And did not Jesus sing a song that night
When utmost evil strove against the light?
Then let us sing, for whom he won the fight:
Alleluia, alleluia, alleluia.[i]
Nebuchadnezzar's face became livid with utter rage
against Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego. He ordered the furnace to be heated
seven times more than usual and had some of the strongest men in his army bind
Shadrach, Meshach, and Abednego and cast them into the white-hot furnace.…They
walked about in the flames, singing to God and blessing the Lord. "Blessed
are you, and praiseworthy, O Lord, the God of our fathers, and glorious forever
is your name.” (Dan. 3: 18-26 passim)
In Sister Helen Prejean’s Dead Man Walking, she writes of the final hours of the young
murderer with whom she has stood through the time leading up to his execution.
She has arranged for a small prayer service, and only the priest, she, and the
prisoner, Pat Sonnier are present. It is the day preceding his scheduled
execution.
…The old priest arrives around
three o’clock for the prayer service…I suggest a plan to him for the prayer
service and he nods his head in agreement.
I turn on
the audiotaped hymn:
If you cross the
barren desert
You shall not die of
thirst…
Be not afraid, I go
before you always…
If you stand before the
fires of hell
And death is at your
side…
Be not afraid.
The harmony of the young Jesuits is sweet and close, a song
that promises strength for difficult journeys. Pat’s head is lowered, his ear
cocked close to the metal door, intent on every word.
I picture the words of the song echoing from room to room
within the death house, the words filling the place where the witnesses will
sit, where the executioner will stand, the tender, merciful God-words,
traveling across the hundred feet of tiled floor that must be walked to where
the electric chair waits…I know the words may not stop the death that is about
to take place, but the words can breathe courage and dignity into the one who
must walk to this oak chair and sit in it.[ii]
How is our liturgical music, specifically, music that
expresses the church’s longing for the “peaceable kingdom” of divine justice
and mercy, making it into the centers of mainstream culture? Does any of our
music make the journey to where people are actually living, working, voting,
shopping, studying, protesting, and suffering, or is its usefulness and
influence limited to the anointed walls of our churches and multi-purpose
buildings?
As I start this article, I suppose that I want to have
grand aspirations about this. I don’t mean hearing Catholic liturgical songs on
mainstream radio stations, like we heard Judy Collins sing “Amazing Grace” or
Cat Stevens sing “Morning Has Broken” in our young years. (We did, however,
recently hear Phantom star Michael
Crawford record an arrangement of “On Eagle’s Wings.”) But I wanted to discover
stories of people singing our newer (meaning, from the last 40 years or so)
repertoire in public and important ways.
There is a long history of church music entering the
world outside the church, and I’ll confine a few examples to the kind of music
we’re trying to focus on, music of peace and justice. In Parting the Waters, Taylor Branch’s Pulitzer Prize-winning book
about America during the ministry of Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., the story is
related of events surrounding the integration of Ole Miss, and Dr. King’s
Southern Christian Leadership Conference convention in Birmingham in 1962.
During the closing announcements, a self-professed Nazi walked to the stage and
punched Dr. King on the cheek. King staggered backward, the three hundred or so
attendees in the crowd were stunned. The man pressed the attack, hitting King
again and again. People felt “physically jolted by the force of the
violence—from both the attack on King and the flash of hatred through the
auditorium…After being knocked backward by one of the last blows, King turned
to face him while dropping his hands.” While the other dignitaries surged
toward the attacker, King shouted, “Don’t touch him! Don’t touch him. We have
to pray for him.” A circle of protection enclosed the attacker from reprisal,
and King spoke to him quietly. “…A hastily organized quartet of singers moved
to the microphone to hold off the crowd, singing ‘I Want Jesus to Walk with Me’
and the somber slave spiritual ‘Steal Away to Jesus.’ James Bevel interrupted
to say this was no funeral—Dr. King was all right and they had weathered a
stern test of non-violence…He started them off in a rendition of ‘I’m on My Way
to Freedom Land,’ which gathered volume until the auditorium shook.”[iii]
David Halberstam in The
Children describes the metamorphosis of “an old black church song” called
“I’ll Be All Right Some Day” in the crucible of the civil rights movement in
Nashville in 1960[iv]. Invited to
lead a song at a demonstration, a white folksinger by the name of Guy Carawan
sang “I Shall Overcome,” using a lyric that had become politicized during a
strike of black women in mid-1940’s in Charleston. “From the start, their
singing had been a critical part of their demonstrations. When they had been
arrested, they had instantly become the jail choir, and that had not only given
