Hymn #92 Mysterious Presence, Source of All
~)-| Words: Seth Curtis Beach, 1837-1932
Music: William Knapp, 1698-1768
Tune WAREHAM

Andrey Stolyarov

Sermon – Watching Paint Dry – Rev. Rod

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When filmmaker Charlie Lyne subjected the British Board of Film Classification to a 10-hour movie, featuring the riveting action of paint drying, he was protesting the Board’s practice of charging per-minute for reviewing a film for rating purposes – a requirement that he found to be a prohibitive barrier for many independent filmmakers.

In 2016, he set up a fundraising campaign on the website Kickstarter to submit his movie Paint Drying – the more money that was pledged, the longer the cut of his movie that he could submit for review.  The fundraising campaign eventually allowed for a 10-hour cut of Paint Drying, which the Board of Film Classification had to spread over two days, as they have a 9-hour shift limit.

It received a “U” rating – suitable for most audiences aged 4 and up.

As it turns out, Lyne seems to have been following what seems to be a British tradition… viewers in the United Kingdom had already been engaged in the act of collectively watching paint dry in real-time, as far back as 2004, when the channel UKTV took “reality TV” to its next logical step: showing an 8-week season of paint drying, 24 hours a day.

Viewers could engage in the deep rivalries between shades of silk and eggshell as well as debate the nuanced characteristics between glossy and matte finishes.  Then, in full “reality TV” tradition, they’d have a weekly opportunity to vote a paint off the show in an exhilarating showdown of tinting supremacy.

Now, I suppose there may be some among us who might not share an appreciation for the allure of such thrilling viewing experiences like a 10-hour feature movie or an 8-week, 24-hour television series featuring the dramatic twists and turns of paint drying.  But for those who are into this particular genre, I have spoiler alert – in the end, there is a shocking twist: the paint dries.

Now, even if you’ve never seen these particular spellbinding dramas, there may be something about them that may seem… oddly familiar.

There are many times in our personal lives, or the lives of our communities, when it feels like we’re watching paint dry, as a stage of our lives may seem to move at a glacial pace.  And still, we often find ourselves arriving to a moment when things shift, and a page in a particular chapter eventually turns.

This month marked the third anniversary since the covid lockdowns came into force.  You might remember how, a couple weeks into it, folks remarked that March of 2020 was a very long year, which – as it turns out – dragged on for even longer.  It is only last month that we removed our compulsory masking policy in our church.  Eventually, the paint dried. 

Different places moved at different paces – paint does dry unevenly in spots, after all.  And, in some ways, there are some things about the pandemic that may still feel unresolved, as we continue to live with the reality of a rather new respiratory disease in our world.  Even walls with dry paint continue to experience ongoing change – paint chips, new coats of paint eventually come, perhaps a new colour altogether, or even a mural telling a new story.

This past month was also the shifting of the seasons from winter to spring.  Enduring cold days and long nights may sometimes feel like watching paint dry, and even the fickle weather in the weeks of March and April sometimes feels like there are never-ending bouts when winter refuses to end.  But spring is arriving in earnest, and flowers eventually bloom.

The past few weeks have also been a time when other kinds of anticipation are in seasonal vogue.  If you’ve been following a Lenten practice, you may have also been counting down the days toward Easter, when you might see some relief from the additional discipline of Lent.  Whether it’s a matter of easing cravings for chocolate, or looking for respite after some intentional and otherwise fulfilling temporary sacrifice, the road to Easter may well sometimes feel like it’s dragging.  But two weeks out, we can see that Easter is indeed in the horizon, when a new life may be in sight.

Of course, there are always new walls to maintain, or new coats of paint to apply.  Even as Lent is drawing to a close, other neighbours of faith are beginning their own practice of fasting.  As Ramadan began this past week, our Muslim neighbours will spend many daylight hours contemplating the evening time when they may break their fast with a light meal and some water, and there may be times when the crescent moon of Eid may seem tantalizingly far off.

Our world community has also spent several months – over a year – wondering when the dreary chapter of the war in Ukraine may turn a new leaf.  The wait has been agonizing, and yet we remain in hope that the paint will dry.

I have another story of architecture that shifts over long periods of time.  And that is the story of Roman concrete. 

Now, if your childhood was anything like mine – or if your inner child lingers on – you might have had some interesting images in mind when you first heard that the process of concrete setting is properly called “curing”.  Perhaps, you might have visualized a wall of concrete popping back some medication, or imagined a grey concrete slab sitting on a hospital bed, with a cast around its arm or a thermometer sticking out of its mouth… while it’s “curing”.

It turns out that there’s some truth to these images when it comes to Roman concrete.  Unlike our modern concrete, the Roman kind doesn’t just cure once over a few days or weeks – it rather heals steadily over several centuries.

We have known for a long time that the concrete that the Romans used for building long-standing structures, such as the Pantheon in Rome, was different than the concrete we tend to use these days.  Our modern concrete can deteriorate in a matter of decades, but the Pantheon and ancient aqueducts (among other Roman structures) are still standing. 

We have recently learned that Romans had a couple of long-lost techniques that set their concrete apart.  Among these was the use of ingredients such as sea water mixed with mineral quicklime, which left chunks of undissolved lime into the hardened stuff.  As concrete aged and cracked, water would seep in, reactivating the lime, and allowing the concrete to heal itself, so that its lifespan has extended into millennia.

The story of Roman concrete is one of an ongoing long game.  Not a one-time cure, but a constant healing process, as wounds appear in it across time.  It is never “done-done”.  Watching the Pantheon’s structure across the centuries would seem like an uneventful endeavour, but inside its structure, it is still shifting, and enduring.

For some among us, the story of covid has gone beyond breaking out of lockdown or following mask directives, as many of you have had more personal experiences of living with the virus, with unexpectedly long bouts of the illness, or seemingly unending recovery times.  The question of when the paint might dry, or if it ever will, may loom hauntingly in our minds.  It may be hard to think of a single moment when a cure happens, though there may be ongoing times of healing over time.  Even when it doesn’t look like it, shifts are happening.

My friends, among us, we have heard other stories of those parts of our lives when we feel like we’ve been staring at the same wall for too long.  Stories about anxiously awaiting news about our health.  Stories about long journeys of living with grief.  These stories are among our community, and they rarely have a fixed instant when things have “cured”, though some wounds do find healing moments over time.

And my friends, just as Roman concrete has had long-held technical secrets for resilience and healing, we too have special techniques at our disposal, to assist us as life shifts over time.  Spiritual practices to seek out better understandings of ourselves or others, be they seasonal in Lent, or ongoing through a community of faith.  Practices of connecting, that we may offer support to each other when we face a phase in our lives that feels like it might drag on.  The people around us, friends, family, church, who may offer a space to sit with the challenges, and if we’re willing to hear it, offer guidance.

My friends, it is sometimes imperceptible, but the paint really does transform.  And with the right conditions, even hard cracks can find healing.

So may it be,
In the spirit of the ongoing journey,
Amen

Copyright © 2023 Rodrigo Emilio Solano-Quesnel

Closing #146 Soon the Day Will Arrive
Words: Ehud Manor, 20^th cent.
Music: Nurit Hirsh, 20^th cent.
Tune BASHANAH

Posted by This is LEA, with Cantor Jason Kaufman (29 July, 2020)