A Lesson in the City

I don't really know what made me think of this, but I was remembering back to a Saturday afternoon several years ago, when I carried a violin case all over downtown San Francisco. The reactions I received were priceless.

I walked up and down the pier with the case slung over my shoulder. Random tourists walked up to me and asked me if I was studying at the conservatory. Not this year, I would respond. I didn't bother to tell them I never would.

I juggled that thing on and off the cable car. The brake man teased me about needing to purchase a ticket for the instrument, and when I refused, told me I would have to play a tune for the ride. Several passengers joined in. I just laughed. The case never opened.

I wandered passed street musicians with an assortment of pan pipes, guitars, and native drums. A little further a small band managed to drown out the sounds of city traffic. Further, a solitary musician poured out his soul in a haunting tune on the sax. As I walked by the musicians, each noticed me. Their eyes would dart to the case and then to me, and there was an unspoken appreciation, some sort shared camaraderie that no one else was even aware of.

The whole day went like that. The whole day, I was the only one that knew that the case I carried was empty. No one ever challenged me to open the case and show the instrument. No one ever asked me to play a few notes to prove my musicianship. They just assumed.

Before you think I'm completely crazy: No, I am not in the habit of carrying empty instrument cases through the city. It just so happens there is this cute little music store in San Francisco. It's called "Lark in the Morning." I needed a new case, something that would protect my instrument a little better than what I was currently using. And that purchase had been my first stop that Saturday afternoon.

The thing that struck me though, is that I liked it. I liked the facade. I liked that I was held in a higher esteem than I deserved. I liked the association, however superficial. But carting a case doesn't make a musician anymore than attending church makes a Christian.

The truth of the matter, I do own I violin. I have studied for a couple of years, but the illustration rings true even among the saved. We are so concerned about what other Christians will think of our spirituality. If someone asks me, I'll tell them I play the violin, but I won't play for them. I don't want them to hear where I'm at. As I write this, I can see the pride screaming back at me, and I think of the verse, "Comparing themselves among themselves, they make themselves stupid." (my translation) We'll tell people we pray, but we're hesitant to pray out loud lest someone hear our fumbling words. We'll say we have a close walk with God, we can't remember when what started as a sincere relationship drifted into a ritual. We'll claim we love God, but beg God not to put us to the test to prove that love. We'll grow frustrated at the slow process of sanctification in our own lives when we see how far we have to go or when we look at the work God is doing in someone else.

It was so easy to carry the case with confidence as long as no one knew the truth. But it wasn't real.

Just Listening

Tonight I held music--touched it, felt it, tasted it, saw it. Sitting on the floor of a practice room, I listened as the piano come to life, singing a thousand emotions that I do not have the skill to express nor the desire to minimize with words. The music became a duet, and interplay, an exchange of expresion between the one who pressed the keys and the one whose keys were pressed. Every vibration seeped through the floor, and I felt them, and none escaped. Those of you who can hear should cover your ears sometime and hear was music really sounds like.

Thank you, Brittany for your music.

The First Note

The concert master has already entered. The oboe has given the tuning note. The conductor has been honored. The audience has quieted.

Watch the orchestra.

In the last moment before the first note sounds, instruments are poised and ready. The brass comes to attention. The reeds are dampened. The violins find their first string. All that remains is a signal from the conductor, and the whole room will burst forth in music.

The sun has already risen. The birds have chirped their repetitive sequences. The battle between the snooze button and my alarm's tone has carried on as long as I dare. Already, people are coming and going about their day. As I rise, I have the opportunity to stop and to prepare, to search out the Scriptures, to linger in prayer, to line up my heart's response to His leading. I want to be ready. I want to find that first string so that all that remains is to wait for the signal from God.

And the transformation occurs from a day as it might have been into the orchestrated beauty of His direction.

By His Name

A new form takes shape as ribbons of wood shavings curl away and fall unheeded to the workshop floor. The maker slides his hands over the smooth texture of the wood, cradling his creation--a masterpiece in the making. He expertly shapes the scroll, joins the seams, attaches the fingerboard, aligns the bridge, and fits the pegs.

