A new song

I love many things about music, but there’s one thing I cannot stand: modulations! Modulations are when a composer lifts the key to a song in hopes of making the song feel new or invigorated. For me, modulations do neither; they make songs feel old and lifeless. The don’t tell me the composer is creative; they tell me he (or she) is bored. Driving in my car recently, I heard a song I love, but when it modulated, I cringed and switched stations.

I was reminded of this when I left church on Easter morning. As was the case in many churches, the music had been magnificent, readings and sermon inspirational, and full pews encouraging. I left with a renewed spirit. I vowed to go to church more often, read daily, and find some meaningful way to serve others. What I realized was, I was just changing the key to a song I was already singing. To make it seem new or exciting, I planned to change the key. It was a spiritual modulation, if you will, and, deep down, I longed for more.

We are told to “sing to the Lord a new song.” It doesn’t say, change the key, or sing it with renewed gusto. We are to sing a new song, and I know no better time that in this Easter season to do so. 

Instead of doing what we have always done, expecting a different result, what would it look like to sing a new song . . . in our homes? our jobs? our churches (synagogues, mosques)? How would it change the way we see . . . our friends? strangers? the struggling? the poor? the lonely? the lost? How would a new song transform our fear of . . . not having enough? not being enough? 

I have changed the key to my faith so often, I’m sure God is as bored as I am. With what time I have left, I’d like to find that new song and sing it as if I have never sung it before. 

Easter 2022

It either happened, or it didn’t. It’s as simple as that.

As tempting as it may be to look at Easter and dilute its significance with metaphor, or speak generally about how God turns bad things into good, this year I feel called to look squarely at the reality of what happened years ago. I need to get up early and approach the place where his disciples laid him. In the early morning light, I need to rub my hands on the stone rolled off to the side. I need to take my seat at the threshold and peer into the dark tomb. I’m not ready, or not brave enough, to go inside. For now, sitting close must be enough. 

Everything that happened before was easier to understand than this empty tomb. The shepherds and wise men, the fishermen and nets, the lessons and the healings, the conversations and the sermons, the storm on the lake and the lilies of the field . . . all of it is easier to hold. 

Even the events in Jerusalem make more sense than an empty tomb. The triumphant entrance, the crowd’s cheers, the crowd’s jeers, the Passover table, the tables turned upside down, the love and the fear, the hate and the forgiveness. Even the cross itself, with all its brutality, fits into a world I know well. 

But an empty tomb? It’s surpasses all my understanding. No wonder I keep it at a distance. It’s easier to focus on family gatherings, Easter egg hunts and pretty outfits than look at that morning long ago.

Sitting there, I can see the tomb is more than wishful thinking, more than a nice made-up story to bring things to a happy ending. There’s dried blood on the cloths on the floor. There’s an undeniable stench in the darkness. Rubbing my hands in the dirt beside me, taking a pebble between my fingers, I think about how the disciples handled this empty tomb. Like me, they found it hard to believe. They needed to see it, and him, for themselves. 

In whatever way that happened, they were transformed by what they saw. They stood up regardless of the consequences, spoke in ways they never had before, and even died because of what they saw. Never would they have done so unless the knew something, unless they had seen things with their own eyes. From that moment on, they pointed to the empty tomb and lived the rest of their lives in its good news.

Perhaps, we should do the same.

Palm Sunday 2022

I awakened knowing what day it was. Palm Sunday. I was outside a beloved city, and I decided to go to one of my favorite churches to celebrate the first day of Holy Week. Like the travelers long ago, I approached the city with a celebratory spirit. I had no palms, but I was full of hopes and expectations for the service ahead. The cathedral beckoned me from a hill above the city, and it was all I could do to keep my shoes on as I walked upon such holy ground.

Unfortunately, the planners of the service were equally excited by the day and included every liturgical trick in the book. Not only did the service cram the events of Holy Week in an hour and fifteen minutes, a Dixieland band played Just a closer walk with thee as the shivering participants stood outside waiting for the service to begin. Palms were blessed, incense lit, and someone instructed us on the “proper way” to wave our palms in the air. If we missed the day’s significance, the sound of the organ make it perfectly clear. 

Their intentions were good, I know, but something stood between me and the day’s focus. It was the service itself. Like an author who writes in such a way as to distract the reader from her message, all I could see was the service. The opulent liturgics shrouded the events of that Sunday long ago. It was impossible for me to see over the long procession of participants to the man on the donkey. 

It wasn’t until I was back in the taxi, thinking about the service, that I was able to hear the sermon intended for me. As one who has always had a flair for the dramatic, the service reminded me how often I, too, have pushed things over the top. Whether in the sermons I delivered, or the services I designed, too often my work stood in the way of the message I was trying to convey. The finger pointing, if you will, became more important than the one to which it is pointing. 

I reached over and took the palm in my hand. I didn’t worry about waving it in the proper way. I just held it. I let it take me back to the road outside Jerusalem where I could stand beside others. Closing my eyes, I added my imperfect welcome to theirs. I knew then, as if for the first time, that the day was not about me, nor was it about fancy buildings, ministers draped in robes, or impressive worship. 

Palm Sunday is about God coming into the city, facing the worst the world has to give, and offering a love the world cannot comprehend. 

Hosanna in the highest.

https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rSmI9PKiajg