A luthier is of the highest order of woodworkers who have the patience and expertise to craft fine stringed instruments.  They have an incredible understanding of their media and a love for the beauty of both sight and sound.  They take great care in maintaining their tools, and will only work with the finest stock.  The best luthiers make their instruments by hand with careful attention to detail. 

In their hands, the wood is like clay to a potter.  Their hands are like a second pair of eyes that help them smooth the instrument to perfection.  They have a keen sense of the balance between form and function shaping the instrument for a perfect tone as well as to be an object of art.  They take immense joy in their work—cutting, shaping, sanding, finishing.  They have a sense of giddiness about the beautiful sounds their instrument will make, and the joy it will bring the audiences. 

They sacrifice their very blood through cuts and scrapes from tools as well as splinters and cuts from the wood itself.  They spend countless hours laying on layer after layer of finish and polishing it until they can see their own image reflected back to them.  In the end, they have a thing of beauty ready to be played by a master musician.  With each note, one can hear the love and care of the Touch of the Masters Hand who made it. 

Growing up, my parents had a poem written in calligraphy framed, sitting on the top of the piano with an old violin.  In the middle of it, in letters larger than all the others where the words "The Touch of the Masters Hand."  I think I may have read the poem once, but I saw those big words every time I walked through the living room.  Occasionally, they pop in my head, and I contemplate their meaning.  The poem itself is not about a luthier, but a musician. The poem reads:

It was battered and scarred, 

And the auctioneer thought it 

hardly worth his while 

To waste his time on the old violin, 

but he held it up with a smile. 

"What am I bid, good people", he cried, 

"Who starts the bidding for me?" 

"One dollar, one dollar, Do I hear two?" 

"Two dollars, who makes it three?" 

"Three dollars once, three dollars twice, going for three," 

But, No, 

From the room far back a gray bearded man 

Came forward and picked up the bow, 

Then wiping the dust from the old violin 

And tightening up the strings, 

He played a melody, pure and sweet 

As sweet as the angel sings. 

The music ceased and the auctioneer 

With a voice that was quiet and low, 

Said "What now am I bid for this old violin?" 

As he held it aloft with its' bow. 

"One thousand, one thousand, Do I hear two?" 

"Two thousand, Who makes it three?" 

"Three thousand once, three thousand twice, 

Going and gone", said he. 

The audience cheered, 

But some of them cried, 

"We just don't understand." 

"What changed its' worth?" 

Swift came the reply. 

"The Touch of the Masters Hand." 

And many a man with life out of tune 

All battered with bourbon and gin 

Is auctioned cheap to a thoughtless crowd 

Much like that old violin 

A mess of pottage, a glass of wine, 

A game and he travels on. 

He is going once, he is going twice, 

He is going and almost gone. 

But the Master comes, 

And the foolish crowd never can quite understand, 

The worth of a soul and the change that is wrought 

By the Touch of the Masters' Hand. 

                                Myra Brooks Welch

 But as I thought about the words this morning, they brought new meaning.  What if the old man not only played that old violin but had made it.  In having made it, he knew every millimeter of its surface intimately.  He knew every hair in its bow, every curve of its frame, every nook and cranny that works to create its harmonious tones.  Knowing these things, he knew its real value.  He could see that it had been down some ugly roads and been beaten and worn, but he also knew that nothing could change its potential to make beautiful music—after all, he was its maker. 

I see God in this light this morning.  Like the master luthier, he knows me more intimately than I know myself.  He created me for beauty, for purpose, for worship.  He knows my value—He's sacrificed His own blood to make my life sound perfect.  He's spent countless hours cutting away the excess, sanding away the roughness, adding layer after layer of finish and polishing me to a perfect shine that He might see His image reflected in me.  My value is not that I am an instrument of worship or in the sound that I make, but in the very knowledge that I was made by the Touch of the Masters Hand.  Because of this, I am capable of expressing that value through worship, and I pray that with every note played on me all can hear the love and care of the one who made me. 

So I am left with a thought.  Unlike any other instrument, I am given life, and a life to choose whom I will be played by and for whose glory.  I can sell myself to the one who didn't create me and be used to glorify the things of this world and potentially be smashed and destroyed on some stage in front of a world captivated by death and destruction.  I can play myself and receive glory for my own selfish desires, and likely end up at some auction being sold for pennies on the dollar because of all the scars and scratches and damage from the consequences of a life lived in the desires of the flesh that bring down my value.  Or I can allow myself to be bought back from this world by the Master, who can not only play me to my full potential but can restore my luster to once again reflect His image in my very being.

Having been restored, He then adds me to a grand orchestra, and as we all play together in harmony, God is glorified and the universe can see His awesome power displayed through a group of instruments that were once ready to be used as kindling.  Alone, we can play beautiful music, but together, we can play extraordinary music.  Are you ready for the orchestra?  Are you ready for "The Touch of the Masters Hand?"