The last three days have been an immersion in unexpected abundance for me. On Thursday night, I heard the Blind Boys of Alabama sing in concert – live at Grace Cathedral. On Friday night I heard the San Francisco Symphony playing Shostakovich at Davies Hall. Last night I heard Chanticleer, the 12-voice a capella men’s choir, sing at the Mission at Santa Clara. Each of these events was a rich musical experience for me, but the symphony captured me in ways I hadn’t expected.
It had been a long time since I’d been to the symphony, and I’d forgotten what power symphonic music holds – especially when the listener is sharing the same air as the musicians and the music. At first, I was simply basking in the music – transported by the immensity and complexity of the sound. Then I began to notice the individual instruments and their impact on the music. I was especially drawn to the triangle – that tiny little piece of metal being struck from time to time by the percussionist. I noticed the movement before I noticed the sound. The percussionist stood up, poised to strike, and there – in its own place in the air – was the clear note of the triangle. “Wow,” I thought to myself, “how did the composer know that would be the perfect sound for that little space?”
That bit of wondering led me deeper and deeper into the music. I noticed in a different way how the mood of the music shifted, how the instruments passed the themes back and forth, how the conductor seemed to be pulling – coaxing the music into the air filling the hall.
Then I began to wonder about the composer. How did he begin the creation of this music? Where did he start? What gave him the courage to write the first note? Did the music grow as he wrote or did he hear the entire symphony in his head before he began? Did he know from the beginning that the ridiculous abundance of two harps – two harps! – would make just the right sound?
Beginnings are tricky things. Sometimes we don’t know when we are beginning something that will grow and endure. In 1939, when the Blind Boys of Alabama first began singing together at a school for blind African American boys, I doubt they imagined that their gospel music would have 500 people dancing in a San Francisco cathedral almost 60 years later. I doubt that the little group of men gathered around a kitchen table in San Francisco almost 30 years ago would have imagined that their singing would grow into the world-renowned music of Chanticleer.
Beginnings are tricky things. Sometimes they sneak up on us when we least expect it, and we find ourselves doing something that frightens us in its newness and its potential to change our lives.
Imagine the disciples that day on the mountain. Jesus has taken them there for quiet, and they are followed by a large crowd of people – more than 5,000 in number. Who knows what was in the disciples’ minds when they realized how big the crowd had grown or when they realized the Jesus intended that they would somehow provide food for all those people. We can imagine the looks the others must have given Andrew when he mentions that a boy in the crowd has a little bit of food: five barley loaves and two fish. Andrew, even as he points to that little bit of food, recognizes that it’s foolish to even consider that small amount in the face of the huge crowd. But Jesus has a different perspective. He takes the loaves and the fish, gives thanks for this tiny meal and distributes it to all the people. From this little bit of food – five loaves and two fish – thousands of people are fed. From this little bit of food, Jesus brings forth such abundance that the people have all they want to eat – all they want, not just all they need – and there are 12 baskets of food left over.
There are all sorts of theories about what happened that day on the mountain. Some folks say that people of Jesus’ day would never set out on a day-long trek without bringing food and that Jesus’ offering of those little loaves and fish was simply the catalyst that allowed people to bring out their food and share it with each other. Some say that there was exaggeration on all counts –that there was much more food available, a lot fewer people to feed, and not quite so many leftovers. Some say that the text is accurate – that Jesus miraculously fed 5,000 people with just those five little loaves and two fish.
I don’t know what happened with the loaves and fish that day. I don’t know how Jesus stepped forward into that moment. I don’t know what was in his mind as he took the loaves and fish. I don’t know what impulse led him to this action or whether he was fearful as he began. Did he see this as a turning point? Did he wonder what was going to happen next?
I don’t know very much about what happened that day. I do know that this story is a marker of our faith. I do know that what happened that day on the mountain made such a miraculous change in the understanding of the people who were gathered that the story is one of the few told in all four gospels. I do know that what happened that day continues to inform our lives and our understanding of God’s gift of abundance.
Accepting the gift sometimes requires something of us. Accepting the gift of God’s abundance sometimes requires that we step out of our usual ways, our usual patterns of thinking and behaving. Accepting the gift of God’s abundance sometimes requires that we step away from our understanding of scarcity and inadequacy. Accepting the gift of God’s abundance sometimes requires that we have the courage to hold ourselves open to the possibility that a small step is the beginning of a long journey.
I have heard it said that our lives are the crayon drawings on God’s refrigerator. Perhaps it’s time to update that metaphor and think of our lives as the songs on God’s iPod. Whatever imagery we use, one thing is certain: unless we take the first step, unless we reach beyond our selves and our limits, beyond what we know about the reality of our selves and our world – unless we take the first step to accept the gift of God’s abundance, to step out in new beginnings of life in Christ, our drawings – our music – will be pale shadows and distant echoes of the creation God means to share with us.