You Are My Sunshine, My Only Sunshine

Among the privileges afforded those of us who work in houses of worship is the opportunity to be involved in the crucial times of peoples' lives. We are usually there for the turning points and pivotal moments. When children are baptized, when couples are married, when illness leads to hospitalization, and when life comes to an end we are there.

There is a lot about church work that calls to mind the old adage about seeing sausage being made. The day-to-day work of committee meetings, decision making, choir rehearsals, calendar planning, and most of all budgeting can lead one to renege on a commitment to the sausage business.

Holy moments are privileges, though. It is part of our human nature to muse about the existence of a higher power, and to imagine that we somehow possess a level of understanding about that creating and sustaining entity. But the holy moments, when we know as surely as our baby has been safely born that there is something greater than ourselves, lead us beyond the musings of human nature, to a place of faith and confidence. We don't really know very much about God's God-ness, but at those times we know that God is enough and that we are not.

Two wonderful members of our church passed away this week. Both had faced long struggles, and had inspired their family and friends with their faithful and valiant spirits. I was discussing one of these people today with a member of the choir who had gone to visit her recently. She had suffered a string of debilitating strokes, and couldn't speak clearly. Her husband remained by her side and tried to interpret, and it was evident that her thoughts were clear even though she couldn't express them through speech.

The visitor had instinctively started to sing. Holding the hand of the suffering woman, she sang,

You are my sunshine, my only sunshine.

The woman's eyes lit a little brighter and her mouth began to move.

You make me happy when skies are gray.

She began to phonate. The pitches were clear and the words were coming.

You'll never know, dear, how much I love you.

Communicating for the first time in a long time, with the old familiar feeling that what she was thinking was actually coming out clearly through her mouth.

Please don't take my sunshine away.

This simple childhood song gave a dying patient one last opportunity to express herself with clarity and meaning, a skill that had otherwise been lost. She requested through her gestures and her eyes that they sing it over and over. She didn't want to lose the moment.

Singing goes with a holy moment. Those of us who are privileged to share in these moments would do well to remember that just as God's God-ness is inexpressible, music's power to express is unexplainable. This true story is a fitting metaphor for the power of music to enable us to express what we most need to communicate. And when we can't communicate at all, it is a great gift to spend one more verse expressing ourselves clearly.

Singing about attack

September 11 marks a gut-wrenching memory of loss, attack and devastation. My memories are vivid, as I was in Manhattan, having moved there just five weeks before. A former student had helped me to find an efficiency apartment in Jersey City, so I commuted every morning and afternoon on the PATH train, the trans-Hudson subway taken by millions of people who live in New Jersey. The train had two routes, Penn Station and World Trade. I had taken the World Trade train just that weekend to have dinner at a friend's house, but on weekdays I took the train to Penn Station. I emerged every morning from beneath Macy's department store and walked around the corner to my office on 36th Street.

When I came out of the subway tunnel on September 11 my cell phone was ringing, which was unusual at that time of day. It was my wife in Alabama, asking if I was all right. I learned quickly that everyone was watching on television as they reported the unthinkable, two private airplanes had crashed into the World Trade Center. Only later did they realize they were commercial jets.

I ran to the office and everyone was gathered around radios, trying to decide whether to evacuate, since we were in the shadow of the Empire State Building. I decided to go down to an ATM on 5th Avenue and take some cash out, in case I had to stay in Manhattan. As I neared the corner I witnessed a surreal sight on 5th Avenue. There was no traffic, but it was filled with pedestrians moving north, away from the World Trade Center. They were walking north but looking south over their shoulders in disbelief. As I followed their eyes and looked south, we all saw the second tower collapse. When the dust cleared and the cameras filmed the cavity where the buildings had stood, the one remaining recognizable thing was the PATH train, buried under layers of debris.

I made it home by improvising a ride across the river on a party boat, then walking toward a tall building I recognized near my apartment. I was stuck there for several days, talking to home frequently and assuring them that I was OK.

By the next weekend the trains were running, so I set out to find a church service to attend on Sunday morning. I went to St. Thomas Church, home of the legendary choir of men and boys, expecting to be uplifted by liturgy and beautiful music. And I certainly was deeply affected by the sermon, the readings, the prayers, and the music.

But the most uplifting thing that happened occurred during the receiving of the offering. As the plates were presented we rose to sing, and I expected to join in the familiar "Doxology." Instead, the organ introduced the familiar song "America the Beautiful." A packed church, full of titans of business and finance, rose in unison and leaned their heads back defiantly to sing, "thine alabaster cities gleam, un-dimmed by human tears."

In a city known for emotional detachment and a hard exterior, the familiar patriotic song cracked the surface and gave the congregation the opportunity to vent their strongest feelings. Every voice sang, and every eye cried. The song we usually sing in a perfunctory way had become our defiant lament, and we were ennobled and uplifted while we sang it.