Singing with The Saints

Even at the grave we make our song.

 

Isaac Watts (1674-1748)

William Croft (1678-1727

Robert Lowry (1826-1899)

Svein Ellingsen (b. 1929)

Harald Herresthal (b. 1944)

Mark Mummert (b. 1965)

Suzanne Toolan (b. 1927)

Carolina Sandell Berg (1832-1903)

William Irons (1812-1883)

Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827)

On All Saints Sunday, the church remembers. The church remembers that we are all saints; we remember those saints who have gone down to the dust. We sing with all the saints in glory of the God who will raise us up on the last day. We’ll gather at the river, trusting that deep in our night and death, we are promised an eternal home.

If those words sound like a hymn mash-up, you caught me. But what a glorious mash-up! This day I am reminded that when the church’s song gets locked into one era or one style, we miss the sense of the song that was before us and will echo after us. From our lips we proclaim words penned centuries before next to those crafted just a few years ago; we sing a melody composed by Beethoven, a melody he could not even hear in his growing deafness. We sing it boldly next to tunes written in our lifetime. Each one of those composers and writers lived on today in our assembly's song.

Today four-year olds learned to count the four Alleluias from “All of Us Go Down to the Dust,” elementary choristers sang “Shall We Gather at the River” and adults sang hymns by men and women across time and space. Here we were, saints worshiping in Snyder County, Pennsylvania, joining our hearts and voices to those before not only by thinking about them, but by singing with them. The very act of singing the music of the ages connects us with the saints. We do not live to ourselves alone.

Then there are the saints whose names we will never know. We continue to sing those tunes or words with no names attached, the spirituals and folk tunes passed down through the generations. Here we are reminded of those whose names are a mystery but whose spirit lives on in our song.

As we remember, as we sing, no song will be enough. Thankfully we have a multitude of songs to awaken faith in a God who is more than enough, who gives us songs to sing through our tears, who sings through us when we cannot find our voice.

“Even at the grave we make our song. Alleluia!”

Giving a hand?

Anyone tossing out the adage, “The bible says it. I believe it, that settles it,” has to struggle with Jesus’ words in the ninth chapter of Mark’s gospel.

If your hand causes you to stumble, cut it off…

And if your foot causes to you stumble, cut it off…

And if your eye causes you to stumble, tear it out.

I ask this in all seriousness. What do biblical literalists do when confronted with this passage? I have this gory, grizzly image of a bunch of fundamentalists walking around with body parts missing like something out of a low-budget Halloween thriller. Yet we know (or I hope to God I know) that literalism doesn’t go this far. I read a blog recently describing “Christian” parenting resources that take the “spare the rod, spoil the child” in the direction of child abuse, but I think I’m safe to assume that if a child’s foot leads them astray, a parent won't be performing an amputation. 

One evening last week, my son tested me. Not a testing as if “you better not put your mom to the test” but a genuine challenge.  He came out and said it: “I don’t believe it. Jesus didn’t say these things because the bible is fiction. He couldn’t have healed people like the bible says he did.”

I could have used this as a moment to tell him to buckle up, pray and believe harder and better. I could have reminded him of his namesake, “doubting Thomas.” But I didn’t. I tried to talk with him about facts and truth. I attempted to relate his thoughts to Star Wars: It’s not “true” in the literal sense, but in the way it gives us meaning. Otherwise it wouldn’t compel his attention so. I stumbled around a bit, searching for words. I know I didn’t satisfy him because I wouldn’t agree with his decree that “the church isn’t real.” It was enough for one day.

I found it ironic (or the Spirit) that his church experience following our dinner talk was with today’s gospel text about cutting off limbs. It gave us an opportunity to learn about hyperbole over a brunch of biscuits and eggs. Yet here’s the talk that will be hard for him to “get” right now. For many Christians, literalism is still the way. The adage about the bible “settling it” is used to justify all kinds of hatred and anti-intellectualism. To be fair, all of us, liberal Christians like myself included, harbor our literalistic tendencies. Yet I hope that the gem of truth in all of this was the in the questions themselves.  Instead of quoting chapter and verse, can we, as Rilke asks, “live the questions?”

