Bursting Into Song

My middle grandchild – the almost three-year-old redhead in Texas – has really taken to singing. She now has music classes at her pre-school and her times with Miss April are among her favorites. While some of her notes are uncertain, there can be no fault found with the level of enthusiasm. At the moment, her favorite tune is, “Shabat Shalom.”

No, we are not Jewish – not that that would be a problem. We love singing in any form.

Actually, I plan on teaching her the “Dreidel Song” when I am in Dallas for Thanksgiving. So, with her penchant for wearing crowns, hats, and other stuff on her head, she may soon appear in a yarmulke. We may also try, “This old man, he played one…..” but I am a bit sensitive about the “old man” part.

Both she and her older brother – the four-year old – have inquisitive spirits and think nothing of asking very probing questions, regardless of being within earshot of those being “probed.” “Are you an old man, Granddaddy?” “What is ‘paddy-wack’?”

My daughter and her brood were recently in the produce section at Whole Foods when my grandson spied a young Orthodox lad with curled peyos – the uncut sideburns. He had raised his finger to point and was in the midst of opening his mouth to voice a detailed question about the haircut so very different from his when his mother whisked him away from the kumquats and dashed two aisles over to the distraction of cereals.

The sudden shift in locale didn’t quell his curiosity about the young lad’s hair, but at least the devout adherent to the teachings of Leviticus was not privy to the discussion.

Intellectual inquisitiveness must never be quelled.

Nor should the desire to sing!

The Free Church of Scotland has decided to do so – to sing!

In a plenary session of the church, the first such gathering since 1843, a vote to allow both singing and instruments in worship narrowly passed. So, while they are embracing the raising of the voice in song and the sounding of the timbrel and organ, and maybe a stray guitar or two, there is not a ground swell of enthusiasm among the church hierarchy. To be accurate, the church was not totally void of music – the Psalms were sung. But despite being “Free,” there was no freedom to break out into “Gimme That Ol’ Time Religion.” We are talking John Knox here. I recall seeing him always clad in black. A very severe guy.

There are those in the Free Church who worry that this new move toward melody might cause a split. "Disharmony, if you will." Actually, the Free Church was formed from a split away from The Church of Scotland in 1843 over the right of a congregation to turn down the choice of a minister by the “patron” of the church – usually the local laird. I suppose if the split happens over the singing, the result will be the “Really Free Church of Scotland.”

It is amazing what will divide a congregation of “believers.”

I remember one country church in Alabama that became wrangled about the placement of the piano. Some felt it should be on the right side of the cramped worship space and others felt it should be on the left. At this time they were in total agreement over the notion that Maylene Hightower should not direct the choir since she was divorced. While it was Mr. Hightower that was caught “in flagrante dilecto” with his secretary, Maylene’s presence in front of the choir was an ever present reminder of the town’s worst scandal in years, and that just was too much.

The position of the piano had nothing to do with the architectural purity of the sanctuary – it was a very plain space. It was more about the compromised hearing of two elder worshipers. One heard better on the left side, and the other on the right. And they sat on opposite sides of the center aisle.

There was a large Baptist church down south that had major disagreements over the building of a new house of worship. The minister, feeling very full of righteous zeal, pushed for an “auditorium” that would seat 2,000 souls. The Deacons felt that was too ambitious. Eventually, the preacher won – he got his large space, but lost half his congregation. Three-hundred folks can seem such a trifle in a space that seats two-thousand. He was so obsessed with maintaining the pristine beauty of his new temple that he insisted all doors into the space have locks. You must always keep out the wrong types.

This same church organized a petition to keep a homeless shelter from being built nearby. It was not good for property values and poor people would be wandering about. "Oh, how I love Jesus."

Once, a guest evangelist, one of those “Miami-preacher types” with the pastel colored suits that reminded you of “Saturday Night Fever,” entered the pulpit area after having made his way through the soprano section of the choir – stepping on hymnbooks and toes. The door onto the preaching rostrum was locked. His was not a look of contentment.

When he stood to speak, still smarting from his ordeal, he said, “Praise Jesus! He is coming again someday. Christ is coming in all his glory. But I wonder if he has a key to this place?”

