Last time our family ventured through Kentucky into Indy, we stole a vacation day from our furlough to visit the Creation Museum. Well into the beautiful gardens and air-conditioned story of Adam and Eve, the architect’s plan took an abrupt turn that coincided with the entry of sin into a palm-leaved paradise. Fabricated greenery gave way to the brick-red reality of a city street with graffitied walls. I remember laughing in delight and whispering loudly to Lexi, ‘At last, I feel at home.’
While the designer meant for the graffiti walls to represent sin’s diversion from paradise, that metaphor just did not work for me. We live in EurAsia where graffiti is everywhere. The walls that usher you into Bethlehem are full of graffiti. In Berlin, the walls that once separated East from West were full of graffiti. From the Black Sea-scapes of Bulgaria to the tourist-filled sidewalks of Budapest, graffiti is everywhere. Tucked into the shadows of colosseum walls and the quaint, orderly, Germanic Schaffhausen streets and the crowded Indian sidewalks, there is graffiti. And, that gives me hope.
Where there is graffiti, there is a voice breaking away from the tyranny that binds. Where there is graffiti, there is one person whose cry of hope refuses to be silenced. Where there is graffiti, there is someone who still believes that the world wants to hear her story.
This week, as you wind your way through the myriad of creative exhibits tucked into a convention center in Indianapolis, look for the graffiti. Behind those walls in EurAsia, you will find a diversity of voices breaking out to tell ONE story about ONE Lord who came for ONE sinner .
This week, we will see you in EurAsia where the graffiti leads you to the face of Jesus.