I was thinking
today about how joy comes in so many flavors. I was thinking about
it in terms of music, but I’ll branch out more here.
For example, I
love some of the worship music that comes from Africa. It’s
different than I’ve found in my American upbringing, which tends to
fringe on either church music of the “frozen chosen” variety
(with anything more exuberant looked upon with suspicion {it’s
different!!!} or, at best, fond tolerance as a novelty {“aw, look
at this music from another culture”}), or the songs of the more
charismatic churches, which just don’t have the same natural, easy
elation that seems to flow from this music.
Yet this music
is no greater than “western” music for its infectious ability to
make one want to shout and dance. I can’t help but sing at the top
of my voice: “… and he shall reign forever and ever, hallelujah!”
My heart is full of conviction when “to God and to the Lamb, I
will sing … and when from death I’m free, I’ll sing and joyful
be, and through eternity I’ll sing on…” There is bright truth
in “waking or sleeping, thy presence my light.” I find simple honesty in Runrig's Every River:
"All the ways of my life, I'd rather be with you: there's no way
without you." Pure light is in the "Alleluia" section of Morten
Lauridsen's setting of the O Magnum Mysterium text. And there is awe
and gravity in every note of Eric Whitacre’s Alleluia,
10-plus minutes of that single word
of glory.
I sing the Handel Hallelujah
at Christmas and Easter—and whenever else someone finds an excuse,
as if one is needed—with as many voices as possible. I sing the
Whitacre Alleluia
across the lake when I’m standing alone on the shore—alone except
for my God and his world and the birds that fly or float soundlessly
through the music.
And this is all
joy, from the exultation that would require the smile to be
surgically removed from one’s face as one cries his praise to the
heavens, to the deep conviction that barely dares speak his name
above a whisper.
Years ago, I
sang at church. I don’t remember what I sang. But I do remember
that after the service, the associate pastor—someone I was not
well-acquainted with as he was relatively new to our congregation and
I spent most of my year away at college—made sure to approach me.
He took my hand and quietly gave me a piece of advice that I still
consider one of the best I’ve had: “Always continue in the joy of
your Lord.” And I looked back at him, and smiled as we understood
each other, and said the only thing I needed to say: “I will.”
I don’t know
what he saw in my music. I don’t recall it being something
especially earth-shattering, as songs go. But there must have been
something
heart-felt in it that shone through, and I’m glad. My high school drama
teacher once told our class, "acting is believing." And I believe
singing is believing, too. You have to believe what you sing, from your
heart, and make your audience believe it too. When I sing O Mio Babbino Caro, I'm an angsty teenager with a great boyfriend and a "mean" father. When I sing The Bard of Armagh, I'm an old Irish musician with fond memories of his life. When I sing Sarah McLachlan's Angel, I'm someone laid low by life. And when I sing Lennon's Imagine, I want everyone to believe that there must be a better way.
At that same church, I once sang Still, Still, Still
for Christmas. Afterward, one of the members came up to me and said,
"that was beautiful. The way you smiled on that last verse..." And
that, I believe, was what made all the difference: I didn't just sing
the words. I embodied them. Joy, joy, joy; my heart is filled with joy. The God of love has left his throne, made this humble world his own...
I sang the solo version of Lauridsen's O Magnum Mysterium
at church for Epiphany last year. It doesn't hold a candle to the
choral version, but it's still beautiful. Unfortunately, my voice is
not at its best in the morning, the bane of a church-singer's
existence. Having trouble with the long phrases, I almost dropped the
piece in favor of something easier. But after a bit more warm-up, I
flip-flopped on our director again and said, "Let's do it." I needed to
do it. I can tell you it wasn't perfect. I didn't always quite get
through the phrases. My intonation may not have been 100% spot-on, if I
was vocally tired. But I sang the alleluias all the way up to the
rafters, and I hope they echoed in everyone else's hearts as much as
they did mine, because that's why I was there-- not for musical
perfection, but for joy and for singing his praises.
And this is what I want to be: one who finds a way to make other people feel my joy and make it their own. Hey, all of you out there-- you be transformed, too. Look, I'll show you how.
I'm
often a victim of the "Smile Police," who think everyone should be
smiling all the time, and if they're not, they must be in the depths of
despair. I realized one day that besides being annoying, these people
make me sad... because clearly they only know one kind of joy . They
have obviously never experienced the sort that simply makes one sit and
contemplate the feeling that something inside oneself has grown larger
than the sky, deep solemn joy that feels too momentous and has too much
gravity for a mere grin, a deep inner light.
I hope we'll all find a way to feel
his light and his joy... today, tomorrow, forever and ever. With the
sound of trumpets and cymbals and a thousand voices, and on our own,
quietly, across a lake where we and he are the only ones present. I
hope you, too, know joy in all its forms. What more do we need? Sing
alleluia. :)
