A Singer's Encounter with God

Last week we looked at music, particularly chant music, as a catalyst for a discussion about meditation.  This week, I’m going to delve a little deeper into the subject matter from a deeply personal perspective, that of a singer.  So here’s the qualifying disclaimer: this week’s issue you may expect to be full of bias and opinion! What you will read in the following essay comes only from my personal experience and reflects my own unsubstantiated thoughts.

Music, especially singing but not exclusively so, is my method of worship. No; rather it is the vehicle for my interaction and dialogue with God. The prayers, the rituals, Holy Communion, fellowship—these are all important elements in how I worship and relate with God, but they are ultimately nonessential.  Music is essential. I am much more open to the presence of God through the sounds and mechanics of music. Music also serves as a centering focus as I deepen my relationship with God. I’ve found that the genre of music, the quality of music or any other variable of music really doesn’t matter: God speaks to me through all of it.  And I’m more inclined to allow the Holy Spirit to work through me via music.  (I say more inclined, because even with music, I have my limitations on how I’ll let God work through me.  Don’t we all have our barriers!)

In a worship service in which I experience an authentic encounter with God, it is without a doubt because all the music in that service has centered my focus and prayer.  The prelude (of which I’m rarely a participant) invites.  It’s sort of a lure. It almost never ceases to fail in capturing my attention and drawing me into the conversation.  The opening hymn is my first response. Most of the time, I’m still very much a separate entity from God and am simply speaking to God through the hymn. Then comes the first iteration of the service music—that music we sing every week that prays a part of our liturgy.  Sometimes it’s the Gloria. During Lent, we sing the Trisagion.  Singing those words in repetition allows my mind to sink into an easy, mindful meditation.  And when that happens, even the spoken word begins to take on musical qualities.  Voices rise and fall in pitch and volume and the meanings of the words take on greater depth of meaning. At this point, I sing the anthem with the choir and become entrenched in the conversation.  I am no longer responding to God, but now am speaking with God.  Sometimes, by this point in the service I am so open to God that I honestly believe I speak for God through the music. But it’s a gift when that happens.  More hymns and service music reinforce the meditative prayer of the service and brings us to Holy Communion. Here’s where God speaks and I respond. The music played as I receive communion requires my response in the hymn. This part, for me, is just God and me in dialogue. I sometimes find it ironic that the most intimate part of the conversation I have with God should occur when the whole congregation is in communion together. Finally, the closing hymn is my acknowledgement that for the purpose of our conversation (God’s and mine) during worship, my part is finished. And in the postlude, God says, “Sorry to see you go; come back soon; be happy!” Notice how the mood of the postlude is always upbeat while the prelude is mostly meditative and serene? It serves very well to the purpose of conversation. Without the music, I remain outside of the service, like an observer and not a participant.  Without the music I can’t “hear” God.  Or rather, I stubbornly neglect to hear God.

So what are the implications for music when NOT in a worship service? To me, music is always a conversation with God.  Even when the music is unappealing, God speaks to me (usually saying something like, not everything is about you!). 

My Encounter with God

Sometimes I sing with others in chorus. 

Sometimes I sing in a place all by myself. 

Sometimes I sing with others and no one is there to listen. 

Sometimes I sing by myself for an audience. 

Sometimes I sing consciously, practicing and preparing. 

Sometimes I sing just to hear myself sing. 

Sometimes I sing without being aware of singing. 

Sometimes I sing with no voice.

Always when I’m not singing, I anticipate when I will next sing.

Sometimes I see a song in the colors and sights that I see. 

Sometimes I feel strains of music in the air and textures that brush my skin. Sometimes I sense a melody in the corners of my imagination.

Sometimes I smell harmony in the aromas of life all around me.

Sometimes music is a science.

            Sometimes music is art.

            Always music is the voice of God, and it fills me.

Music is both breadth and focus.  It’s just there and it’s the centering device I use in meditation and prayer. Music is intimate and superficial. I find that because of music, my relationship with God is constant.  That is, God is with me all day and night (you should hear my dreams!) regardless of whether I’m in worship or not. Sunday worship services are special because the structure lends a certain authority to my conversation with God, and with others who share my faith.