You know, more and more I think that for many years I looked at life like a case at law, a series of proofs. When you’re young you prove how brave you are, or smart; then, what a good lover; then a good father; finally, how wise, or powerful, or what-the-hell-ever. But underlying it all, I see now, there was a presumption. That I was moving on an upward path toward some elevation, where – God knows what – I would be justified, or even condemned – a verdict anyway. I think now that my disaster really began when I looked up one day – and the bench was empty. No judge in sight. And all that remained was this endless argument with oneself – this pointless litigation of existence before an empty bench. ~ Arthur Miller
We come in shivering and wet from the autumn rain. Little children dash like squirrels to their cubbyholes, kicking off muddy boots and throwing down raincoats in record time. I watch with a sense of apprehension as a circle quickly forms — a perfect circle, with just enough space for a bit of sprawling, no gaps in between, and no Bobby.
Bobby is my boy. Tall for his age and scrawny, he loves listening to the sounds of city traffic and playing freeze tag in the rain. Now, he is sitting by his cubbyhole, slowly pulling off one wet shoe after the other. His eyes, like mine, are trained on the circle, and I wonder if the anxiety I feel belongs to me. As he moves to stand behind one of the children, he turns to give me a silent, questioning look. Where is my spot? Bobby is still hesitant to use the words we practice at home (“Excuse me, may I sit beside you please?”). I am about to intervene when the girl in front of him suddenly notices. She turns, scooches over, and with the exuberance of a child, says, “There’s room here, Bobby, sit next to me!”
I flew home at the end of senior year to five warm hugs, one wet nose, and all the fine promises of an early summer. Each day we woke up with the sun, talked over breakfast until past noon, and sat on the porch in the warm evening air. Summer lent me space without charge — rambling conversations, ice cream by the docks, stories and songs on quiet afternoons. Summer told me, with a voice of utterly childlike simplicity, “Here is room with no rent, and play with no guilt, and work with nothing to prove.”
August drew to a close. Despite reassurances from the patriarch that no rent was expected, our inner voices often speak just as loudly as parents. I twiddled my thumbs and contemplated Miller’s bench. I contemplated the expectation of a verdict.
Where is my spot? Am I worthy of it? If I am not, will I ever have done enough, accomplished enough, been good enough, to show that I can be?
Typically I write songs when I am sad. Sorrow is gifted. Sorrow can find all the right melodies, choose all the right words, and make verses flow more fluently than tears down the cheek.
What emotion beat in the bosom of the Father as he sang creation into existence? (As he sang me into existence?)
One Sabbath night in an upper room, several anxious students sat in a circle and watched as their teacher broke bread. “Let not your hearts be troubled,” he said, “I go to prepare a place for you.” Only later would they understand — and even then, only in part — what seat in heaven had been given up, what glory set aside, so that they could have room at the table.
If Miller’s bench is empty, it is because the Son of God has left his seat to stand beside us. From a wellspring of deep exuberance, we were brought forth and told to work, play, eat, worship. Now, in an act of baffling, humiliating, wonderful grace, the Son restores to us the room we lost, the family home, the endless summer (sabbath) we all so desperately crave.
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