…I would like to beg you dear Sir…  to have patience with everything unresolved in your heart and to try to love the questions themselves as if they were locked rooms or books written in a very foreign language. Don’t search for the answers, which could not be given to you now, because you would not be able to live them. And the point is to live everything. Live the questions now. Perhaps then, someday far in the future, you will gradually, without even noticing it, live your way into the answer. 

-Rainer Maria Rilke

Teaching my son and myself to live the questions. That's more than enough for every day. 

And the band played on

The band was set up in a parking lot, sandwiched between a castle-like assisted living facility and a less pretentious looking nursing home. The Repasz Band is the oldest, non-military band in continuous existence in the US. They recently took two tour buses to Appomattox to play for the 150^th anniversary of Lee’s surrender (the band was present for the actual event). My mom, a faithful member of the band, says they often joke about some of the band members being there in 1861; the joking brings some levity to the reality: the average age of the band has to be at least 60. 

Tonight the sixty-something’s were the young ones, playing for a mostly wheel chair bound audience that had been parked in neat rows on the lawn in front of the nursing home. The director of the band who himself is up in years displayed the most gracious hosting, inviting the audience to sing along with some old Billy Sunday tunes. When the band played a medley of Armed Forces themes, he invited those present to raise a hand (or stand for the few that could) when they recognized their tune. At those moments, the conductor turned toward those with a hand raised and offered a gracious salute.

As I watched, tapped my foot and encouraged my children to “listen and watch grandma, “ I reflected on the beauty and rarity of a community band. They are a seemingly dying institution yet their name says it all: community.

Earlier today, our President broke into song while he was in a community, a community gathered for mourning in Charleston. What was more beautiful than him beginning “Amazing Grace” was the assembly joining him. It was not his solo; it was a song that belonged to those people gathered who, for that moment, were a community.

Community faces great odds. It can easily turn in on itself; it can erode because we are only looking out for number one. I can't forget that the reason the Repasz band went to Appomottox was to remember a war where two communities in one country killed one another. And still, years after slavery, racism rears its head time and time again.  But on days like today, I sense a deeper awareness of our connective tissue. The reason I and so many rejoiced at the supreme court ruling was its blessing of relationship, of realizing the basic human desire to be united with another, even in the midst of struggle.

Tonight as the band played an arrangement of “America the Beautiful,” I quietly sang the words of Katharine Lee Bates:

America, America, God shed his grace on thee

and crown thy good with brotherhood from sea to shining sea.

The brotherhood language aside (that’s another struggle) the theme is clear: the prayer for community made possible by grace. It sings of a patriotism that glorifies not “bombs bursting in air” but the unity of our land and our people. What would have Katharine Lee Bates thought of today's events, herself a woman that lived with the love of her life, a woman named Katharine for twenty-five years? Even as the struggles for equality continue, we have little bands playing on in harmony. So I say, let the band play on.  

Extreme VBS? Mustard Seed Musings

Mountaintop Extravaganza. Under the Sea. Wild Safari.

 Extreme this. Extreme that.

Yes, it’s Vacation Bible School (VBS) Season. Tis’ the season to gear up for the hustle and bustle of crafts, activities, music and stories. For some churches, the week can be a huge production with “out of this world” themes. Perhaps you’ve noticed the invitation to go on safaris, climb mountains or my personal “favorite” theme that caught my eye a few years back: “Pandamania” which, of course, is a play on pandemonium. Even with a cute and cuddly panda, do we really want to advertise chaos, bedlam, and mayhem?

Does faith equal escape?  Is the goal of passing on the faith to our kids about being anywhere but here? Or is it about having spiritual moments now, in the ordinary, often less-than-adventurous day to day?

