel knob turned and a man stood at the doorway. He was a short man that beamed up at me with eyes that dazzled. “Cam, my pleasure.” He gestured his hand towards a set of four chairs strategically placed in a square. “Please, have a seat. Can I fix you anything to drink?”

“Oh, no thank you. I’ve had enough from all the other kind hosts.” I took a seat on one of the plush black leather chairs. They still smelled like new. The architect quickly followed and sat opposite of me.

“You’re probably wondering why you’re here.” He spoke with a contagious excitement, as if something were about to happen at any moment. His attire was predictably well put together. A black tie hid underneath a black cardigan. One sleeve was slightly rolled up to reveal a silver watch that glistened whenever he tilted his hand. He was older but I could not quite pin his age. His white hair on top matched his scruffy beard but his eyes spoke with an endless youth.

“Um, yes, I suppose so.” I tried to be honest in my reply but realized this was all absurd. Wondering why I’m here? I had to clarify what he meant by such a broad assumption. “Do you mean why I’m in your house?”

“No, no, no. Well, yes and no. Why you’re here in the City of David.” He waited a mere two seconds before continuing. “I guess I’ll skip to the punchline. You’re here because I wanted you here.” His smile beamed off his watch as he studied my face.

“I’m sorry, what? I’m here because of you? No, I’m here because I’m an avid dreamer. You see, I tend to dream when I fall asleep.” I stated the only possible explanation. He wasn’t convinced.

“Anyways, it’s all fine now. You’re here and I’m glad that you made it. How do you like the City of David thus far?” He asked while leaning in.

“I love it. Everyone has been incredibly friendly and hospitable. It seems like it’s a great place to reside. Residents know of their gifts and carry themselves accordingly. And the design…” I paused. “The only unusual thing is this string of questions regarding my cathedral back home. If you’re the one who brought me here then I suppose that you’re the one to ask. Why the concern for a place that doesn’t resemble your land in the slightest?”

The architect patted his legs twice and lit up once more. “Good question. You’ve asked a lot of good questions in fact. I decided to bring you here to illustrate the contrasts between the things you read and the scenarios you find yourself in. Artists do love a good illustration. You had once asked what an artist is to do in a cathedral. Does the city you find yourself answer your question?”

I rearranged myself on the chair. “I don’t believe I asked you any questions besides the one I just posed.” I struggled to gather my thoughts as if a dream was the right setting to do so. Had I met this man before? It didn’t matter. I would wake up in moments and instantly forget any of the details that so vividly displayed in front of me. “Say I had asked that, I’m not sure I’m following. What does this place have to do with a Church?”

“The City of David is surrounded by a wall as many cities are. If one needs walls for the sake of an argument, then that’s a similarity is it not? Both have walls.” He winked as if this was a joke I was to understand. “They both house communities of various people groups. Each has chosen to assimilate into this specific congregation if you will. A cathedral is just a building in a city. It takes a city to illuminate a hill.” His eyes glistened again. How did he do that?

“Well, my cathedral most definitely doesn’t aspire to be a city, let alone serve the one we are in. And artists… Artists are just peasants in the hierarchy of everything. I once aspired to be an artist and did quite well outside of any cathedral walls. The moment I attempted artistry within the confinements of such a place I was instantly misunderstood. Art and the Church simply don’t go hand in hand, at least, not anymore. We’re scared of it.”

The architect listened earnestly and nodded in silence. “So what is the problem?” He asked in a sympathetic tone but it upset me nonetheless.

“The problem? The problem is leaving everything behind. I took it quite literally to lay down my life in order to obtain it. I lost my identity, my friends, and the life I had known. For what? For misunderstanding? For cookie cutter art and no need for my calling in the first place? I’m bored. Many of us are. That is, those of us who still remain in the cathedral in the first place. If I shut my mouth, my heart is in the wrong place. If I open my mouth, my heart is in the wrong place. If I do anything at all, I shall be judged without knowledge of motivation. What’s an artist within a Church? The problem is that I am bored, lonely, and ashamed of what I’ve been created for. There’s no place for me here.” I stood up to explore the graphs on the walls that had been framed of various structures.

“So why not paint the city? You said you gave up your life for a cathedral? Sounds like a silly thing to do.” I could hear him laughing softly behind me. “It just seems that nothing has changed except your purpose for creating. I’ve created all my life and never asked once for approval. My designs are either good or they are not. The standards in which I hold myself to are the highest. No one can take that from me and no one will.”

