SYMPATHETIC VIBRATION

Church of the Redeemer

All Parish Eucharist - January 27, 2002

Lisa DiFranza 

Imagine Afghanistan. It isn’t hard to do -- thanks to images flashed on our television and computer screens and printed in the newspapers daily. What do you see? Caves?  Rock? Arid landscapes? Hundreds, maybe thousands of hungry faces?  Now imagine the softer edges -- consider Afghan children as they go to sleep at night. What are stories are they told to comfort them as slide into their dreams? This fairy tale from Afghanistan has been passed on through generations. It’s called “What Melody is the Sweetest?”  (Guitar) 

Shah Abbas was a man of wit who liked to converse in parables. Among his ministers was Merza Zaki who understood his parables well. One day the shah was holding court, discussing the ways of the world. “What is the sweetest melody?” he asked.

The first minister answered: “The melody of the flute is the sweetest.” (flute)  

The second minister spoke up:  “The melody of the bass is the sweetest.” (bass) 

The third minister argued: “ Neither one nor the other, the guitar has the finest tone!” (guitar) 

The fourth minister, Merza Zaki, said nothing.

But days later Merza Zaki invited all the ministers to a banquet in their honor. Musicians entertained them on all kinds of instruments.

“How strange” they noticed, “There is a table here but no refreshments.”

Usually at these banquets the tables are laden with delicacies, and when the guests have eaten their fill there is still more food. 

But this night was different. “Where is the food? the guests moaned and they cried, “We’ve been here for hours!” It was nearly midnight. And still they waited. 

Finally Merza Zaki called the headwaiter who entered the room with a pot of hot food (head waiter enters, and walks up the aisle banging a pot lid) banging the lid with a big spoon. 

All the guests breathed a sigh of relief and agreed, “The clink of dishes in the ears of a hungry person -- this is the sweetest melody.”  (Guitar, bass and flute sound) 

This story is still being told in Afghanistan today. What possible place does a simple fairy tale have in the context of a ravaged country? What possible value? What exactly is the idea of a sweet melody doing in the midst of war, hunger, death? 

This past fall, as we all struggled to come to terms with the events of September 11th, one thing I noticed is that art was everywhere - cards, drawings, sculptures covered the streets of cities all over the country.  People who never considered themselves “artists” were creating; New York museums were open late to accommodate the many people seeking solace; National Public Radio created a list of music to listen to in the wake of the disaster; musicians and theatre artists came together for benefit concerts; Oprah even, uncharacteristically, devoted an entire show that week to songs. New Yorkers gathered in Union Square and at churches throughout the city to light candles, share stories, sing hymns.  

When we are close to death, as we all were in September, and as thousands are in Afghanistan right now, we are at our most vulnerable. When someone we love is hurt, or when we ourselves are sick, when crises happen -- we are cracked open in ways that we simply are not as we go through our regular days. Suddenly we are forced to be in touch with our soft, tender, human center. It is as if our beating heart is exposed. And we are aware of the gift of being alive. This is not easy for those of us who aren’t used to it. What do we do with this tenderness, this rush of feeling, this ultimate awareness of the preciousness of life?   

In these times, we crave images, stories, and sweet melody like we crave food - to soothe us, to nourish us.  Scientists have attempted to explain this mystery by discovering an actual location in our brains that is stimulated by both food and music. But even science can’t tell us  -- really -- why it is that a poetic image or a picture can reach our depths in an instant, why a jazzy song can lift our spirits, and an unexpected chord change can make us cry. Still we know for sure that we desire all of this. We are compelled to make art and we are drawn toward the visions of musicians, painters and poets. These creative expressions touch us in a primal, visceral way - reminding us that we’re alive, that we belong to the human family, that we are all connected. Simply, art gives us hope that life will triumph over death. It is no wonder then, that the story of “The Sweetest Melody” continues to be told in Afghanistan today. 

There is a phenomenon in music called a sympathetic string. Maybe you’ve heard of it. In some instruments, like the Sitar, there are sympathetic strings built in. These are strings that are never plucked or strummed, rather their sound is activated by resonating with neighboring strings -- they move with what’s called “sympathetic vibration.” 

If you have two violins -- one is sitting on a table and you are tuning the other -- as you pluck a string, the corresponding string on the violin sitting on the table will vibrate with sound -- a sympathetic vibration. 

When we are in touch with the tenderest parts of ourselves, we are like those sympathetic strings -- we ourselves are resonant, we respond to those around us who are in pain or lonely or hungry. We saw that so evidently in New York this fall. We connect with others, in a kind of sympathetic vibration.  

