A Xylophone Player
I went for an evening walk along Tempe Town Lake one day recently while visiting the Phoenix area. The sun was low on the horizon, but the greenway was still bustling with people biking and running and relaxing on park benches.
As I walked west along the river, I noticed a large, beautifully designed building right beside the water. It was modern architecture with one huge wall of glass running almost its entire length. As I walked closer and looked inside, I could see a really large orchestra rehearsing in a really large room with vaulted ceilings. They appeared to be mid-song. I couldn’t hear anything, but I could see the conductor facing my direction, rapidly waving his hand, the violinists and cellists moving their bows, the trombone and trumpet players poised and ready, and the various percussionists attentively waiting to contribute rhythm and accent. So, even though I couldn’t hear the music, I stopped to watch for a few minutes. Something about it was beautiful to me.
I remember having no interest at all in learning to play a band instrument in high school. Every day, I saw kids toting various black instrument cases but never gave a single thought to getting one of my own. Looking back now, maybe it was an attention thing for me. If I were going to be involved in something, I needed more recognition than the band provided. I needed to be noticed. I had yet to learn about the value of being part of a group.
All this was going through my mind while I stood on the greenway staring at a soundless orchestra rehearsal. I decided to move on. But right before I continued walking, I noticed a xylophone player in the very back of the percussion section. He appeared to be further from the conductor than anyone else, isolated in the corner with his mallet in hand. His facial expression caught my attention. He was so alert, so attentive, so ready to strike a note at the appointed time. But he seemed to play very little.
I wondered if he ever played more or was featured in a song. I also wondered how anyone ended up playing the xylophone at all. Was that his first choice? Are there young musicians out there with aspirations of playing a few notes on the xylophone in the back of the orchestra? Sure, he was a part of the band just like the first chair violinist, but was he really all that important?
The whole thing reminded me of something the Apostle Paul said in one of his letters to the Christians in Corinth. He said that each member of the church was vital just like the individual parts of the human body.
“Now there are many parts, yet one body. So the eye cannot say to the hand, “I don’t need you!” Or again, the head can’t say to the feet, “I don’t need you!” But even more, those parts of the body that seem to be weaker are necessary (I Cor. 12).”
Paul used this analogy to teach that all of us have something significant to contribute, some small part to make the whole. Sure, your eyes are probably more important than your fingers, and your brain controls much more than your feet, but the idea is that they are all designed to perform specific functions for the whole body to work. They are individually amazing as they perform the unique tasks for which they were made. Paul said that “God placed each one of the parts in one body just as He wanted.”
An orchestra could easily make music without some of the less prominent instruments, but the fullest, most beautiful sound is produced when they all work together.
This idea reminds me of my Sunday School teachers when I was growing up. I can still remember so many of them. They taught me all kinds of songs I can still remember like “Jesus Loves Me” and “Deep and Wide” and dozens of Bible stories from flannelgraph boards. When I graduated from high school and left for college, many of them were still teaching young kids in those same little classrooms. It was a thankless job, a seemingly small contribution. They were never well-known, never received any accolades, but they were invaluable influences on so many lives.
The Apostle Paul himself was significantly influenced by someone like this. Right after he became a believer on his way to Damascus, Luke writes in Acts 9 that Paul spent an unknown amount of time with a guy named Ananias. There are several guys with that name in the Bible, but this is probably the one most people have never heard of.
Ananias was instructed to go meet Saul and “lay hands on him.” This sounded really odd to Ananias, no doubt, because before this happened, Paul was known as Saul, a Jewish zealot who “...persecuted God’s church to an extreme degree and tried to destroy it (Gal. 1:4).” He was a very dangerous guy. But in spite of that and in spite of his fears, Ananias found Paul and was the first one to welcome him to the family and call him ‘Brother.’
Who has ever heard of this guy?! His small story ends as abruptly as it begins. But here’s some perspective on the impact of his obedience. When Paul left Damascus, he went on to travel the known world planting churches, training leaders, writing about half of the New Testament, and eventually dying as a martyr. Author Tim Challies describes Ananias’ story like this: “Small acts of obedience...can have great significance. Our perspective is so small, so limited. God’s perspective is wide, taking in all of history in a single glance.”
I think I’ve always struggled with an inaccurate idea of greatness. Many times we tell kids they can “be something great” if they “shoot for the stars” and “never settle for less than the best” and blah blah. I know all that has value and is well-intentioned. But I think that kind of advice can sometimes create unrealistic expectations for “success” or false definitions of greatness.
Every kid who loves basketball is not going to be the next Lebron James. A kid may be smart and innovative, but he doesn’t need to be Mark Zuckerberg to be successful. Greatness is less about being better than everyone else and more about being uniquely you, an individual designed for a specific purpose. The world is full of average people making a huge impact through seemingly small actions.
I met a nice couple at a gym where I was working a few years ago who told me about their first experience with fostering a child. They said they kept a little boy from a few weeks after his birth until he was around two years old. They bottle-fed him, rocked him to sleep, helped him learn to walk and begin to talk. And, as you can imagine, they grew very attached. But they always knew there was the possibility that his birth mom could be approved to take him back. And one day, she did.
They told me how silent and empty their home felt after the little boy left. It was difficult for them to even go into his bedroom. They wondered if they would ever regain the emotional stamina to foster again.
When I met them, they said they were still healing but knew they wanted to help other children. “He will probably never remember us at all.” they said. “But we hope his life is better because we were a part of it.”
The older I get, the less I resemble that teenage version of myself, the one who wanted the spotlight. I’m learning the beauty of being in the background. I’m seeing the great value of joining a team, of making a small but incredibly significant contribution. More and more, I find myself just wanting to be like that xylophone player - attentive, alert, ready to add a few small notes to a beautiful song.
