Magnificat

It was a pleasure to attend the Southern Division Convention of the American Choral Directors Association last week in Memphis. Several of the finest choirs from the southern United States performed, thrilling the audience of choral directors. For many of us, an ACDA convention charges our figurative batteries and reminds us of the many rewards of a career spent working in a beautiful and rich art form.

Among the choirs chosen to perform for us was the Chorale Women of Douglas Anderson High School in Jacksonville, Florida, conducted by Jeffrey Clayton. Their repertoire was varied and exciting, and their program began with a setting of the "Magnificat". It is the traditional Song of Mary, recorded in the Gospel of Luke. It has been set by many composers, in every kind of composition, from hymns to challenging works for chorus and orchestra. It begins with Mary's exclamation, "My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior."

I had never heard the particular setting of the text that was listed in the program, and was eager to listen. Those of us who make up an ACDA audience listen critically, and I was ready to evaluate the performance and the composition. My normal listening mode changed, however, as I looked up from my program.

This chorus appeared to be made up of typical high school girls. They were tall, short, black, white, asian, hispanic, skinny, less-skinny. They were typical. And among the singers making their contribution to the beautiful sound of the group were two girls singing from electric wheelchairs, obviously suffering from debilitating diseases.

Since the Americans with Disabilities Act became law, we have become accustomed to seeing student bodies enriched by the presence of young men and women who are differently-abled than their classmates. It seems silly now to remember when these students wouldn't have been welcomed in any school or class. So it wasn't the presence of these young women in the chorus that made me listen differently. It was the text.

I heard the words differently as I watched them emerge from broken bodies: "My soul magnifies the Lord. My spirit rejoices in God my Savior." As I saw rejoicing emerging from within these singers, I realized the truth of Mary's song, sung as she realized she was pregnant. The truth seems to be that God is working within us. Whether, like these singers, our bodies are not as capable as others, or , like Mary, our journey is leading to the birth of an illegitimate child, we can only rejoice when we realize that God is beautifully working inside us. In a culture obsessed with outward appearances, it is fruitful to remember that the canvas on which God's pallet of colors best comes to life is within the pure and contrite heart of God's follower.

Soul and spirit are all that are needed for rejoicing. And surely God is still creating and beautifying inside us. With such beautiful work taking place within us, maybe singing exists as an opportunity to let a little of the beauty out, so that it can be seen by all.

Sacrament

I recently read Barbara Brown Taylor's beautiful book, "Leaving Church." In it, she recounts an anecdote involving a four-year-old who was riding in a car with his mother and a visitor from out of town. He interrupted the adult conversation as they drove past the Episcopal church where Taylor was pastor, and said, "See, that's the place where God gives us the bread."


This story immediately made me think of the deep secret church musicians keep. We are accustomed to being thanked by the members of our congregations for the work we do, and the meaningful worship that results from our leadership. The secret lies in the fact that the reward we receive from rehearsing together and dedicating our talents to worship is far greater than the amount we give.

The intrinsic reward we find in a deep experience with beauty and creativity is overwhelming. We are bonded together in an experience that points ultimately beyond ourselves, and whose total is always greater than the sum of the individual and imperfect parts we each contribute.

The boy in the anecdote was describing the moment in the church's worship which is described as "sacrament." The Anglican Book of Common Prayer defines sacrament as an outward and visible sign of an inward and invisible Grace. When we receive the sacrament in church, we accept that Christ miraculously defined his gracious role in terms that were understandable by a four-year-old.

In addition to the historic sacrament, there are often times in which the "inward and invisible Grace" is effectively made apparent through the beauty of music. And as much as listeners experience this "outward sign", singers regularly experience more revelation than they can hope to understand. Cooks are never under-nourished, and those of us who distribute the bread are seldom short of capacity ourselves.

Last night we changed the format of our regular rehearsal, and it became a night of abundant bread distribution. A member of our congregation for the last fifty years is moving to live with her daughter due to declining health. Throughout her membership, she has gone out of her way to thank the church's musicians for their efforts. In countless notes and words of kindness, she has made sure that the choir members, directors and accompanists at our church have felt appreciated. So last night, thanks to a brilliant idea from a choir member, we arranged for her daughter to bring her to rehearsal. Before she leaves town she had the chance to sit and listen to her beloved choir. From her wheelchair she traveled through several favorite anthems with us. When we thought we had sung as long as her strength would allow her to comfortably listen, we presented her with several choir recordings and pictures, and gave her a hymnal as a souvenir. As we continued to rehearse, she asked her daughter to allow her to stay to the end. She didn't want to leave a morsel uneaten.

Our guest last night felt deeply blessed. But, of course, those of us who sang were profoundly rewarded, as the blessing of a loving listener filtered our singing. We sang with all our hearts, she listened with ears of love, and bread cascaded into every life, sacramental and free.