Nate’s Thoughts

It is a Sunday, a day where my family and I often rest in the mornings, take a nap in the afternoon—we generally try to take a Sabbath from the crazy schedule of the rest of the week.

This afternoon was one of those times—they boys were down, my wife and I had tried our hand at the Sunday crossword, and she decided to go upstairs and take a nap. Sleep sounded good to me too, but I don’t nap well upstairs in bed. It feels too forced or something. My version of a luxurious nap is to lie on the couch, the TV tuned to an afternoon baseball game, and allow the sound of the crowd and commentators to lull me to sleep like a young child.

It may sound silly but it is one of life’s luxuries, if you ask me!

Today’s routine went a little differently, however.

I got myself situated on the couch, grabbed the remote to turn on the game, and found that whatever channel the TV was left on was now broadcasting a symphony—Shubert’s 9th, to be exact.

I was mesmerized.

I had planned on switching straight to the game, but after the first few notes, I just sat there, watching and listening. I had heard that piece many times before, but this time, it was different. I seemed to notice things that I had never heard before, more likely than not due to the camera work that focused on specific instruments, one at a time, allowing me to “hear” more clearly each instrument’s individual influence on the piece.

I found myself with tears streaming down my face as the music would reach a crescendo, then quiet down, only to hit another peak moments later. I noticed particular threads of music teasing the score, bouncing from the flutes to the violins, back to the flutes, and then alluded to by the French horns.

It was absolutely phenomenal.

And when you consider the number of musicians all playing in such accord, it was remarkable. All eyes of everyone in the orchestra, fixed on the conductor, following his lead through the score.

At times the strings would “rest”, sitting quietly while the horns and percussion took the stage. At other times, the horns would return the favor, and allow the attention to be on the violins and cellos. Still at other times, common themes would dance from section to section, a musical dialogue from one end of the orchestra to the other.

All notes were held together by a common musical story line, each section having the opportunity to add its unique sound to the mix. Sometimes minutes would go by without the story surfacing, but it would show up, faithfully, in one form or another, whether a subtle bass line, a soothing horn, or the show-stealing violins.

It all worked.

No ego, no horns trying to steal the limelight from the violas, no timpani being hit too loudly so as to drown out the oboes. It all worked.

I think the reason it brought me to tears was because a symphony can be such a metaphor for life. Sometimes, I feel like my limited perspective places me in the chair of the second violin, right at the point of a musical rest. It seems like everybody else in the orchestra is getting a chance to play but me. I just have to sit and watch.

At other times, I feel like my role is that of the bass—I get to play a bit, but just slow, low notes, while the violins play furiously and attract all the attention. Sometimes still I feel like the oboe—slightly abrasive in my role, standing out as different from the others.

But in watching this symphony from the perspective of the audience, I realized that all pieces worked together for the common good of the score. That without the second violin resting, it would not have given the other instruments their proper place in the ears of the audience. Without the bass keeping the musical theme, there would be no dancing around for the other parts, for they would have lost their way. Without the oboe’s sometime abrasive tones, the cellos would never sound so soothing.
That in order for the symphony to work, every instrument was required to yield to the other, allowing them to shine, while at the same time yielding to the conductor, allowing him to manage the various pieces.

It was a picture of literal harmony—all pieces working individually, creating a masterpiece in their unity.

Ah how I wish we could be more like a symphony in our approach to life. How I wish so desperately that I would be more accepting of my role, whatever that role may be. How I so fervently wish that I could be comfortable with the “instrument” I was made to be, without comparing myself to the other instruments in the orchestra.

How I wish that, when it was my time to play a little louder while the others rested, that I would do so with controlled enthusiasm, allowing not only my individualism to show, but also being aware of the musical theme, allowing myself to dance around the story line.

And how I wish we could follow the conductor’s baton, all mutually submitting to each other, everyone aware that it takes the whole part to succeed.

That the beauty of a symphony is that it is made up of individuals.

Individuals who sometimes get to play solos, who at other times get to rest, still others who maintain the thematic elements written into the score.

Individuals who, together, are capable of such beauty, of such transcendent unity, that we bring Life itself into tears of marvel, tears of astonishment, tears that have no other way of expressing themselves than to stand in ovation, loudly cheering “bravo” for the orchestra, while the conductor stands by, his smile revealing the pride of a father, himself applauding a job well done…

I was driving onto a high school campus this morning, and had the “joy” of waiting behind a long signal. It was one of those moments where I was stuck behind the wheel (I had already been driving through over a half hour of traffic, hadn’t had my coffee yet, and had no time to stop at a coffeehouse) and found myself having to choose between getting irritated at my lack of motion, or opting to just sit and observe.