Nearly complete, he sets the instrument on his bench and moves the tools aside. Then he dips his pen and with a flourish, signs the fragment of parchment. For centuries, the name has denoted the value. Names like Stradivari and Guarneri have made their creations priceless. Yet this name has claimed the creation for the highest worth. With precision, he affixes the title to the belly of the instrument, and it reads--I AM.

The work is perfect in its creation, owned by it's maker's signature, its beauty enhanced by time. As the instrument is passed form the hands of the maker to the hand of the master, the song begins. The bow touches the strings, and the music erupts as the instrument conforms to the master's command. Every string responds to the bow's urging. The notes are rich, vibrating in a prayer of submission, praise and exaltation. Heaven welcomes the sound.

Behind Burckart Hall

Late at night one midnight dreary
In the practice rooms a-weary
Pondered the musician
o’er the pages of some lengthy score
With the curtain softly flapping,
As her foot continued tapping
Suddenly there came a rapping,
rapping on the crooked door
‘Tis the metronome a-tapping
In the meter of four-four
Merely this, and nothing more.

Ah distinctly I remember
It was in the late November
With recital in December and so much to do before
Frantically o’er scales bemoaning
Suddenly there came a groaning
And her practice now postponing, this new sound she did explore
‘Tis the radiator moaning
As if banging an encore
Merely this, and nothing more.

And the silken, sad uncertain
Rustling of each drab green curtain
Distracted her from fingerings that she could not ignore
All at once she heard a stomping
As if heavy tread was tromping
And she wondered at the clomping just out side the corridor
‘Tis security come stomping
Here to check for unlocked door
Merely this, and nothing more.

Deep into that darkness peering,
Long she stood there wondering, fearing,
As she caught a glimpse of shadows she had never seen before
Then she heard a loud ker-plunk
That was followed by a thunk
And she quickly propped a music stand against the crooked door
Could it be she’d seen the monk
Said to haunt the second floor?
Ah, ‘twas nonsense, nothing more.

This poem is dedicated to all my music friends, to the few who fully understand this poem beacuse they've spent the countless hours in the little cubicle practice rooms.

The Front Row

With what force could I hold back the tides of the sea? When the storm builds, when the wave strikes the rock, can I hold it back with the palm of my hand? Could I build a wall that would keep the waters neatly tucked in?

With what force will the music be held back from these unhearing ears? Does the music need an ear in order to be heard when the sound penetrates through every other member? Dead ears will not bar out the sound when the music is pulsating through the floor, when I can even feel the vibrations in the air. The music would not be denied. I heard it. With every part of my being, I heard it.

If I can read lips to hear words, if I can read eyes to hear expression, can I not read fingers to hear music? As I watched the fingers skip over the finger board, as I watched the delicate balance between bow and string, my mind filled in the notes my ears had rejected. The unified sound took on its individual character unique to each instrument.

I'm not a brass person, but even I had to appreciate the experience of sitting not three feet away, staring up the bell of a trumpet, as the notes of Hayden's Concerto for Trumpet poured out.

The interaction, the concentration, the precision, and even the delight.

This is why I sit in the front row.

To Understand

I once asked--
If I could understand music, would I lose my love for it? If I knew what made it do what it does, would it replace some of the awe? If I could unravel its secrets, analyze it, view the sound through an equation, would it then cease to amaze?

And so I wondered, intrigued by sounds I could not decipher, with the extent of my musical knowledge limited to mere appreciation.

And now--
I by no means understand music, but with every secret revealed, the love for the sound is heightened. Every time some notation on staff paper begins to make sense, I crave more. Every time I hear a musician play a theme I have heard before, I listen with expectation, hearing not only the beauty that was already there, but the interpretation, and it adds a brilliance I could not see before. It's like I had once appreciated a painting through colorblind vision. And for the first time the colors have taken on their own unique hue.