them strength, it had helped bond them together…On this particular day, their
music was to become even more important. ‘We shall overcome,’ Guy Carawan began
to sing as he picked his guitar. ‘We shall overcome some day.’ Some of the
leaders…who had already heard the song took it up immediately…It was perfect
for the movement; its words, its chords, above all its faith seemed to reflect
their determination and resonate to their purpose perfectly….Others who had
heard it before but had not sung it during a demonstration took it up. Suddenly
the sound seemed to sweep across the courthouse square. It was a modern
spiritual which seemed to have its roots in the ages…It was easy to sing…it was
religious and gentle, but its force and power were not to be underestimated…It
was an important moment: the students now had their anthem.”[v]
What a journey “We Shall Overcome” has had, from church
song, to folk song, back to church song. Just hearing the strains of the song
evokes a time, a movement, and inspires a new hope in us and in people all over
the world. One independent journal reported recently: “Thousands marched
through Guyana’s capital on Mar. 20, demanding the government order an
independent investigation into claims of a state-sponsored hit squad blamed for
more than 40 killings in the past year. …Shouting anti-government slogans and
singing hymns like “We Shall Overcome,” more than 3,000 protesters converged at
a rally near President Bharrat Jagdeo’s office in Georgetown.”[vi]
This folk hymn continues to serve the church both inside and outside the walls
of worship.
There’s also a history of music outside the church being
“baptized” and coming in with the people. This drives purists crazy, but it’s
an engine driven by two pistons: one is a need for something that doesn’t exist
inside the building already, the other is the participation in the living faith
of people that some non-ecclesially born songs are. Most of us who have been in
this ministry from the beginning can remember with some pieces like this: the
use of “Day by Day” from Godspell in the mid 1970’s (the text of which, after
all, is the prayer of St. Richard of Chichester, and appears in hymnals with
other melodies, like many of the Godspell
songs), and the foray of folksongs, worksongs, and protest songs into liturgies
when there wasn’t an adequate vernacular with which we could blend our voices
at worship. Most of that is past now, but I still notice, in more informal,
quasi-domestic gatherings for eucharist, that some analogous non-liturgical
music finds its way into worship.
Perhaps the most famous and enduring example of the baptism
of a non-liturgical song is this one. Sy Miller tells this story of how a song
he and his wife, Jill Jackson, wrote for a summer camp took flight:
“One summer evening in 1955, a group of 180 teenagers of all
races and religions, meeting at a workshop high in the California mountains
locked arms, formed a circle and sang a song of peace. They felt that singing
the song, with its simple basic sentiment – 'Let there be peace on earth and
let it begin with me,' helped to create a climate for world peace and
understanding. When they came down from the mountain, these inspired young
people brought the song with them and started sharing it. And, as though on
wings, 'Let There Be Peace on Earth' began an amazing journey around the
globe.”[vii]
Now in dozens of hymnals, “Let There Be Peace on Earth”
started as a camp song, and has been recorded by artists as diverse as
Liberace, Mahalia Jackson, and Vince Gill.
Barely two generations later, we seem to live in a
different world. People don’t sing much, outside of those ritual times when
we’re expected: the seventh inning stretch at a Cubs game, for example, or
around the table at our child’s birthday. Even that is slipping into disuse,
isn’t it, as anyone knows who has gone to one of those annoying restaurants
where the waitstaff comes out singing some ill-conceived substitute for the
copyrighted “Happy Birthday,” and it comes out sounding like an atonal,
arrhythmic rap that is painful to hear. David Koyzis, professor of political
science at Redeemer University College in Ancaster, Ontario, wonders whether
the “ubiquitous presence of commercial (i.e., recorded) popular music” over the
last century or so may not be having an effect on folk singing and “folks
singing,” just the kind of public singing I’m wondering about. He writes,
For North Americans, music is
no longer something that springs from the heart of a community's lived
experience. For those making the music, it is often seen as little more than an
expression of the individual's ego—driven in large measure, of course, by the
profit motive. Aesthetic criteria, if
there are any, would seem to be beside the point. For the rest of us, music has
become a commodity, available, like everything else, for purchase on the open
market.[viii]
A teacher, commenting on his article, refers to a
substantial body of professional literature which demonstrates the decline in
the ability to sing (people who say, “I can’t sing”) is directly attributable
to the rise in “recording technology and sound amplification.” Singing is a
learned behavior and skill, and as children experience their parents singing
less, they tend to sing less themselves.
