I love good music when the mood is right – the kind that stirs deeply within, churning up emotions and reactions I can easily lose touch with over the course of a busy day. Words like “good” open the door for differences of opinion with regard to what qualifies, of course. For me, certain types are better suited for different occasions. Rock music from the 70’s is just right on nostalgic days. Blues is my choice if I’m in a commiserating mood and want to use music to acknowledge someone’s pain. Country music, of course, is handy if ever I want to wail over my best dog who left me. Folk music doesn’t get much better than what was offered by the Ecuadorian family who performed for us, shown in the photo. Their music was good, and enhanced by the pride each member exuded. Though the theology is sometimes ill-suited to me, the harmony of Southern Gospel moves me on days when I want to turn my face toward heaven and belt out a few notes just for the fun of it. Even so, most of the time I prefer silence more than music. This could be genetic, although there is a good chance it results from too many years of hanging out with quiet-loving Quakers. But on occasions, a song grabs my interest anyway and forces me to pay attention.
That happened recently during a Sunday morning service when Judi and I visited a church in the area. The song was unfamiliar to me. Sometimes that is a cue for me to drift off into my own intuitive paradise until the moment passes like a brief bout of indigestion. Whether it was the melody or the words I cannot say, but I became aware that I was being drawn to a deeper place.
With a little help from Judi and later from Google, the lyrics of a song I was hearing, entitled “Gratitude,” came into focus. “All my words fall short. I got nothing new. How could I express all my gratitude?” resonated that day. That is akin to how I feel every occasion when I need to select a gift for family and friends – what can I give that is meaningful and original? I know those feelings. It is like settling for another tie to give on a holiday. You’d like to be more original, but better options just escape you. And some days, it’s exactly how I feel when I try to pray. Words fall short. Nothing new to say.
People have been offering gifts to the Divine forever, it seems. From the Christmas story’s account of magi bringing gold, frankincense, and myrrh to the traditional passing of the Sunday morning offering plate, humanity places importance on not showing up emptyhanded. It is a bit like dinner guests who present the host with a small gift as a way of acknowledging hospitality. It is thoughtful, but not necessary, at least at our house. For that matter, I’m not sure God is that wound up about receiving gifts, but there are plenty of others who are certain that is the case. At its best, offerings to the Holy One grow from a gratitude that cannot quite fathom the matter but knows that if an account is kept, we’re in the red.
I’m reminded of that with more and more frequency these days. Five and one-half years have passed since my experience with bypass surgery. I remember the celebratory mood when I first woke up and even more when I finally was allowed to have solid food! Hardly a day goes by that I don’t marvel at the fact that my life is full and active, as though it never happened. I’m approaching 3 years since my bi-lateral hip replacement. With every hike I am mindful of the ease with which I move. When I bend over and pick things up from the ground that I once would have left on the ground, I catch myself being surprised that I’m doing it. I am astounded at how much better it all is than before. On occasions when I walk out to take care of a demanding task, I sometimes realize I am feeling joyous on the inside over the fact that I can do those things even if it is something I’d rather not have had to do at all. Little moments like that remind me that there is praise and gratitude at my core, even if some days it takes an external stimulus to jump start it. No less than the magi, I find myself not wanting to arrive empty-handed, and looking around for the perfect gift to express my gratitude.
Maybe that is why the song connected with me. Having acknowledged his impoverished condition, later in the verse the singer crooned, “’Cause all that I have is a hallelujah, hallelujah. And I know it’s not much . . . except for a heart singing hallelujah, hallelujah.” It occurs to me that is not a bad gift. Definitely not from the scratch and dent bin.
I always enjoyed teasing out nuance and meaning when I read Hebrew actively. In that language, the word is a combination of Hallelu and yah. The former is an imperative command to praise. “Praise Yah.” The word “yah” is a shortened poetic form of Yahweh, a name for the Holy One. That is not a new revelation. It is not rocket science or anything like that.
Not lengthy enough to be considered a chant, it was of sufficient length to stick in my inner jukebox. I think it was the repetition of the word “hallelujah” that hooked me that day, which probably sounds as strange for you to read as it does for me to say out loud. It was as though I was cocooned inside the word, lounging on a cozy sofa nestled somewhere within the letter “u,” while feeling the reverberating echo of praise encircle me. It sent chills down my spine. Odd stuff, I know; but tremendous nonetheless. It is one of those moments you want to continue indefinitely.
It reminded me of a covered meeting, a term Quakers sometimes use to describe worship in which the Spirit so unites (or covers) the entire group in the worshipful silence and spoken messages of that day that we begin to lose sight of boundaries that can define but also separate us. We experience a settled peace that grounds us and leaves us uninterested in hurrying on to the next thing. It’s less about praise and more about communion; but then, can we have one without the other? Not the bread and wine kind, but rather the type where we sit in the Presence and bask in the fact that we are loved.
So why the strong reaction on that recent Sunday? I don’t know. Just a case of “right place, right time” I suppose. I recall a similar response of being gathered up and drawn in the first time I heard a group perform Leonard Cohen’s Hallelujah. The lyrics of that song shocked me. I was expecting a song related to praise and found something quite different. I have read that Cohen’s intent was to create a more secular concept that integrated praise with sorrow. Indeed, sorting out how those two mix and mingle is part of life’s most puzzling work.
Later I listened to Gratitude a second time like a kid going back to the cookie jar for seconds. Alas, there was no repeat experience to be had; at least not that day. The words lacked their mesmerizing power during that hearing, as though Superman had encountered kryptonite and simply wasn’t up to the task. On the one hand, it is nice to know that everything can have its moment; times when they bring us to the threshold and help us behold beauty and power. On the other hand, those moments are fleeting and beyond control. Is it any wonder they say “seize the moment?” It may only last for a short time. You can’t control it. Like sleight of hand magic, now you see it, now you don’t. I guess that is the attraction and mystery of it all. The One who is always Present is also equally Elusive.
Singing hallelujah may be a good choice, but it is not always the easy choice. Somedays it will usher you to exhilarating heights. Other days, your feet won’t leave the ground. Try anyway, because on those days when it all comes together, you will want to be in the choir.
