"How
can we sing the Lord's song in a strange land?" The words of the
psalmist are hauntingly relevant for us these days. The people of God
making this cry in Psalm 137 had been dispersed from their homes and
cast into a culture of non-belief in the God of Jacob. Familiar sights,
sounds and smells were gone. All hope seemed lost. There was, it seemed,
no balm in Gilead for their suffering bodies and spirits. They longed
to sing, but the words wouldn't come out.
One of the first things I heard as the pandemic was unfolding several weeks ago, and we began to shelter at home away from friends, family and routines, was, "I miss singing together." Indeed some of the most creative energy I witnessed in response to the pandemic revolved around trying to make music with other people in the midst of isolation. We heard tales of Italians leaning out their balconies to sing in the evenings. We have heard of neighborhoods in the US where persons clap and bang and stomp at sunset as an expression of solidarity, and a testimony against all that is drear.
And then we heard grim reports of choirs that met for rehearsal with one symptomatic person, only for germs to spread on the very breaths of music. We've heard perhaps that singers, as they release music from their bodies, are also potentially "super-spreading" germs.
In the midst of such gloom and despair, and in the midst of such confusion over what is safe and what is harmful, how can we sing the Lord's song? My response, indeed, "how can we keep from singing?" We were designed to give praise to the Creator. We can barely take a breath without vocalizing a hum. It is our creaturely nature to transform vowels and consonants into pitch and rhythm.
One of the first things I heard as the pandemic was unfolding several weeks ago, and we began to shelter at home away from friends, family and routines, was, "I miss singing together." Indeed some of the most creative energy I witnessed in response to the pandemic revolved around trying to make music with other people in the midst of isolation. We heard tales of Italians leaning out their balconies to sing in the evenings. We have heard of neighborhoods in the US where persons clap and bang and stomp at sunset as an expression of solidarity, and a testimony against all that is drear.
And then we heard grim reports of choirs that met for rehearsal with one symptomatic person, only for germs to spread on the very breaths of music. We've heard perhaps that singers, as they release music from their bodies, are also potentially "super-spreading" germs.
In the midst of such gloom and despair, and in the midst of such confusion over what is safe and what is harmful, how can we sing the Lord's song? My response, indeed, "how can we keep from singing?" We were designed to give praise to the Creator. We can barely take a breath without vocalizing a hum. It is our creaturely nature to transform vowels and consonants into pitch and rhythm.
Our music-making will look different for a while. But whenever we create music, our pulsing voices join the universal music of the spheres. Singing together in a visible, corporeal way will be suspended for a time. But we know intuitively that corporate music-making continues: mountains sing, trees clap their hands, rivers roar. So I remark every morning that the birds still sing (especially one particularly boisterous robin outside my window); my music making joins theirs. Somewhere around this tremendous globe, someone is singing with me.
This
is a gloomy time for those of us who make music, especially those who
find great meaning in making music in smaller or larger ensembles. The
people of God have at many points in history found themselves in similar
situations. This is just a season. A new and glorious morning will
come: I'm rehearsing even now for that glad day.