Over a century ago, at the dawn of recording technology
and amplification, Chesterton bemoaned the lack of singing in industrial
society in a quirky essay called “The Little Birds Who Won’t Sing.” Wondering
aloud, after seeing medieval engravings of workers in various walks of life
singing, why bankers and postal workers don’t sing while they work, he concocts
a few work songs for them, and suggests they give them a try. When he’s turned
away in his various attempts to market his idea, he muses,
…There is something
spiritually suffocating about our life; not about our laws merely, but about
our life. Bank-clerks are without songs, not because they are poor, but because
they are sad. Sailors are much poorer. As I passed homewards I passed a little
tin building of some religious sort, which was shaken with shouting as a trumpet
is torn with its own tongue. THEY were singing anyhow; and I had for an instant
a fancy I had often had before: that with us the super-human is the only place
where you can find the human.
Human nature is hunted and has
fled into sanctuary.[ix]
And yet, “singing is normal when people have something to
sing about[x]” has almost
become an axiom in our trade. “People in love makes signs of love[xi],”
we are told. American Catholic communal singing, at least in the liturgical
context, is more vibrant than ever. But our newer repertoire hasn’t really had
much time to become heart music, and we’re still searching out our identity as
Christians in the modern world. Our Scripture and ritual books are Eurocentric,
anthropocentric, largely pre-Copernican and pre-industrial. There is little
public discussion or even formal acknowledgment of the theological or moral
significance of advances in physics, biology, anthropology, psychology, or even
philosophy. On the other hand, assemblies are increasingly educated in these areas,
and increasingly unable to integrate their experience in their work life and
home life with the world of the gospel. There is a great sense in which we are
at sea, and perhaps our ritual time together, with its singing, affirms a
simple truth that may strengthen our endeavor to reconcile the worlds of modern
life and the gospel: we can announce the rule of God if we stay together,
assured that the God of these ancient scriptures is the God of m-theory and the
genome.
Anyway, it occurs to me that I am, to some
extent, examining the wrong end of the horse, “looking for love in all the
wrong places.” Maybe it’s not the song getting outside, it’s the song getting inside that matters. What happens to
people who sing the songs is what matters. So I asked them what they thought, and I looked at what is
happening in my parish. There are hugely generous social ministries at St.
Anne’s that begin with family-based projects of young children, continue
through a van-based soup ministry by our teens, and go on to a thrift shop
staffed by parish volunteers, an annual garage sale that raises about $100,000
for Project Hope, our main social outreach ministry, and an ongoing
relationship with an Chicago parish and a food pantry. My own family was the
recipient of two weeks worth of extraordinary generosity, including huge meals
for six delivered every other night for the two weeks preceding Christmas,
while I was recuperating from surgery and my wife was caring for me. And this
was not an isolated act, but one coordinated by our Women’s Club that has been
repeated many times for others.
And
there are the stories of the songs themselves going beyond the walls of the
church and into the domestic church. Some of them are small and local, as when
the dad of the Kidchoir third grader wrote to me, “…After the tree lighting
ceremony (with John Bell) we often, in our house, say ‘oh yes I know, oh yes I
know’ when a simple ‘yes’ will do. Further, we still sing ‘oh happy day’
to capture the excitement of last year's Easter ceremony.” Some of them are
more far-reaching, even global, as pilgrim and choir member Diane writes, “The
most profound experience I can recall was in 2002 in the rural town of Citeje,
three hours from Mexico City. Our group spent the day planting trees to
prevent erosion and painting their church. We were welcomed by the mayor
and local residents who danced and sang for us. Later, after they served
us lunch, I played "Lord, When You Came" (“Pescador de Hombres”) on guitar and we sang it in Spanish.
All the people knew this song and joined in. Some of the men played
their guitars along with me. It was awesome! We felt like one big
family united in our faith and the music.”
Then,
there’s the longer letter I had from Phyllis, one of our bereavement ministers
who recently had lost her own husband. Getting a note like this makes me
remember why we do the work we do, and be glad for the call that brought me to
it, and that strengthens me in it daily. Her italicized references are to the
text of “Covenant Hymn,” a song by Gary Daigle and me that is part of our
liturgical repertoire at St. Anne:
I told you several years ago
that I thought Covenant Hymn was the most beautiful love song ever written.
It is a song about love, commitment, the uncertainties of life, the
challenges of a relationship and finally the acceptance of death. And
life after death.
