Sunday Morning VIII

Music is the harp by which we hear the voice of God.

It transcends every known language for it is the communication of the Soul.

Unless you are older than forty-five, you will have trouble remembering movie-theater intermissions properly. So let me carry you back to the Age Before Advertising when the world was still young enough to fill those intermissions with overwhelming musical experiences.

Since this was the era pre-dating modern technology, as we now know it, movies were recorded on film which was wound on reels. The whole motion picture would not fit on one reel. Thus, the need to change reels caused the need for an intermission.

Theater owners were a canny lot back then. They understood human nature perfectly and were well aware that the average person, faced with a 15-minute interval of silence, will hoof it to the first exit they see.

So the projectionist was instructed to fill the space with short films of great orchestra performances: concertos, partitas, fantasias, scherzos and extravaganzas.

I rarely went to the movies to see the show; I went to listen to the intermissions.

And the desire was born then to reach beyond the limitations of words to touch the heart string that ties us all to the beauty of God's voice.

There was a small hitch in my game plan. I was rhythmically challenged.

I remember sitting in one of the back pews at church so I could sing the Sunday hymns. That way, when the folks next to me could no longer bear the incadence of my warbling, they wouldn't be too embarrassed to change seats.

Playing musical chairs is harder to do in the front pews directly under the loving eyes of the Minister.

My mother was allergic to the sound of the only instrument I could play well, so my path to create music worthy of God's ears detoured along avenues of many musical adventures.

First, there was the bassoon and the bombardon, followed by the söusaphone, the Flügelhorn, the krummhorn and the buccinal.

Now, I have a wonderful face upon which everything works, but somehow my cheek buccinator never buccinated well enough to blow a buccinal. So horns were out.

The band director in junior high school was my ally. He kept assuring me, we would find an instrument I could play. I'm quite sure this band director thought God had a sense of humor when he suggested that I try the bass drum. Perhaps, as he said, you don't need rhythm nor a strong buccinator muscle to play one, but have you ever seen a bass drum?

It dwarfed me and had I continued, it would have hindered me from growing to my natural size. My arms were so short, that the drum batons became mortal weapons as they sailed through the air when I tried to thump both sides of that double-headed beasti.

There are other instruments. The guitar. Clavichord. Dulcimer. But these musical tools all seem to play such sad music. And I think God prefers happy, joyous melodies. The ones that exalt the gift of life He has given us.

Recently, as I scratched through an Irish jig on the fiddle, it occurred to me: God hears only the harmonious notes we play. His ears have the magical ability to listen to the musical beauty of our soul and He hears not the mistakes we make but hears, instead, the perfection we intend.

And there are those rare yet special moments when two or more musicians gather together, each playing in such perfect harmony with one another, that discord vanishes completely from this world and only God's loving melodies remain.

I wish modern scientists would invent a hearing aid like God's ears, so we would hear only the perfection of each communication. If that happens soon, I won't have to hide in a sound-proof room every time I pick up the fiddle and try to touch the heartstring that ties us all to the beauty of God's voice.
Chae