The Night the Composer Sat Among the Cellos

Midway through rehearsal at Carnegie Hall, the musicians expected the composer to stay on the podium. He had written every note — the thunder of the timpani in the third movement, the aching oboe solo that audiences would later call heartbreaking. Every measure bore his fingerprint.

But that evening, he did something no one anticipated. He stepped down from the podium, borrowed a folding chair from a stagehand, and sat among the cellos. He picked up an instrument and began to play — not from above, but from within. The musicians exchanged glances. The one who had imagined every phrase now felt the rosin dust on his fingers, sweated under the stage lights, counted rests like everyone else.

John tells us something even more staggering. The Word who spoke galaxies into being — who was with God, who was God — did not remain on the podium of heaven. He pulled up a chair among us. He borrowed our skin, breathed our dust-filled air, felt hunger and exhaustion and grief. The Almighty Creator of every molecule of water wept real human tears at a friend's graveside in Bethany.

"The Word became flesh and dwelt among us." Not visited. Not observed from a safe distance. Dwelt. The Composer of all things sat down in the orchestra of humanity and played the music from the inside.