Alexandria around 50 b.c. smelled of sea salt and freshly cut timber. In the bustling workshops lining the harbor, artisans carved intricate structures for the heavy grain ships bound for distant ports. A woodworker pulls his heavy iron saw through the thick trunk of a felled tree, dividing the straight grain from the warped exterior. He measures the lumber carefully, separating the strongest wood for sturdy masts and vital supporting beams. The warm air fills with the sharp scent of resin and drifting sawdust. It is here among the carpenters and their rough tools that an ancient observer locates a profound truth regarding human perception.
The Creator builds and orders the physical world with the exactness of a master architect. He regulates the heat of the fire, the pressure of the swift air, and the weight of the violent water. His supreme capability stands as the original foundation of all natural forces. When men observe the fierce winds or the bright circuits of the stars, they witness the immense power of his hand. He leaves his structural signature in the geometry of the constellations and the steady, pulling current of the deep rivers.
Yet the human mind frequently halts at the surface of the wood rather than seeking the one who planted the forest. We gather the twisted refuse from the workshop floor and elevate it. The carpenter takes a knotted root, a discarded piece entirely useless for any structural wall, and whittles it down during his idle hours. He scrapes away the rough bark, carves a crude human figure, and coats the dry grain in thick layers of bright vermilion paint to hide the deep flaws. He then mounts this lifeless block to his plaster wall, driving a heavy iron nail through the center so it does not pitch forward onto the clay floor.
The tragedy finalizes when the craftsman bows before his own leftover timber. He asks a dead branch for a long and healthy life. He begs a blind block of wood to guide his heavy ship safely across the treacherous sea. He pleads for strength from an object he must literally prop up with his own hands and tools. The painted block remains firmly bolted to the wall, collecting dust and offering nothing but silence. A manufactured deity requires constant structural maintenance, while the true maker sustains the breath of the one holding the chisel. The human heart holds an immense capacity to worship the refuse of its own labors, leaving the thoughtful observer to stand under the vast, turning sky and consider the immense distance between the objects we carve and the one who carved the world.