Sitting alone at a table draped in an ornate floral cloth. His chest is open—surgically, reverently—and his heart, still beating, rests on the pages of an open Bible, marked and underlined, studied and worn. With a scalpel in one hand and tongs in the other, he carefully probes the organ, searching for something hidden—something unclean. His glasses are cracked, the fracture catching light, a quiet reminder that even in self-examination, our vision is flawed.
To his left and right, the sacraments wait: a bottle of wine, an already poured glass. Freshly sliced bread rests just above the Scripture, close enough to be within reach, not yet touched.
This painting is a meditation on Hebrews 4:12—“For the word of God is living and active, sharper than any double-edged sword... discerning the thoughts and intentions of the heart.” It is a visual embodiment of what it means to examine oneself honestly: how the Word can cut through to the marrow, exposing what lies beneath.
Self-examination is not romantic. It is lonely. It can be painful, surgical, and slow. It takes study, humility, and persistence. The boy’s posture reflects this: bent over, focused, not out of obsession but out of longing to be whole.
But no matter how meticulous we are, how precise the instruments or how deep the cuts, we are not our own saviors. The communion elements sit nearby as a quiet contrast and comfort. The body broken. The blood poured out. They are reminders that grace is not earned by the scalpel. Redemption is not achieved through self-discipline alone.
This painting is not just about introspection—it is about surrender. About the limits of self-knowledge. And about the mercy that meets us when we come undone.