“Right, but you live in the City of David. You have a gorgeous office space surrounded by people who choose to live a life inspired. I create something and people question what I’m trying to do. It’s all wonderful if I’m willing to color in the lines, but you don’t live in a suburb where every house looks identical. In fact, it’s the opposite. It appears that everyone is free to create and enjoy their unique abilities. The bartender serves drinks in a brilliantly laid out pub. He knows his craft and does it well. The barber cuts hair with precision and excellence. The author writes books and is well read. It appears that your designs have privileged you with recognition and honor. No one questions your heart. No one calls you arrogant. No one scoffs at your ideas and labels them unworthy. You have freedom here. You have standards. It wouldn’t hurt someone’s feelings to encourage them to produce greater works than these. Not from an evil desire to weigh them down, but in genuine belief that they can accomplish much. I come from a cathedral where none of this is true. An artist has no purpose where I am from. We just smile and take our faceless place amongst a crowd.”

The architect was patient with me. He stroked his scruffy chin for a while before talking. “Why not paint the city?” He repeated. “If you cannot find a standard of excellence within, what has stopped you from pursuing your work on the outside? The city is far larger than any silly cathedral. The cathedral serves a purpose and is important to its work. You are more important and what you create will always be judged according to a standard whether it is seen or unseen. If everything is good, nothing is good. I hold myself to the highest standards. I’d like to think that I challenge culture in a myriad of ways.” He propped himself up and walked towards me. “Paint the city outside the lines. The canvas is bigger than it looks.” He reached out his hand as if to call it quits.

His grip was powerful for an older gentleman. “Does that mean we are done?” I asked.

“It does.” He smiled. “I do hope you enjoyed yourself here. I’ll have to show you all the new developments when you return. Until then, excellence in all things.” He scooted towards the door and opened it once more. I crossed the exit and turned around ready to ask my next destination. Before I could utter a word, he beamed for the last time and slammed the door.

Chapter 6: The City

A car alarm rhythmically changed from six settings over and over before I realized I had been awake. The light poured in through the sides of the curtains as I stumbled to find my phone. It was nearly noon. Underneath the digital clock sat a text in blue.

“Let’s postpone this meeting,” it read. Meeting? Right, I had forgotten I had taken off this day in order to speak to my cathedral on the topic of creativity. Cathedral? Today was one of the few days I was relieved in the consistency of canceled plans. I walked downstairs and slid open the sliding door to my backyard. Directly in front me were two large trees, but if I looked slightly to my left there was an outstanding view of the city that once inspired me. Giant cranes seemed to keep guard over the smaller buildings and sounds of traffic could faintly be heard above the car alarm that finally gave up and fizzled away.

My thoughts gravitated backwards to the dream I had of cathedrals and pubs and cobblestone roads. I did not have to strain my mind to catch the slightest detail. In fact, I could recall more meaningless details than I could of yesterday’s conversation with Thomas or my boss. I walked back into the house, got dressed, and picked up my leather book bag. My schedule had been cleared and I was not one to avoid taking advantage of a day that refused rain. Today would be a day dedicated to exploration.

“Paint the city,” I thought to myself as I pulled onto the road. Perhaps it was overdramatic to believe my entire creative mind could be simply translated within a structure as a Church building. It’s not the four walls that I needed; standards yes, but four walls an entirely separate conversation. I pictured myself fighting the good fight that no one could tell I was fighting. It wasn’t seen as noble or for the sake of anyone except for my own selfish ambitions. I was playing swords in the playground while the adults occasionally glanced over to check that I was not hurting anyone. In a world of surface level answers, I was attempting to do the seemingly impossible, that is, describe a set of principles or spiritual unseen ideas to adapt into a stubborn culture. What they saw was the physical building and not the idea. Thus the continuous phrase, “It’s not about the blank,” continued to float around four walls like a strange infectious disease. It is about the building if someone was called to create it. It is about the city if there are people in it.

I parallel parked adjacent to a cafe full of curiously creative men and women staring out the window to a man staring back at them. I wondered what their ideas were and grew in excitement for the solutions their ideas created. The possibilities bounced within my mind and off the page and outside of all the lines that frustrated me prior. I shall paint this city. The landscape stretched far and wide like a canvas ripe for color. There was plenty of work to be done and endless resources at hand. I was no longer the lonely artist within a cathedral. I was a commissioned artist free to paint the city.

“Excellence in all things,” I softly uttered before walking up the steps and opening the door.