I'm re-reading Just Like Jesus, by Max Lucado... I read this particular section last night, and I just had to share it...
*I am going to conclude by telling you a story you've heard before, though you've not heard it as I'm going to tell it. But you have heard it. Surely you have, for you are in it. You are one of the characters. It is the story of the dancers who had no music. Can you imagine how hard that would be? Dancing with no music? Day after day they came to the great hall just off the corner of Main and Broadway. They brought their wives. They brought their husbands. They brought their children and their hopes. They came to dance.
The hall was prepared for a dance. Streamers hung, punch bowls filled. Chairs were placed against the walls. People arrived and sat, knowing they had come to a dance but not knowing how to dance because they had no music. They had balloons; they had cake. They even had a stage on which musicians could play, but they had no musicians. One time a lanky fellow claimed to be a musician. He sure looked the part, with his belly-length full beard and fancy violin. All stood the day he stood before them and pulled the violin out of the case and placed it beneath his chin. Now we will dance, they thought, but they were wrong. For though he had a violin, his violin had no strings. The pushing and pulling of his bow sounded like the creaking of an unoiled door. Who can dance to a sound like that? So the dancers took their seats again. Some tried to dance without the music. One wife convinced her husband to give it a try, so out on the floor they stepped, she dancing her way and he dancing his. Both efforts were commendable-but far from compatible. He danced some form of partnerless tango, while she was spinning like a ballerina. A few tried to follow their cue, but since there was no cue, they didn't know how to follow. The result was a dozen or so dancers with no music, going this way and that, bumping into each other and causing more than one observer to seek safety behind a chair. Over time, however, those dancers grew weary, and everyone resumed the task of sitting and staring and wondering if anything was ever going to happen. And then one day it did. Not everyone saw him enter. Only a few. Nothing about his appearance would compel your attention. His looks were common, but his music was not. He began to sing a song, soft and sweet, king and compelling. His song took the chill out of the air and brought a summer-sunset glow to the heart. As he sang, people stood-a few at first, then many-and they began to dance. Together. Flowing to a music they had never heard before, they danced. Some, however, remained seated. What kind of musician is this who never mounts the stage? Who brings no band? Who has no costume? Why, musicians don't just walk in off the street. They have an entourage, a reputation, a persona to project and protect. Why, this fellow scarcely mentioned his name! 'How can we know what you sing is actually music?' they challenged. His reply was to the point, 'Let the man who has ears to hear use them.' But the non-dancers refused to hear. So they refused to dance. Many still refuse. The musician comes and sings. Some dance. Some don't. Some find music for life, others live in silence. To those who miss the music, the musician gives the same appeal: 'Let the man who has ears to hear use them.'*
This entire chapter was on having a listening heart, and this particular part really jumped out at me. Think about it, how many times do we refuse to listen to the music of our Maker? If we never listen, how will we ever learn the dance steps? Would you rather clomp around on the dance floor, or dance gracefully in the arms of the King? He's continually singing over us, and there's a continual invitation for us to dance with Him.
Let God have you, and let God love you-and don't be surprised if your heart begins to hear music you've never heard and your feet learn to dance as never before!