There was a very subdued altar call that night. Jesus seemed to be calling softer and more tenderly than usual.

So whether the Free Church of Scotland can handle “How Great Thou Art” remains to be seen.

Meanwhile, the redhead in Texas has added “Jesus Loves Me” to her repertoire.

Mitch, We Hardly Knew Ye

Mitch Miller died Monday. He was 99. Truth be told, I thought he died years ago. I think I must have confused him with Mantovani, another of those who took music to the mainstream.

Mitch was the one with the goatee. Mantovani was Italian. Leonard Berstein was talented, but such a mess of emotion when he conducted. Miller seemed, as I recall, "cool."

While I may have hummed, I don’t think that I ever “Sang Along With Mitch.” I know some folks who did and they didn’t seem worse for the wear. Mitch’s music was not exceptional or complicated; there were no challenging harmonies; it was after all, unison sing-a-long.

Despite the simplicity of it, I did call upon Mitch a lot over the years. Maybe not “call upon” but evoke him.

You see, I have conducted a volunteer church choir since I was around 14. Yes, that is correct. I was a precocious nerd. The Baptist’s were in need and I answered their plea. This was along about the time when my father decided that our family was going to go to church together rather than roast in hell. Up to that signal event, his weekly Sunday “headache” had put our souls in peril. But that was an earlier blog.

Invariably volunteer choirs are small. That is, unless you are in a large mega-church, and then they are large and sloppy and sound a lot like a Mitch Miller group except for the “Blood of the Lamb” part. Mitch usually dealt with the Bossa Nova. I think the Astrud Gilburto, “Girl from Ipanema” was far too-wordy for Mitch to tackle, but I could be wrong.

So back to the volunteer choir.

Most volunteer choirs have been garnered through a lot of coercion and applied guilt. Growing up as a Baptist, I know volumes about applied guilt. Only in about 23.8 percent of the cases of “volunteerism” does the singer actually come forward and proclaim, “I want desperately to sing in the choir. I have a passion to do so.”

Many years ago, I had an alto who had a passion for singing in the church choir. She also had a great talent for being “way off pitch.” Her passion was so great that she never missed rehearsal or Sunday worship. She was friendly and the type to jump up and get a copy of music for another. But she was always a “tonal irritant.” But the choir was her outlet. The choir was her expression of her faith.

You just don’t mess with a person’s expression of faith.

With volunteers, you learn that you endure their faults and rejoice in their contributions. Mary Franklin filled a robe and a seat on the second row. She also contributed to my prayer life since week after week I pleaded, “Dear God, help MF to find the joy in arranging the altar flowers or being a greeter.” Had I had more of an entrepreneurial bent and had Mary Franklin more of a sense of humor, we could have pre-empted “Jonathan and Darlene Edwards” or gone “downtown” ahead of Mrs. Miller.

But, I digress.

With the 76.2 percent of the volunteer choir who have been recruited through coercion and guilt, they generally come with a sense of timidity.

Do you know how many times I have heard, “I only sing in the shower.”

We had a sprinkler system installed over the choir loft.

Over the years, I have often reminded my volunteers that 20 people singing sotto voce (half voice) does not garner the same effect as 80. Hence, the reference to Mitch. “Choir, this isn’t ‘sing along with Mitch time.’” I am big on mental images when I work with the choir. Ask my tenors and basses about Betty Lou and the St. Ignatius Boy Choir.

Oh, the mysterious ways of the volunteer choir.

I keep waiting for Susan Boyle to appear in my congregation and following a “rip roaring”sermon come forward and say the words that a choir director longs to hear.

“Would you have room for another singer in your choir?”

But since our sermons are more beige than “rip roaring,” I have to continue with the coercion and the guilt. Thankfully, my Baptist mother taught me well.

Years ago, I had a great teenage soprano who volunteered to sing in my Youth Choir which met on Sunday afternoon. She had an amazing young voice. However, I discovered soon afterwards that "choir" was a way to meet a rambunctuous boyfriend. Her mom would drop her off in front of the church and observe her enter the building. She missed her exit out the back.

While I could threaten to post something on the internet, I never would.

Rest in peace, Mitch.