I will preach with my brush.

Host: The gallery was nearly empty at closing hour. The lights dimmed to a quiet amber, washing the walls with the color of memory. Paintings hung in solemn rows, each one breathing faintly with the ghosts of emotion and time. Outside, the rain murmured against the windows, soft and persistent, like the ticking of an unseen clock.

Jack stood near a large canvas, his hands in his coat pockets, his eyes fixed on the brushstrokes of light that formed a shadowed figure kneeling before an unseen sun. Jeeny stood beside him, her dark hair loose, her eyes glowing faintly in the lamplight as if the art itself was reflecting from within her.

On a small placard beneath the painting were the words:
“I will preach with my brush.” — Henry Ossawa Tanner

The words hung in the still air, as though the walls themselves were listening.

Jeeny: “He meant it, you know. Tanner didn’t just paint—he prayed with his colors. Every stroke was a kind of sermon. Look at that light—it doesn’t come from outside the subject. It radiates from within.”

Jack: (dryly) “Or maybe he was just good with oils and shadows.”

Host: The light shifted across Jack’s face, revealing the faintest trace of a smile, more weary than amused. Jeeny glanced at him with quiet disbelief, as though trying to see past the thick wall of his skepticism.

Jeeny: “Do you really think it’s just technique? Tanner was the first African American painter to gain international recognition. He painted at a time when his very existence as an artist was defiance. His brush was his pulpit. He preached hope in a world that called him invisible.”

Jack: “Hope doesn’t pay rent, Jeeny. He preached, sure—but to who? A handful of critics, maybe a few believers in Paris. The world didn’t change because of one man’s paint.”

Jeeny: “Maybe not. But he changed—and that matters. He took the same faith his father preached in a church and translated it into color. Don’t you see? That’s what art does. It speaks to the soul when words fail.”

Jack: “And what about when the soul doesn’t listen?”

Host: The question lingered like a quiet chord fading into silence. The rain outside thickened, turning into a steady rhythm that tapped against the glass. The gallery lights caught small flecks of dust, swirling like tiny galaxies suspended in the air.

Jeeny: “Then the artist keeps preaching,” she said softly. “Because that’s what faith is—creating even when no one listens.”

Jack: “Faith.” He laughed under his breath. “That word again. You and your endless faith—in people, in meaning, in color on a canvas.”

Jeeny: “You don’t believe in anything, do you?”

Jack: “I believe in gravity. And deadlines.”

Jeeny: (smiling sadly) “And yet, you stand here staring at this painting. So maybe you believe in something after all.”

Host: Jack turned back toward the canvas. The figure Tanner had painted—a simple, humble man in a pool of gold light—seemed to shimmer subtly as the lamplight shifted. There was something in that illumination that refused to die.

Jack: “You know,” he said quietly, “I once tried to paint. Back in college. I thought it’d help me make sense of things. But every time I picked up the brush, it just felt… dishonest. Like I was pretending to feel more than I did.”

Jeeny: “Maybe you were trying too hard to feel. Sometimes the truth isn’t in feeling—it’s in seeing. That’s what Tanner did. He didn’t paint his imagination; he painted the truth he saw in people—their pain, their grace, their divinity.”

Jack: “Divinity.” He tasted the word like a skeptic testing wine. “You make it sound like God was hiding in his palette.”

Jeeny: “Maybe He was. Or maybe God was the palette.”

Host: A subtle silence fell between them. The kind that vibrates with meaning. Jack rubbed the back of his neck, his eyes softening as he looked again at the figure Tanner had painted.

Jack: “I don’t know. I’ve seen people use art for power, for money, for vanity. You call it preaching—but half the world calls it branding now.”

Jeeny: “That’s not preaching, that’s posing. Preaching through art isn’t about showing off. It’s about showing truth. The kind of truth you can’t buy or polish. The kind that bleeds when you touch it.”

Jack: “You really think paint can carry truth?”

Jeeny: “Truth doesn’t need a pulpit, Jack. It just needs a vessel. A brush. A voice. A story. Anything that reminds us what being human feels like.”

Host: Her words drifted into the air, soft but weighted, like the last notes of a hymn. Jack’s gaze shifted—no longer on the painting, but on Jeeny herself, as if she had become the sermon Tanner started.

Jack: “You sound like someone who wants to believe art can save the world.”

Jeeny: “Not the world. Just one person at a time.”

Jack: “And that’s enough?”

Jeeny: “It has to be.”

Host: A flash of lightning flickered outside, and for a moment, the paintings around them seemed to breathe—the saints, the peasants, the mothers—all those quiet lives Tanner once touched with his trembling hand of light.

Jack: “You think Tanner knew that? That his brush would outlive him?”

Jeeny: “He didn’t have to know. He just had to believe it might. That’s the essence of faith, Jack—doing something beautiful without proof it will matter.”

Host: The rain subsided. The gallery grew still. A soft glow from the exit sign fell across the floor, reflecting faintly in the glass of the painting before them.

Jack: “So… painting as prayer.”

Jeeny: “Exactly. Each stroke a confession. Each color a psalm.”

Jack: “Then maybe that’s what I never understood. I always thought art was about expression. You’re saying it’s about devotion.”

Jeeny: “Expression is ego. Devotion is surrender. Tanner didn’t paint to be seen—he painted to see.”

Host: Jeeny stepped closer to the painting, her hand almost brushing the frame. Her eyes shimmered with something between awe and grief.

Jeeny: “Look at this light. It’s not just shining on him—it’s from him. Tanner’s saying that faith isn’t an outside miracle. It’s the light within the darkness we already carry.”

Jack: (quietly) “Then maybe that’s the sermon I missed.”

Host: His voice had changed now—lower, gentler. The cynicism had thinned into something closer to understanding. The clock on the wall clicked once. Somewhere in the distance, a door creaked as the curator began to close the gallery.

Jeeny turned to him. “You don’t have to preach with words, Jack. You could preach with your work, your choices, your silence. Everyone has a brush—they just forget to use it.”

Jack: “And what if my canvas is blank?”

Jeeny: “Then start painting. Even if it’s just with honesty.”

Host: The lights dimmed further until only Tanner’s painting glowed—quiet, defiant, eternal. Jack and Jeeny stood before it, their reflections merging faintly in the glass, two shadows touched by the same unseen light.

Outside, the rain had stopped. The city was still, as though listening. Jack glanced once more at the words beneath the frame—“I will preach with my brush.” He smiled faintly, as though hearing the echo of something sacred.

Jack: “Maybe we all will, someday.”

Jeeny: “We already are.”

Host: The gallery fell into silence, but it was a living silence—the kind that hums with creation. The kind that feels like breath before a brush touches canvas.

And as the last light faded, Tanner’s painting glowed softly in the dark, as if still preaching, still believing, still blessing those who dare to see beyond color—into the faith of the unseen.