I once asked--
If I could comprehend the mind of God, would I still seek Him? If I devoted my life to studying His Word, would I still desire the moments spent in His Word? If I sought a deeper understanding of theological issues, would I lose the quiet awe of His simple truths?

And so I wondered and realized that as I grow content at where I am spiritually, the passion dims. The excuses form. The apathy sets in. Even the need is somehow hidden. It's still there, but willing ignorance and spiritual contentment keep it from view.

And now--
I by no means understand God. But, the more I seek Him, the more I want to know Him. The more I understand of Him, the more I realize I have yet to learn of Him. A passage memorized becomes my companion late into the night. Messages preached from beloved verses are blessings unique to my heart. And I can embrace the truths of Scripture, not with full comprehension, but with a desire to know more. I can meditate on His promises without fear that such thinking will grow old.

On a Hill Far Away

That dear old hymn--"The Old Rugged Cross" cannot be fully understood until it's heard on a violin. Miss Betsy told a story tonight with wood an strings, and it was the most beautiful story I had ever heard.

My mind does not understand how such beauty and hideous reality merges together into one. There was nothing ugly in what I heard, but with every note, I thought the wood wept, and my heart cried with it.

Sufficient is the cleansing fountain.
Completed is Calvary's work.
Forgiven are all my transgressions.
Defeated is death's sting.
Vanquished is the grave's victory.

And I am victorious.

Chin Rests, Quarter Rests, and Perfect Rest

The silence is interrupted, stillness invaded. Behind the closed door, a dialogue of sounds emerges in balanced contrast. The first is a replica of beauty—honest, sure, and confident. The second is beauty in the making—determined, confused, and hesitant. The two voices blend in the inseparable dance of master and apprentice. And for a moment there is only the teacher and the pupil and the music that passes between them.

The younger clutches a violin in her arms, the instrument slightly large for her. A look of determination is deeply etched in her young brow, and with each concentrated effort, the child raises the violin slightly higher. Despite sincere attempts, her fingers will not produce the sounds that her instructor has demonstrated.

Young eyes squint to see the music buried beneath the black notes of the page. A small hand grips the fingerboard tightly, the effort holding back the sound, preventing its release.

She stands at the threshold of quitting, the desire to give it up arguing the determination to make it happen.

And with experienced wisdom, her instructor observes the battle in her mind.

With quiet knowing, he plays a few measures, and her mind is transported by the music. His song captivates, and though his technique she cannot comprehend, she holds her breath as the music pours from his soul through the wood and strings. As ribbons of rosin rise above the strings, her eyes are transfixed; her attention is riveted to his hands.

Graceful hands that have danced with music, caressing each note. Strong hands, molded in perfection, that have felt the very breath of angels’ songs. Aged hands, creased with time, marked with scars of past pain, hardened by labor.

The music stops, the final note still hanging suspended in the air.

The lesson continues. The instruction of his voice, which a moment ago was not understood, is replaced by the instruction of his hands.

With a patient touch, the master takes the child’s novice hand in his accomplished hand. With delicate precision, large fingers press small fingers against the strings.

“This is what it feels like child.
This is how your hand should feel.
This is what the position feels like.
This is what vibrato feels like.”

Tightened fingers relax in his grasp as she submits to the control of the master. It’s an active surrender.

How many times in determined frustration have my eyes gazed upon the black words—His Words, searching out the song that will fill my heart with understanding?

How many times have I gripped my Bible tightly, the tears flowing freely, or in anger not falling at all, not understanding how to pour out my soul in the music of the Christian life?

How many times, by concentrated effort, have I attempted to control my circumstances, my attitude, my future, my comprehension, not finding the balance between active resting and passivity?

And then the Master, the Virtuoso, the Divine Maestro, who knew every song before it had ever been sung, takes my novice hand in His accomplished hand, and presses my fingers against the strings, saying:

“This is what it feels like, child.
This is what is feels like to follow Me.
This is what it feels like to live the Christian life.
This is what it feels like to rest.”