THE VIOLIN

Last night Brother Tom, my fellow Claretian at Casa Claret, was driving a friend home when someone threw a can of beer at them, cracking the front windshield and scaring both for a moment. Such is life on the South Side of Chicago, where graffiti also is as common as the wind in the Windy City. People violently destroying another’s property for their own motives, but without the courage to reveal themselves. Sometimes the “graffiti” comes in malicious comments to our words and our work. Why do people do it?

Many years ago, while still a corporate lawyer, I was in Boston to purchase about $200 million of “Affordable Housing”…a program initiated by Congress to replace public housing with private investment, which hopefully would have a more pleasing appearance and a longer life than “Section 8” Housing. After a long and successful day of negotiations, I left the office building to return to the hotel. It was pouring so heavily that I could not find a cab anywhere.

When I looked across the street I noticed a giant crucifix, perhaps three of four stories high, on the face of the sky-scraper. It was St. Anthony, a Franciscan church very much like St. Peter’s in downtown Chicago. I ran across to find shelter and to pray, and luckily Mass was just beginning. There were about twenty of us in the large church, perhaps half street people and the others from business.

After the opening prayers, the friar read the Sacred Word, and began his homily. He asked us, “Have you ever noticed how much violence…how much depression there is in the world?” All of us nodded. He said, “Let me tell you a story…about an estate auction.”

“The auctioneer began by grabbing an old fiddle and asking, ‘Who will give me two dollars for this fiddle? Do I hear two? Who will give me three? I have three, who’ll give me four? I have four, do I hear five? Four once…four twice…’Before he could strike the gavel and sell the fiddle, an old man walked up and asked, ‘Mind if I take a closer look?’

“He took the fiddle, blew the dust off it, grabbed the bow and began to play the fiddle.” And the friar surprised us….delighted us. He grabbed a violin from behind the ambo, and began to play the Ave Maria. The music was so beautiful, so heavenly in that large chamber with the acoustics so perfect, that I for one did not want him to ever stop. But in time he did. And he resumed the part of the auctioneer.

“‘Who’ll give me two thousand for this violin? Three thousand? Four? Five…’ And sold it for many thousands of dollars. After the auction was over someone walked up to the auctioneer and asked, ‘I don’t understand. Before you couldn’t even get five dollars for that old fiddle, and you ended up selling it for many thousands. How do you explain it?’ The auctioneer responded, ‘Before we failed to see the touch of the master’s hand at work.’”

Then the friar turned to us and said, “Could we ever be violent or depressed if we could see the touch of the Master’s hand at work in us?”

As an aside, years later as a novice priest I entered Mass carrying a violin case under my arm, reminiscent perhaps of a scene from The Godfather, and when it came time for the homily I shared the above story, and more…I opened the violin case, pulled out a violin, and pretended to play the Ave Maria at the appropriate part…having previously placed a CD player behind the ambo. When Mass was over there was a rush of compliments and folks who wanted me to play some more…but my smile gave it all away…and we laughed.

There is goodness in each of us; perhaps when we fail to see the touch of the Master’s hand at work (in us or in others) it helps to simply see the lighter side and share some laughter.