I chose the latter.

And it was interesting, this moment of observation. I looked, and saw a bunch of teenagers…hiding.
Not hiding behind the bushes, or behind parked cars, mind you—just hiding.

Hiding behind their iPods.

Hiding behind the particular brand name they had on.

Hiding behind the façade of toughness, or popularity, or the number of text messages they received as they crossed the street.

I felt compassion. We were all teenagers once (some of us still may be), and we all know the feeling of insecurity that comes from not knowing our identity. It is an awful discomfort, one that feels like every eye in the world is fixed on us, judging us, yet at the same time feeling the acute notion that no one notices us.

Kids play the friendly game of hide and seek—some unfortunate soul has to count to ten (or thirty or fifty depending on the whims of the rule-makers) while the other kids go and try to hide. They search far and wide for the best possible place to blend in, to not be noticed. They sometimes go to great lengths, bringing themselves to the point of physical exhaustion as they frantically search for “The Spot”. And if it works (i.e. they don’t get discovered) then they go right back to the same spot again and again, as long as success would have it.

It is a wonderful kids’ game.

It’s fun, you get to run around, seek out the best possible hiding place, and get prepared for adult life all at the same time!

Which is exactly the problem—we’re still playing the game. It hasn’t changed; it’s just that the rules are just a bit more sophisticated.

How many of us still find ourselves playing hide and seek—hiding behind our boats, our SUV’s, our new clothes, or our big homes? Perhaps we find ourselves hiding behind our family name, or our spouse, or our jobs.

Whatever it is, everybody hides.

The game hasn’t changed; the rules are just a bit more sophisticated.

And the great part about the adult version of hide and seek is, we find some really great places to hide. I mean—these places are so subtle, sometimes we don’t even know we’re hiding. But we are…
And because these places are so good, so well thought out, we don’t get discovered. Perhaps ever.

Were we ever that one in the game as a kid? You know, where our hiding place was so good that two, maybe even three games went by, and we still hadn’t moved from our place? It was so good that nobody found us?

How did that feel?

Were we a bit lonely, a bit afraid? Did we feel like maybe our friends left us and moved on to another activity? Did we leave our hiding place in search of another, more noticeable place? Not really hoping to be found, but to at least observe the action from a distance?

As adults, we have mastered this art.

We have become so good at keeping our space, making sure that we repel the feelings of loneliness, while at the same time staying just close enough to be…distant.

This is a trait we have learned from Adam… We hide from God, we hide from others. Heck—we even hide from ourselves most of the time.

Why? I think it’s because we’re afraid. Afraid of being found out, afraid of others seeing the real “us”.
I think we’re even more afraid of the real “us” than just about anybody else. For if we were to see ourselves the way God does, it would place such a burden of glory, of heavenly responsibility, that we would prefer to stay ignorant of the fact. And most of us do.

But remember the childhood game? We are sometimes prompted to move a bit—away from our highly strategic places of hiding, and a little bit closer to the action again, to feel like we’re a part of it without really having to engage. It is extremely convenient.

Now, when we were playing the game as children, and we moved from our lonely place in an effort to see more of what was going on, didn’t we find that in doing so, we found ourselves invariably moving to a more visible location?

And didn’t we find that we would eventually get caught once this happened?

We were met with an awkward mix of shame and relief at being found. It was such an infringement to be discovered, and yet, it was also something so affirming. For were it not so, we would never have moved from our original location in the first place.

We were found by the seeker, and then were met with the responsibility of doing the seeking ourselves.

Our role changed from the one avoiding, to the one looking.

And there was something so dignifying about being the one seeking, wasn’t there? Even though we played it off like we would rather be hiding, didn’t we feel inside that we now had a more significant role to play? That our actions would have impact in the lives of others?

Therein lies the hidden joy of being discovered…

And the beautiful thing about our adult lives is, that although we hide, we sometimes get fortunate enough to find ourselves in that desperate situation where we have to get out. We have to move, to change position—to risk greater exposure for our own survival.

And when we get found by the Seeker, the One who reveals all secrets, all hiding places, we find this mixed feeling of shame coupled with exhilaration—something in us feels so good to be discovered…

And once found, we then have the role of seeking for others, delivering them from their hiding places, for the sake of their souls, for the sake of their survival, for the sake of their joy and affirmation.

For we all hide.

But may we learn to be found, and in that discovery, may we turn from hiders to seekers—with eyes open and heads up, drawing out the secrets, bringing light to the darker places, inviting the people dwelling among the shadows into the richness of full, utter, Life.

For our very souls (and humanity itself) depend on it…