(Sound of the bass playing double strings) 

Now imagine what was going on for Jesus as he faced the hungry crowd that day. The violent death of John the Baptist was fresh in his heart. It had just happened. Grieving, he withdrew with his disciples. But the people were sick and in need of healing, and they followed him. It was a big crowd. John the Baptist had just been beheaded, and Jesus was acutely aware that he himself would soon die too. So this Miracle of Loaves and Fishes is bookended by death. It has death all over it.

In this context, let’s review what we are told about how events played out that day. Surrounded by death, aware of the preciousness of life, Jesus faced the crowd and we read that he “had great compassion for them” -- for the hungry and the sick. He healed their ills, and responded to their hunger. Clearly, too, he also felt a certain sense of urgency -- with this “Miracle” he was teaching his disciples. After all, they would soon have to carry on without him.  What precisely was his lesson?

Before we can answer that question, lets look at what it was not. When Philip says to Jesus in the reading we heard earlier, “it would take more than 200 silver coins to buy enough bread,” Jesus did not respond by giving him cash. I mean, he could have, right? But this was not a lesson about how to buy food to feed five thousand. That’s one thing it was not.

In John’s telling of the story, there was a boy with five loaves and two fishes. Five thousand people ate off of this boy’s lunch. But clearly this wasn’t a lesson about everyone taking really small bites, not a frugal gourmet seminar on how to stretch a meal. 

Jesus takes the bread from the child - who seems willing to contribute it. He gives thanks, blesses it, breaks it and distributes it. Aware of his own death, the loaves and fishes become a Eucharistic meal -- where Jesus gives of himself to the hungry people. The ultimate sympathetic string, he is sounding in resonance to neighbors in need.  Moved by his heart to action, Jesus transforms scarcity into abundance. Maybe he is teaching the disciples a lesson about compassion  --not the “idea” or “concept” of giving, but deep true visceral compassion, resonance - sympathetic vibration. 

That day, after everyone was fed, there were leftovers. This is a story of abundance. There were, in fact, twelve baskets of bread left over -- one for each of the disciples.  They must carry on, and they have within themselves the capacity to share this bread of life to give of themselves.  

Our challenge as we participate in the Eucharist, is the same as the one Jesus put to the disciples that day. -- to live fully, with an open heart -- and to let it guide us to action.  To live fully with an open heart -- and let it guide us to action. When we act this way, when we give of ourselves, organically, from our hearts, we can turn scarcity into abundance. 

An open heart is the first step toward sympathetic action. But why is it so hard to keep our hearts open? Well it isn’t so easy to be vulnerable. Particularly in our world  -- where openness can be perceived as “weak”, or unproductive. An open heart does not guarantee financial security or fame, in fact openness, sensitivity is sometimes judged as “weird.”  Add to that technology. While it wondrously gives us images across the globe in an instant, we do not often face a hungry crowd directly. We imagine Afghanistan as it exists on our television screen. Our experiences are mediated by technology and it is hard to resonate with a TV set. 

So how do we keep our hearts vibrant even when we are not in crisis? How do we stay vigilantly aware of the preciousness of life, even in the midst of a traffic jam? 

Maybe we have to notice moments of tenderness when we respond viscerally -- to a piece of music, lets say. (Just as music and art are healing in crises, they can serve as ways to open those passageways at other times.) What if we notice our responses to the suffering of a friend, the eyes of a stranger -- notice those moments that touch us  -- and let ourselves feel. Really feel.  

When we celebrate the Eucharist, we remember the story of Jesus giving of himself. In this bodily ritual, as we ingest the host, today, let’s let it touch us viscerally, let it serve as a reminder of the divine gift. This is the miracle: Life itself. A heart capable of opening. 

Although being open to sympathetic vibration can be overwhelming -- even scary -- because it leads to all kinds of feelings, even though it’s easy to want to close our hearts back up, we learn through the Loaves and the Fishes that it is worth the risk -- that an open heart is a powerful thing. If we are moved to action by the vibrations of our hearts, we can multiply loaves and fishes, and tend to our neighbors near and far.  

Our own hearts hold amazing possibilities. This is where true compassion comes from, where love is born.  As we look at the loaves and fishes around this church, and as we participate in the Eucharist lets remember the challenge, set out by Christ that day, to let the sympathetic vibration of our truest hearts be our motivation, our guide, and our call to action.

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