I do not ever remember a time when music was NOT a part of my life. I sang as soon as I could talk, danced as soon as I could walk. Mom sat me on the piano bench as soon as I could sit up alone. (I have pictures to prove it.)
When I was old enough, I was in children’s choir at church. Elementary school meant ballet and tap lessons. Seventh grade brought new opportunities like handbells and BAND. OH MY GOODNESS BAND. Marching band in high school gave me more opportunity to do music with my whole self…and probably contributed to my inability to sit still when there is music playing.
When I started college I was a music major at a Baptist college. It was like living at band camp and also church camp that never ended. There was band and piano lessons and choir and voice lessons and Bible classes and church and music all the time. It was perfect, until carpal tunnel reared its ugly head and boom…that was the end of my career as a professional pianist.
Changing majors and changing universities did not mean that the music ended. There was still church choir. College choir. Teaching children’s choir and volunteering with the youth choir. Music was how I lived, how I dreamed, how I judged whether a movie was worthwhile (it was good but the soundtrack was AMAZING!). How I shared my faith. The best moments of my life have been tied to music. I have special songs from the day each of my children were born and special music that will always remind me of my wedding day.
I’ve written recently about the opportunity to sing Mozart’s Requiem in 2002. The recording of that performance is my favorite CD and I have listened to it many many times in the past few days. It is beautiful complex music, running the gamut from fast to slow, from high to low, trills and arpeggios that dissolve and resolve perfectly. It’s difficult to sing, probably the most complex piece I have ever performed. I listen to the Requiem over and over again because of the last three words: “Quia pius est” (Because You are Holy.) A full hour of perfectly arranged, painstakingly rehearsed, transcendentally performed, ethereal music, which exists because GOD IS HOLY. It still gives me chills.
Opportunities for music became one of the markers for how we chose a church…could I sing? Could I play? If the church was so small that there was no choir, I was the pianist. Or at least in the praise band.
I also had opportunities to write and arrange, but not enough courage to do it often. There are two hymn medleys on my piano, one for Easter and one for Christmas. There is a chorus called “You Can’t Turn Left in Clarksville” which is simply about traffic difficulties in Tennessee. My favorite of my own compositions is a silly little almost-country song called “When I Die I Wanna Go To Venice.” Music has been fun, silly, beautiful, holy, and exciting.
But recently I have come to see music, especially praise music, as a form of rebellion. I know. This is crazy talk. Praise music? Church music? Hymns? Rebelling? Against what? This makes no sense. I know. I would not have thought in those terms until about a year ago.
On March 29th, 2017, a bus crash took the lives of 13 senior adults in our church, including my son’s Sunday School teacher. I have written about that previously. Easter fell on April 16, just two weeks later. How. How could we do this? How could we sing “Up From The Grave He Arose” and “Christ The Lord is Risen Today” when we had just buried so many beloved friends? How could we do it? Because music, especially praise music, is powerful. We had been working on a song called “Unto The Lamb." And when the song begins “I can see Jesus, high and exalted,” pain takes a backseat for a while. “All of the angels cry HOLY, all of the saints cry HOLY…HOLY IS THE LAMB.” And I stood that morning in the front row of the choir loft (it’s where they put the short altos…) and with tears streaming down my face, I sang the chorus “All praise unto the Lamb, Who sits on the throne, Honor and power dominion and Praise, unto the Lamb, who was and is, And is to come!” My hands were curled into fists in defiance of the pain and anger and hurt that threatened to overcome that holy day. But when my voice wasn’t choked with tears, it was strong. And with the music as both a weapon and a healing balm, the church began to recover.
Until November 5th. When there was a mass shooting at a church about an hour away. All the hurt and pain of the bus accident returned in full force, knocking me off my feet again. I did not want to go to church the next Sunday. I was scared about going to church for the first time in my life. But we had a special day called Generational Worship planned, and both of my kids were going to be in the choir with me. I do not remember the songs we sang that day. What I do remember is standing there, holding my son’s hand, weeping again, and knowing that if there was a shooter in our midst that there was no better way to go than lifting up the name of the LORD. So I curled my hands into fists again and praised God, who gives strength and power and grace in so many ways. And again, slowly, we began to heal.
Until January 19th. Four long and short days ago. When we found out that a young man in our youth group had passed away. This sudden, tragic, senseless loss took the church’s collective breath away. Again we gathered as a church body to mourn and weep. And then again it was Sunday. The family had spoken with the music minister and said “We just want to worship.” Our opening song was “Rejoice, The LORD is King.” Rejoice. Give thanks. Sing. And triumph evermore. Lift up your voice.
Oh dear God in Heaven. How? How, again?
But music is powerful. And praise is a form of rebellion. Because it would be so easy, so much easier, to just curl up in a ball and drown in all the sorrow, pain, agony, loss, and despair. But God calls us to more. And He has given us the tools for more. So again, I stand in the front row of the choir loft, wringing my hands, fists clenched, tears streaming, at times unable to breathe. But I sing. REJOICE. LIFT UP YOUR VOICE. REJOICE. THE KEYS OF DEATH AND HELL ARE TO OUR JESUS GIVEN. I almost shout the words. We live in a fallen, sinful, pain-filled, wretched world. And it threatens to overcome the joy that God has given me, especially when the pain comes in so many waves so close together. But I stand and sing in defiance of the pain, rebelling against the wretchedness.
My friends say they love to watch me sing, that all my emotions show on my face, that I am brave to sing, especially on a day like today. I don’t know how brave I am. I cried a lot today. I do know that it is God who gives me any courage, strength or power that I possess. And that God gives me all of these through music.
Praise is, indeed, my fight song.
