Advent 2.2: More on the middle

Yes, the middle verses we sing without music, relying on one another to keep the melody, to expand the harmonies, to get through, back to the refrain we know. Because sometimes--most?--that's what the middle means: just getting through, and we're not even sure how. No instruments to lead us or show the way; no strong accompaniment to help us fake it til we make it, or give us an excuse not to sing at all. Only our own wavering voices pushing onward, stumbling over wrong notes aplenty. Until we hear another voice next to us, or behind us, that holds the tune. And we start to hear it, to feel it, more deeply within ourselves--their strength shines its way into us. Soon we realize that we are beginning to find the notes in our own soul. Maybe they were already there and we'd lost them; maybe they hadn't ever existed until now, or not that we knew. But it's those voices echoing around us that help us find our way again.

Yes, when the middle verses first arrive, we think they're all about waiting, and maybe we can't wait to be finished--slogging along until we get the triumphant organ back for the joy-filled final stanza where God surely resides, when we can lean on the sturdy backdrop once again. But as we find ourselves approaching the end of the middle, we realize that what first felt like a slog actually turned into something holy and good. That having to journey through the notes without a map started out lonely, but then we listened to the mingling of voices: soft and strong, melody and harmony, coming to know our place among them, kept steady and courageous by them.

We realize that God is present in the middle verses more fully than we could have ever known.

Advent 2.1: Middle verses

Oh, friends, it's true: so much of why I love the church is wrapped up in song.

I'll admit, I cling to a particular type of singing. Contemporary worship music never grabbed my soul; I was never the type to raise my hands and close my eyes; partly my personality and partly because I wasn't raised on it, it didn't take up space first in my heart.

So give me the red Methodist hymnal and its sacred tunes, some peppy some slow, complex with harmonies and sheet music that I can (mostly) follow, set down on paper from the hearts of women and men from centuries ago or yesterday, the same questions, same wonders, same love. Songs that I connect with people, places, and moments that have given me God. Songs that lift my heart when I'm low or reaffirm my hope for the world.

Advent only heightens my musical immersion, perhaps because I have so many of those associations with this sensory season.

On Sundays year-round on most every hymn we sing, our organist, Timothy, will stop playing for the middle verses.

Today during our Lessons and Carols service, I realized that when he does this, it's an act of trust and an act of grace--trust that we will keep the song going on our own, grace that we actually do. I live for the mixing of our voices, the blending of harmonies above our heads, rising higher and diving deeper than we can understand--but somehow, I still feel it, the heights and depths of what I cannot fully understand.

In this music that we create, every voice matters, echoing our life together and the life--whatever life--that exists beyond us.

Advent 1.7: Empty streets

Empty streets transform a day.

Walk in the middle of the road if you like, zig zag freely back and forth, no need to keep close to the curb. Hear the quiet of no cars, no whir of traffic for miles, the reminder that we can slow down and take a break--though sometimes it takes an outside force to make us do it. Stop and talk to neighbors that you didn't know you had, witness the silent comings and goings of fellow footprints and pawprints, all exploring the sudden shift in your everyday space.

You really see the world for the world when it's freshly frosted with ice--the leaves and branches are more pronounced, the sounds of birds and squirrels and children's giggles echo through the trees unbarred, no urban noise. You grow aware of your cheeks, your ears, your nose, all flushed with chill. You look up at the sky and down at your feet. You tread carefully but not fearfully. You're excited to go forward, to see what's next in your path. You pay attention.

Empty streets in Advent; such an unexpected gift.