I spent five evenings at our church’s VBS this past week. Our theme, Growing in Christ reflected the readings for the upcoming Sunday, especially the parable of the mustard seed (thereby integrating children into the worship life of the church).  As I reflect upon our week together, I am struck by how unconventional it was in its conventionality. We ate a simple meal, painted, planted flowers, sang and played instruments and listened to stories. We closed each evening with worship, the children hearing one of Sunday’s scriptures and offering their “Thank yous” and “Helps” to God. We prayed the Lord’s Prayer. We were sent forth with a sung and danced, “Go now in peace, my friends.”

It dawned on me halfway into the week that our time wasn’t just based on the parable of the mustard seed; we were enacting the parable. Were we big? No. Did we have lots of glitter and gimmicks? No. But what we did have was intentional, quality time with a group of children and adults on their faith journeys together. It was more of the “Mr. Rogers” version of VBS: doing ordinary things with the awareness that God was present in each and every person.

It’s not popular, of course, to be the little playground instead of the glitzy theme park. It seems our culture is obsessed with extreme everything. Yet this week convinced me once again that we have so much to gain in the small things: reading a story to a child, singing a song, planting a flower. These were moments not of escape but of immersion in the earth and connection with one another. As I hear

my own daughter singing, “The trees of the field shall clap their hands,” I realize that even something as seemingly everyday and ordinary as a tree leads to moments of rejoicing.

A Box Outpoured: Speaking Truth to Mother's Day

I call it my “rainy day box.” My husband was once given a finely crafted solid wood rainy day box, a box to hold the kinds of things that might cheer you on a rainy day. My box isn't as finely crafted, as you can see, but it's a box all the same.

Today was a rainy day; it’s also almost Mother’s Day. I’ve been reading the rounds of articles about the complicated interweaving of this secular holiday of brunches and flowers and the church (I especially liked this one). I am fortunate to worship in a place that will be celebrating the Sixth Sunday of Easter and worshipping the risen Christ, not mothers, but still, it’s complicated when church and culture collide.

In the spirit of truth telling, I offer a warning about sentimentalizing Mother’s Day that is, at the same time, an offering of gratitude for a community that revealed new life.

Ten years ago on Mother’s Day, I awoke planning to head to church where my spouse, a seminarian, was serving his internship. But I didn’t feel right. You see, we were expecting a baby. It was Mother’s Day and in seven months, I was going to be a mother! And then, in a messy mix of pain and grief, I wasn't.

Mother’s Day has never been the same after miscarrying, even now after being a mom to three children. I know that just because Hallmark declares it a holiday, the day may be marked with pain, sorrow, uncertainty, anger, grief, or guilt, or….

But that Mother’s Day ten years ago also taught me something about the power of community and honest accompaniment in grief. I recall how these faithful people of the congregation did not shirk from the truth of miscarriage; women shared their own stories of loss, the bulletin announced plainly why we needed prayer. In my rainy day box sits a manila folder filled with cards I have kept from this time. These cards overflow with words of sympathy, kindness, acknowledgement, prayer and love. On any rainy day, I can open the folder and be reminded of how these people "walked the walk," and how their words speak hope to sorrow.

Erez. That is the name we gave to this one unborn, Hebrew for cedar (see Psalm 92). Outside the large cathedral window of our apartment in Seattle stood a proud cedar tree. It was under this tree that we prayed for healing in a service created and led by dear mentors and friends. We savored fine food and drink, a gift from a dear friend during our mourning. As that tree was rooted in the earth, so we were rooted to a community of faith, a community that spread its branches for us when we so needed shelter and rest.

My plea for communities of faith as Mother’s Day comes and goes: do not sentimentalize this day or motherhood (or Father’s Day or fatherhood). Be mindful of the layers of emotions and situations known and unknown. And then, humbly strive to be, like that church was for me, the compassionate hands of Christ who, all these years later, showers me with blessings through my “rainy day box.”