Cliff experienced a great deal of pain during his last months. When the pain medications weren't working
effectively during those hours, we would pray and sing and sometimes cry.
But we always got through the dark night.
I came to see everything as part of our journey, part of God's plan for us.
…
At one point, I moved into the hospital with Cliff. Wherever you live is my home. And the so the journey continued, and
mountains before us were vast.
While at home after the amputation, Cliff lost his balance when trying to get
off the couch. I'll raise you from
where you have fallen.
And then suddenly everything started to fall apart. I had to call 911
and he was readmitted to the hospital…I knew we were at the end. When I
was sure that we had done all we could medically for Cliff, I said we would
take him home. Your fears and your doubts I will calm. He
hated hospitals. I knew, however, that he only had a few days left.
But he seemed to be afraid to let go. I tried to think about what his fears and doubts might be. I
talked to him about those things. Even though he was no longer talking and
seemed to be asleep he clearly understood what I had said. There was less
tension in his body and was breathing more easily. Later that day,
our youngest daughter and I were with him, she on one side of the bed and
I on the other. We talked to him as he went home. Wherever you die, I will be there. He was so peaceful, with a
little smile on his face and then he was gone.
As I said, the Covenant Hymn was my daily prayer, my daily promise, my focus
but also my map for the journey.
Several of the great songs of scripture, while we know
them to have been liturgical, seem to arise out of the hearts of their
“singers” in moments far from temple and liturgy. Miriam’s great “Canticle at
the Sea,” the latter Miriam’s “Magnificat,” the song of the Three Young Men
from the book of Daniel cited above, these are sung at times and in places not
associated with the temple cult. The psalms are on the lips of Jesus as he
makes his exodus and hands over the spirit to the Church. Yet all of these
songs have their origin in the community, in the cultic worship of the people
of God. Perhaps for us, too, when the need will arise, whether on the shore of
some liberation, or in the bedroom of decision or revelation, or in the fiery
Abu Ghraib of some modern Nebuchadnezzar, the music of our own worship, the
songs and psalms of our modern prayer, will carry us together through doubt,
fire, and sea. We musicians have both to teach people to sing and teach them
the songs. After that, it will be Christ who will give us words in the time of
need. It will be the Spirit who will say, “Sing!” And the Church, God willing,
will sing.
for Pastoral Music magazine. Completed January 15, 2005, birthday of Dr. M. L. King, Jr. © 2005
[i] “When in Our Music God Is
Glorified,” by Fred Pratt Green, 1903-2000, © 1972, Hope Publishing Co.
[ii]
Helen Prejean, Dead Man Walking. Vintage
Books, New York, © 1993, 1994. Pp. 80-81.
[iii]
David Halberstam, The Children, ©
1998 by The Amateurs Ltd., published by Random House, New York. P. 655.
[iv] In
another interview, Pete Seeger recalled singing “We Shall Overcome” for Dr.
King in 1957 or 1958. In the interdependent world of folksinging, it is
entirely possible that Carawan had learned the song from Seeger. Branch,
however, makes no mention of this.
[v]
Taylor Branch, Parting the Waters: America in the King Years 1954-1963, 1988,
Touchstone Books, Simon and Schuster, New York. P. 231-232
[viii]
from “Comment,” an online publication of the Work Research Foundation,
“broadening and deepening public dialogue on work and economic life, Volume 22,
number 5. See http://wrf.ca/comment/2004/0601/64.
[x] see,
for instance, Aidan Kavanagh, Elements of
Rite, Pueblo Press, New York, © 1982, p. 31
[xi] “Music
in Catholic Worship,” Bishops’ Committee on Liturgy, NCCB, 1972. Pp. 4.
This whole project started about ten weeks ago when another church had to cancel a benefit concert date David had set for his concert. He sent an email to Gary Daigle and me, saying something innocent-sounding and giggly like, "Hey, guys, any chance we could do this at one of your churches? I just think it would be so much fun!" So I checked the calendar at St. Anne and the evening of October 11, aside from a 4:30 p.m. wedding ceremony (no mass) was open. Everyone at the parish, including the pastor, seemed very open to the idea, so I booked it. What I didn't know was that one of our wedding coordinators had failed to put a rehearsal on the calendar, which should have reserved the church from 6-7. The upshot of this was that we had to take the concert on knowing that our setup time would be about an hour. An hour to set up and sound check for a choir of 40, strings, woodwinds, rhythm section, and the featured performance. Mission: Impossible.
