When Music Says It All
And Words Cannot Say Enough
O for a thousand tongues to sing my great Redeemer’s praise, the glories of my God and King, the triumphs of his grace!
-Charles Wesley, O For A Thousand Tongues to Sing, United Methodist Hymnal #57
“Music,” she mused, gently shaking my hand as she filed out of the sanctuary after worship. There was such a long pause that I wondered if she would stop at that one word; but no, she was thinking, searching for the exact language to say what she needed to say. “Music,” she repeated with a firm nod, “is God’s gift to me. I needed that.”
The that she referred to was the cantata our choir had finished moments before on this particular Palm Sunday. It was a beautiful cantata, complete with an orchestra, soaring soloists, and a passionate choir. The music ushered us through Christ’s story and dismissed us on just the right note to observe the profound sanctity of Holy Week.
Another person - a newcomer - shook my hand, pausing to stand before me on their way out the sanctuary door, and said, “I’ll admit, I was disappointed when I first saw in the bulletin that there wouldn’t be a sermon. But now I understand why. The music said it all.”
The music said all that could be said in his tiny hospital room.
“My hope is built on nothing less
than Jesus’ blood and righteousness...”Quietly I crooned the song like a lullaby over the cancer-riddled baby asleep in my arms. I was keeping vigil while his parents grabbed a bite to eat. The song popped into my head unbidden, leftover from Sunday’s service when my church had lustily sung the beloved words1:
“On Christ the solid rock I stand,
all other ground is sinking sand;
all other ground is sinking sand.”The Church was carrying the tune in my head as I relayed the song’s promise to my sick and sleeping infant friend. The ground upon which I stood sure felt like it was sinking, knowing that this child would likely never see his first birthday. So I let the Church’s hymn and the memory of their sure, strong voices lay a foundation upon which I could stand, upon which I could pace about the room and gently rock the child with all the love and faith in my heart.
I had no words to offer, none sufficient for the moment, but the Church did. So I let the music say it all.
Recently my husband and I were on a road trip with miles to go, hours to fill. Being the one in the passenger seat with the power of Apple Music at my fingertips, I made a playlist entitled “Spiritual Comfort Food,” and I populated it with songs that buoy my faith. Some of these songs had lasting appeal from my youth while others were meaningful because they brought to mind powerful moments in worship with this or that community.
As the songs played one after another, we realized each song had a story. I sang this song on a Greek mountaintop with my best friend. My husband learned to play that song on his guitar from his youth pastor. We sang this song in college when we had informal worship services in our living room. That song I learned at church and it helped me through a rough patch, while this hymn helped me discern the call to be a pastor. As we logged the miles on I-95 we listened and sang along to these sacred songs that are so much more than songs. They are poems and promises and faith proclaimed. They represent turning points and low points and points of contact with the Almighty that forever changed our lives. They are the soundtrack of our faith, and also so much more. The musical power they carry is the refrain of the Church, saying, expressing, proclaiming what mere words cannot convey.
It’s why I lean into congregational singing during Holy Weeks such as this one. Isaac Watts’ When I Survey the Wondrous Cross preaches better than any Good Friday sermon I’ve ever heard. Charles Wesley’s Christ the Lord is Risen Today, when sung lustily by a celebratory congregation, might be the most powerful Easter proclamation there is. When words reach their natural limit before profound mystery, music says the rest.
There is something about congregational singing that simply cannot be replicated. Sure, it’s a heady feeling at a concert when everyone sings along to your favorite song by your favorite band. But even that exhilarating moment can’t compare to the power of the Church singing together. That’s because sacred music is an invitation to the community’s encounter with the Divine. Singing together is a form of communal prayer. It can be a plea, or a praise, or a proclamation, or a lament, or any and all of the above. Singing sacred music together allows us to express emotions and feelings and theologies that are too deep for words. It allows our hearts to disconnect from our thoughts long enough to seek the heart and mind and presence of God.
And more than that, singing together as the Body of Christ allows us to lean on one another, to be carried into God’s presence when our legs are too weak or afraid or weary to get there alone. When we sing with the Church, when we allow the Church to sing for us, it’s like we’re scooped up into their arms of grace and carried to God as surely as I rocked my dying infant friend into the loving presence of Christ.
Music says it all. When we have nothing left to say, the Church’s music sings the rest for us.
The pews of the sanctuary were packed, standing room only, as we gathered to remember and celebrate the life of my precious baby friend who passed into eternal life too soon, too young. The music began, a trio of musicians leading from the front, and my heart stopped when my non-musical brain finally registered the lyrics projected on the screen before me. They were the same words I sang in that hospital room weeks before, cradling his precious body and willing him to know in his subconscious baby brain the love and hope of Christ.
The Church began to sing and I choked. Rather, I croaked as I tried to sing along. I couldn’t do it. The words were stuck in my throat and it was all I could to do breathe, to let the lyrics wash over me as I remembered my little friend’s angelic face, as I remembered his parents in their grief and sorrow, as I tried to hold fast to the hope that I once sang for them all. So I let the Church sing it over me, a lullaby, a promise, a proclamation. I let the Church say what I couldn’t.
“When darkness veils his lovely face,
I rest on his unchanging grace,
In every high and stormy gale,
my anchor holds within the veil.”The music said it all. It was one of the most heartbreaking and hallowed moments of my life - when the Church, through its sacred music, through its voices joined together in faith and hope and love, sang all that I couldn’t say, all that needed to be said.
You see, with all its scandals, failures, and political schemes, it is still a beautiful Church. Be hopeful. God is still here.
From My Hope Is Built, lyrics by Edward Mote, United Methodist Hymnal #368
Beautifully written—this brought tears to my eyes!
Laura, your words contained so much of what was in my own heart from Sundays Cantata! But more than that, music has always been to me exactly what you said, "It reminds me of a story in my life." One song is especially meaningful to me because I heard my Dad singing it the morning after he had been diagnosed with inoperable cancer. "In the Garden" has special meaning to me. I didn't often hear my Daddy sing so that morning it was powerful and I'll always remember the song and the meaning of that day. Thank you. Phyllis