I might be exhausted and the children might be cranky,
but I will be going to church on Sunday.
Don’t know who is preaching, doesn’t matter –
the sermon may be helpful or not, holds my attention or doesn’t –
it’s the singing.
I go to sing.
I get up,
possibly get mad (at not-ready kids, at empty coffee pot, at traffic)
and when the music starts,
It’s the singing.
I go to sing.
It’s the willingness to stand if you are able,
the common agreement on page number,
the voluntary sharing of songbooks with people on your row,
even ones you rode there with –
but most of all,
it’s the collective in-breath before the first sound is made,
the collective drawing upon the grace of God,
the collective, if inadvertent, admission
that we are all human,
all in need of the sustaining air, freely dispensed,
all in need of each other to get the key right and not sound discordant –-
it’s the hidden life-celebration
in the act of making a joyful noise,
We don’t even have to sound that good.
Singing together still brings home
the we-ness of worship,
the not-alone-ness of life in God,
the best of all we have to offer each other.
When we are singing, I think that I might actually be able to forgive you
for being so terribly human,
and you might be able to forgive me
for being so terribly not there yet,
and we might be able to find peace now,
not postpone it for some heavenly hereafter
but live and breathe it today,
drawing in the grace of God,
voicing out our need and hope and gratitude and longing.
When we are singing, I can feel the better world coming,
and if I get to be a part of it, you do too . . .
so sing with me,
and we’ll make our way down that blessed road together,
than we ever thought