The piano piece 4′33″ (Pronounced “Four minutes, thirty-three seconds”) was first performed at a piano recital in Woodstock, NY, in 1952. 

Pianist David Tudor took the stage and performed the piece composed by John Cage.  Tudor sat down at the piano…in complete silence.  For four minutes and thirty-three seconds.

The piece is actually composed of three movements.  Tudor opened and closed the keyboard lid to signify the end of a movement and the beginning of the next.  By the time he closed the lid for the final time, many people in the audience had left – some were confused by the silence; others were enraged.

Cage’s point was that even what we consider silence, the absence of intentional sound, is composed of lots of incidental sounds that we notice only when we stop to be quiet and listen. 

I haven’t posted anything on my blog in a few months, because I’ve been doing a lot of thinking, and I’ve been trying to do a lot of listening.  It’s not easy for me.  I’d rather be busy and verbose than still and silent. Silence takes discipline.  Silence is awkward.  Silence requires more being than doing.  And, as Shakespeare would say, there’s the rub.

I am the A-est of Type A personalities.  When I was twelve, I started going to informational meetings offered by medical schools so I could carefully research my educational options.   When I was fourteen, my dad found me sitting on the porch steps one evening, watching the sun go down.  He asked what I was thinking about, and  I told him I was thinking about running for president – and I wasn’t kidding.

When I interviewed at Yale, the admissions committee asked why they should accept me into the program.  I told them, because I was going to change the world, and they would have the chance to say they knew me when.

Then I finished Yale and got accepted into Columbia, and I thought, I knew it!  I knew I was supposed to do something big!

My favorite motto was, “Attempt great things for God.”  Not only was I attempting great things; I was succeeding at them. 

I suppose I should have known that it wouldn’t last forever, but I didn’t.  My mom told me, God made us human beings, not human do-ers. But it didn’t sink in.

Until I got sick and I lost everything I cared about, every opportunity I’d been working so hard to create.  I left my job at Yale, left the journalism program at Columbia, and moved 3,000 miles away.  I wasn’t trying to do anything noble; I was just trying not to let my sadness drive me insane.

I used to have an impressive list of degrees and accomplishments.  For the past year, my big accomplishments have included getting out of bed in the mornings, making myself nutritious food, not getting chemo, managing my crazy curly hair, and staring at the ceiling, trying to figure out what’s next.

I’ve been plotting all the cool things I could do for God in Portland, telling Him what I think the new plan should be. As if I’ve been red shirted, and I’m waiting for the coach to look down the bench, point his finger at me, and sub me back into the game to score the game-winning shot.

But instead of cosmic enthusiasm, I have been met with silence.  And reminders that I am a human being, not a human do-er. 

I was thinking about this the other day when I was reading Luke 18.  The rich young ruler asks Jesus what he’s supposed to do to become a follower of Christ.  He tells Jesus he’s already kept the 10 Commandments, and asks what’s next.  Jesus tells him to go sell everything he had, give the proceeds to the poor, and follow Him.

The rich young man went away sad, because he was wealthy and didn’t want to sacrifice that much to follow Jesus.  And that’s how the Sunday School version of the story usually ends.

But if you read a little further, you see Peter telling Jesus, “We have left everything to follow you!”  I think he and the other disciples saw Jesus’ interaction with the rich young man.  And they realized that while the young man didn’t have the chutzpah to make the sacrifice, Peter and John and the rest of the disciples had done just that!  When Jesus called them, they had dropped their nets, abandoned their boats, resigned their places on the fishing committees, and followed Jesus.

When I see Peter’s statement, I imagine he meant, “Jesus, you know how you said to that guy that to please you he just had to sell everything and follow you?  Well, that’s exactly what we did.  Remember that?  Remember how we gave up everything you asked us to?  We sacrificed everything we had to become your disciples, and we still don’t get you.  We still don’t understand what you’re talking about.  We still don’t understand you.”

The disciples, and many saints who have come after them, learned that what seemed to be the finish line was really the starting gate.  Abandoning everything to follow Jesus wasn’t the goal; it was just the qualification for the next round. You don’t get the prize; you get the chance to contend for the prize.

What exactly are we contending for?  I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately.  What’s the goal? What’s the point? 

The best answer I can find is simply that we get the chance to know God, and to be known by Him.  Which is weird and strangely unsatisfying, because personally I’d rather get the chance to do something hard for God.  Like be a martyr.  Or live on the streets with homeless people.  Or run a non-profit organization.  Or adopt orphans from Darfur.  Or buy children out of the sex trade.  Because at least when you do something hard, you have something to show for your troubles.

What does it matter if you know someone?  That’s not a normal goal for an A-est of Type A personalities kind of person. But I think it’s true nonetheless. 

Jeremiah wrote, “Let not the wise man boast of his wisdom or the strong man boast of his strength or the rich man boast of his riches, but let him who boasts boast about this: that he understands and knows me…” (Jeremiah 9:23,24, emphasis added.)

So I sit at the keyboard, long after the spotlight has dimmed and the audience has gone home, with my empty hands poised above the keys, trying to interpret God’s silence, and praying that He’ll interpret mine.