When Our Words Are Sung

My wife has the ability to hear a song one time and then sing every word (and hit every note, by the way) the very next time she hears it.  She has apparently passed that trait down to her children, because I routinely hear them doing the same thing. While that can be a good thing, it can also be a problem.

It becomes a problem when I hear words coming out of their sweet little mouths that can only be described as…well, not suitable for children. When I hear them lustily belting out some song containing words that should come with a warning label, I will give them the horrified look I have mastered for such occasions. But that only stops their singing long enough for them to say what they always say in those moments.

“I don’t even know what I’m singing,” they tell me, as if they think I can hear them with my hands covering my innocent ears. “They’re just words,” they continue. “Can’t you feel that beat? The lyrics don’t matter as much as the music.”

I will admit there is something to their argument. In an ideal world, I suppose, a song’s tune and lyrics would work together to move its hearers. But what my children seem to be suggesting is that it’s possible to sing every word in a song and not mean a word of it. And when that happens, when words become “just words” set to music, they turn from being vessels of truth and grace into bearers of…nothingness.

That may not be a big deal when it comes to songs on the radio (though I would appreciate your not letting my children know I wrote that). But it’s a huge deal when it comes to the words we sing in worship.

Congregational singing shapes not only our theology (what we believe), but also our practice (what we do). And the best hymns we sing in our worship about what it means to be the church, in fact, are really confessions of our faith. By that I mean that they not only describe who we are and what we believe, but they also express what we have resolved to do.

We sang one of those confessional hymns at the close of our worship at Massanutten a few Sundays ago. It was the hymn by Marty Haugen called Let Us Build a House, with its powerful refrain ending each stanza: “all are welcome; all are welcome; all are welcome in this place.” And I’m still trying to recover from it.

As I sang those words, something within me broke.

The words I sang ripped the scales from my eyes. And I began to see all the people hungering for a place of welcome in this world.

I remembered the refugees streaming out of Syria in search of a place to rest, even as we sang.

And I remembered the ones for whom the church has been everything but a place of welcome.

And most painfully of all, I realized as I sang those words how my heart remains divided, so desperate to welcome and embrace all people…and yet so afraid…and so wounded…and so timid.

By the time we sang the final two stanzas, the words mattered to me in a way that frightened me.

Let us build a house where hands will reach
beyond the wood and stone
to heal and strengthen, serve and teach,
and live the Word they’ve known.
Here the outcast and the stranger
bear the image of God’s face;
let us bring an end to fear and danger:
all are welcome; all are welcome; all are welcome in this place.

Let us build a house where all are named,
their songs and visions heard
and loved and treasured,
taught and claimed as words within the Word.
Built of tears and cries and laughter,
prayers of faith and songs of grace;
let this house proclaim from floor to rafter:
all are welcome; all are welcome; all are welcome in this place.

And as I sang that closing refrain one final time, I stood beside the font to offer the charge and blessing, struggling to find words. Here’s what I finally said: “As frightening as what we just sang may be, I think that’s what the gospel calls us to…to build, as God’s servants, a place where all are welcome in God’s love.”

I don’t think I would have said that so clearly before singing that song.

But words matter. Perhaps even more so when those words are sung.