Tonight was singing night.
The first Sunday evening of every month, the assembly at my church begins with a succession of little ones each taking the podium (that is, standing on a box behind the communion table) and leading the entire congregation in a song of their choice, starting with the youngest and progressing roughly according to age. After all, Jesus said, "Suffer the little ones to come unto me," and under the "decency and order" clause, we figure height is as good an organizational tool as any. Tonight, four-year-old Reece led the charge. Usually he announces "one t'ousand fort-teen" or something similar, and launches into the melody, counting on the faithful to follow along.
During the first seconds of each song, the air is close with anticipation, as we all root silently for the kid to make the song happen. If the tiny song leader falters, some parent from a pew will seize upon a key that is singable and bear down loudly until the congregation picks it up and falls in line. Occasionally if the young song leader pitches the song too low, we rewrite the entire arrangement on the fly; the basses sing the melody and the sopranos do high harmony, so the parts all get sung. One thing about a cappella church music is that the arrangements are usually stacked with moving parts and echoes or countermelodies, and it just doesn't work unless someone gets about the business of filling in the blanks -- so we do. "No part left behind,"as it were, to support the youngster who is up there staring down the faithful and leading the praise.
What will Reece remember about these nights, I wonder? Will he remember the carpet on the box he stands on, the nicks and scratches on the black trim of the communion table, the smell of the foam that covers the microphone, the voices of the old folks who occupy the front pews? Will he remember the feeling of the blood pounding in his ears as he finds 350 people looking back at him? Will he remember Albert's kind face up in the sound booth? Will he recall the love in the room? I think not. Often we don't recognize love for what it is. Sometimes love hugs and kisses and gives presents, but sometimes love just fills in the alto part from a distant pew, to support one of His little ones who is learning how to fill a "grown up" job in the kingdom.
Of course, someone in the rear of the auditorium may not be acting out of love, but just singing the words instead. Sad for that person. Love frames pedestrian obedience as calling. It energizes every enterprise. It changes "sing along with the kids" into "lift up the future worship leaders of the church." A loving motive enriches us as it glorifies the Father and helps the youngster. Reece may not remember the love in the room, but we frequently don't recognize love when we receive its benefits. We all stand on the shoulders of those who raised us, taught us, or perhaps sang along with us when our own early solo efforts were insufficient -- and in a way, it's all the sweeter that we aren't aware of the support at the time. That's what we call grace.
What will Reece remember about these nights, I wonder? Will he remember the carpet on the box he stands on, the nicks and scratches on the black trim of the communion table, the smell of the foam that covers the microphone, the voices of the old folks who occupy the front pews? Will he remember the feeling of the blood pounding in his ears as he finds 350 people looking back at him? Will he remember Albert's kind face up in the sound booth? Will he recall the love in the room? I think not. Often we don't recognize love for what it is. Sometimes love hugs and kisses and gives presents, but sometimes love just fills in the alto part from a distant pew, to support one of His little ones who is learning how to fill a "grown up" job in the kingdom.
Of course, someone in the rear of the auditorium may not be acting out of love, but just singing the words instead. Sad for that person. Love frames pedestrian obedience as calling. It energizes every enterprise. It changes "sing along with the kids" into "lift up the future worship leaders of the church." A loving motive enriches us as it glorifies the Father and helps the youngster. Reece may not remember the love in the room, but we frequently don't recognize love when we receive its benefits. We all stand on the shoulders of those who raised us, taught us, or perhaps sang along with us when our own early solo efforts were insufficient -- and in a way, it's all the sweeter that we aren't aware of the support at the time. That's what we call grace.
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