The story of the birth of Jesus stirs the imagination. At times, that imagination runs wild:
*Animals speak with human voices each year at midnight on Christmas Eve, acknowledging the newborn Son of God.
*The unspecified number of astrologers who followed the star of Bethlehem were transformed through imagination into Three Kings who come to the stable the same night as the shepherds at the birth of Jesus.
* A little boy who brings his drum and wants to play for Baby Jesus is the central figure in the song, “The Little Drummer Boy.”
Several different people have been credited as writers of the lyrics and music for the Drummer boy. It is said to have been written in 1941 but not recorded and released to the public until 1958. In the half-century or so since it was recorded, the song has found its niche among Christmas songs with enduring popularity.
Told in first person by the Drummer, each line of the story is enveloped in verbal representations of drumbeats: “rum-a-pum-pum.”
He is invited to join others who are bringing their finest gifts as they go to see the Newborn King. Self-conscious about having nothing tangible to offer, the boy asks whether he might play his drum. Mary nods approval.
As the sound of his best licks reaches the Baby’s ears, He seems to smile at the boy and his drum.
A profound thought here should not be drowned out by the rum-a-pum-pums.
Let us use our imagination:
At the manger, almost hidden from view by the regal Kings from the East, the boy is self-conscious as they place their gold, frankincense, and myrrh on the ground before the Baby.
His drum is strapped around his neck, as it always is when he goes about. But he has absolutely nothing to place alongside the costly gifts from the Kings for the Baby King.
Anything the boy has ever owned in his whole life is shoddy by comparison. What led him here in the first place? But as he looks around, he feels he is no more out of place than those ragged, dirty, smelly shepherds who gather around, wide-eyed and open-mouthed. It’s the Kings who make the Drummer uneasy. And the Baby they call King.
Earlier, he heard the shepherds talking among themselves -- about angels and bright lights on the hillside beyond the little town of Bethlehem, how the angels told them to come to town and hunt this Baby whose coming is good news to everyone, for shepherds and, perhaps, he thought, even for a boy with a drum.
Maybe he ought to slip away quietly and play his drum to himself as he heads for home.
He loves to play his drum, and he’s been told, lots of times, that he’s good with it. Oh, sometimes his mother gets on him for playing so loudly while she’s cooking and doing housework. When that happens, he drifts out along the dirt road of the village, playing as he goes. That’s when he gets lots of compliments. An old man down the street has helped him learn different rhythms. A couple of times, the old man even let him beat time with some men who were playing their lyres and pipes.
At the manger, as he’s wondering whether he should leave, a thought flashes through his mind: He does have one thing he could offer the Little King. He could play his drum. But the woman and man might frown and tell him to stop the noise and get out of their way, just like his mother when she wants some peace and quiet.
Well, should he offer to play, or not?
Yes.
No.
Yes.
No.
Yes!
The man and woman look up at the shepherds and the Kings and then right at him.
Now’s his chance. So he asks, hurriedly: “Shall-I-play-for-you-and-your-little-boy? On-my-drum-I-mean.”
The man smiles. The woman nods her head, as if to say, “Go ahead.”
So he starts playing, playing with all his might. One or two of the shepherds slap their knees and bellies as he does some special licks he learned from the old man down the street. He plays and plays, giving it his very best. Everybody in the stable seems to be in rhythm. A passerby stops to look in, then starts snapping his fingers. Feet are tapping. Even one of the Kings is patting his hands together.
The boy forgets where he is as he pours himself into his rhythms. Then he happens to glance down at the Baby. “He’s looking at me! He’s looking at me!” the boy thinks. “Can you believe it? He’s smiling! The Little King is smiling. He’s smiling at me! He likes my drum!”
When he stops playing, nobody moves or says anything for several seconds. Then he hears applause. People gather around and pat him on the back.
“Great rhythm.”
“Good show.”
“How long you been playin’?” one of the shepherds asks.
The Drummer is speechless. He feels almost outside himself as he continues looking at the Little King and His parents. As the others drift into the night, the Drummer still stands, still looking in awe at the family in the stable.
Finally, he puts his sticks into his belt and turns to go. But then, he feels a firm hand on his shoulder. He looks up into the kind, steady eyes of the man. “Thank you, young man. Thank you very much.”
“Oh, no. Thank you, sir. Thank you for letting me play for your little boy.”
As the woman begins wrapping the Baby more securely in the wide bands of cloth, she, too, thanks the Drummer. “That was so special. Thank you for coming to see us tonight. When he’s old enough to understand, we will tell our son what you did.”
“I wish I had something I could leave with you.”
“Oh, you do. You do. You’ve given something special. The sound of your rhythms will linger in our minds longer than you imagine. You gave him something only you could give.”
Those words ring in the drummer’s ears as he starts for home.
His fingers tap rhythms almost silently on the drumhead as he walks briskly through the chill night air. He smiles to himself as he says over and over, “The Little Baby King smiled at me. He smiled at me. He smiled at me and my drum.”
St. Paul praised the early Christians in Macedonia who gave “beyond their means, of their own free will. The key was, they first they gave themselves to the Lord and to us by the will of God (2 Corinthians 8:3-5). This is what the drummer did as he played for the Newborn King.
www.youtube.com/watch?v=qJ_MGWio-vc
No comments:
Post a Comment