God's Week Has 7 Days
Oom-Pah-Pah
Dec 12
The front of the Christmas card showed an awkward beast blowing into a huge, unwieldy brass instrument. Above the shiny bell hung three mundane quarter notes separated by a number of two-beat rests, as in oom-pah-pah. As a former dabbler in music I could see this wasn't much of a melody.
Inside, the message continued: This has been the tuba line of the full-orchestra version of Joy, joy, joy.'
In its own breathy and monotonous way, even the lowly tuba was expressing what it could of the season's excitement.
We used to laugh at the tuba, that big brass toilet bowl that seemed most at home in the marching band or polka crowd. Other instruments had more class, we thought. The really clever musicians played the strings. It took more talent and hard work, but at least string players got to perform all the time. Then there was the flute, or oboe or bassoon. Those were tough instruments, the musical ones.
Even my own choice, the trumpet, was a notch above the tuba. After all, we trumpeters played the arresting fanfares and other stuff you could at least recognize. And though fellows like Mozart didn't write much for us, at least we had our day during Handel's Water Music, or, if we were really good, The Trumpet Shall Sound in Messiah .
But the tuba? Who cared about the tuba?
Then I played in an orchestra with an outstanding tuba player. I could never figure out why Brent had picked such an instrument. Nothing classy was ever written for it. Who'd ever heard of a tuba concerto?
Brent didn't seem to mind. He would warm up with lightning runs, trills, and arpeggios, and finish off with a tuba solo that would make our spines tingle. Then, during rehearsal and performance, he would settle back and contentedly puff away on his bass notes, providing harmonic support for the rest of us.
When we played in concert, the audience never got the full benefit of Brent's virtuosity. They saw him, to be sure. How could you miss that imposing mass of burnished metal. But all they heard were his undergirding tones. Later, over tea, they wouldn't praise his great tuba work. They'd talk about the flawless woodwind passage, or the great cello obbligato, but the tuba? Nary a mention.
Brent knew he'd rarely, if ever, get the accolades that came to the strings, the French horns, and even the timpani. But he persisted, blissfully unconcerned with personal glory. He was content to be part of the whole, the total sound. He was a team player.
So Brent kept playing his notes with dedication and without much evident fanfare. Most of the listeners didn't realize how much he was contributing. They didn't know how much they'd miss with him not there. They weren't aware of how badly they needed his rhythmic beat, his understated runs.
However, Brent knew. And so did the conductor, the man who had in front of him the master score, the complete story with all its related components.
How nice, I think now, that we have tuba players in the family of God. People who do their work day in and day out, contributing where they can with ability and strength. Teachers, plumbers, businessfolk, cooks, flight attendants, nurses, letter carriers, clerks, and bus drivers. People who help us maintain the framework of our song, even though they seldom get to solo.
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