Martin Franzman, theologian par excellence, once said,
"Theology must sing!" I agree. I like to sing. Good thing, since by
vocation, I am a pastor. Hymns and hymnody are part of my vocation as a pastor
and life as a child of God. Every Sunday, I sing between three to five hymns
and, often, during the week, I find myself singing more. Sometimes, these are
devotional hymns, other times they are sung as prayers, and sometimes just out
of the joy of singing the familiar words. Occasionally I sing a hymn with a
shut-in or someone in the hospital. Just like singing along to the radio, most
hymns have a fairly neutral emotional response.
But there are a few hymns that just hit me, emotionally, in
a very deep space. "I know that my Redeemer lives," with its rich
resurrection imagery for God's people, is one of those hymns. I remember, as a
boy, singing it at my grandpa's funeral, sitting next to my parents, while they
cried. The older I get, the more I understand. I don't know how many times I
have sung it, but I don't think I have ever actually sung the whole hymn. Even
if I have maintained dry eyes until then, verse 8 gets water-works going.
"He lives, all glory to His name!
He lives, my Jesus, still the same.
Oh, the sweet joy this sentence gives,
'I know that my Redeemer lives!'"
"Come, thou fount of every blessing" is another. The soaring melody
of the third phrase carries the words heavenward in prayer. Again, the last
verse swells my heart so much it chokes off the air and I cannot sing. A friend
slightly revised the words for a more eschatological thrust:
"Oh, that day when freed from sinning,
I shall see Thy lovely face!
Clothed then in the blood-washed linen,
how I'll sing Thy wondrous grace!
Come, my Lord, no longer tarry,
take all sin and death away!
With your angels come and raise us,
bring the realms of endless day!"
There are other hymns, too, that are difficult to sing - not mechanically,
although there are a few of those as well. I am talking about the text and the
feelings the words evoke. You may be surprised that I tell you "Amazing
Grace" is not one of those hymns. It's not that I dislike it; it just
doesn't move me the way others do. But start singing "Abide with me"
(I'll always remember Pastor Rossow dimming the lights for the final verse,
"Hold thou thine cross before my closing eyes; shine through the gloom and
point me to the skies. When morning breaks and earth's vain shadows flee, in
life, in death, O Lord, abide with me."), "If Christ had not been
raised from death," the final, German verse of "Silent Night" -
there are more, of course - these all evoke strong feelings, thoughts, and
prayers within me, stirring deeply my heart.
Some of these evocative hymns stir a level of sadness - "I know my
Redeemer lives" is a regularly used funeral hymn, for example, a reminder
of those whom I have lost and those whom I have buried. But, more than the loss
is the blessed hope and promise of the resurrection that is ours through Christ
our Lord. The feelings co-mingle: sadness and joy, loss and hope.
Frank Sinatra once sang about love and marriage, "You can't have one
without the other." While experience shows him to be often wrong about
that connection, in Christ, death and resurrection do go together. You cannot
have one without the other. Christ died and rose; He rose because He had died.
Likewise, when we die, we shall live again, and we live into eternity because
we died in our baptism, the Old Adam and Old Eve being daily drowned by grace
through faith in Him who died vicariously, one (and once!) for all. That
eternal, eschatological hope - or, as I say, "Hope with a capital H"
- is ours for a resurrection reunion with those whom we love and, more
importantly, with our Lord who loved us enough to die for us while we were
still sinners.
That hope - excuse me, Hope - fuels my singing. So, when singing those verses
about the resurrection of all flesh and the Hope that is ours in Christ, it
gets me every time. There is sadness as I remember, but there is joy, too: I'll
get to see parishioners whom I buried, friends whom I have mourned, family who
have died in the faith, Ralph, Gerry, Ray, Edwin and Val, Godfried, Joe, my
grandparents, aunts and uncles, all whole and holy. I'll get to meet people I
never knew, people from parts of the world I've never seen, people from whole
other epochs of time - saints, one and all, made holy in the blood of the Lamb.
And, I'll see Dad again.
Today is All Saints Day, the day the Church gives thanks to God for all who are
declared saints by grace, through faith in Jesus (which is all Christendom, by
the way - a name not merely reserved for those of extra-ordinary faith or
works, but every single Christian). Especially today, we thank God for the
faithful who have gone before us, living and dying in faith.
I began this speaking of hymns that get me. The one that hits the hardest and
most hopeful is "For All the Saints," Sine Nomine if you prefer Latin
titles - and who doesn't love to drop a little Latin now and then. Look it up -
Google is your friend, if you don't have a hymnal handy. The text moves us from
remembering the church militant with our struggles on earth, now, all who live
under the cross of Jesus, living in faith while looking forward to that which
we see, at times, dimly and at other times, quite clearly. Yet, even when its
dim and dark and hard, hearts best strongly with the promise of God in Christ
for a great, glorious day. Alleluia!
By the time we get to verse 5, with that Hope, I am down to a mere squeak of a
voice as the organ thunders and the congregation sings:
"But then there breaks a still more glorious day:
The saints triumphant rise in bright array;
The King of glory passes on His way.
Alleluia, Alleluia!"
But at the last verse, I can no longer sing. Usually, I am unable to see the
words printed because of the tears running freely. Thankfully, I have the words
committed to heart. But, even if I could see, I can't sing between sobs - or,
because I'm fighting to not burst into full-fledged weeping. The hymn paints us
the glorious picture of the church in glory, 144,000 magnified and multiplied
and majestic, all singing in wonderful, angelic thunderous voice.
"From earth's wide bounds,
From ocean's farthest coast,
Through gates of pearl streams in the countless host,
Singing to Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.
Alleluia, Alleluia!"
Maybe on that day, when I stand among them, maybe then I'll be able to sing.
But today, I can't. Today, I'll hum along and murmur another Alleluia as I wait
and thank God for all the saints.
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