Singing is Believing.

I asked my husband the other day what he misses most about church when he is unable to attend for a few weeks at a time, and he said he misses participating -- teaching, speaking, fulfilling a calling. I asked him because I'd been thinking about what it is I miss when I am away. 

And that's the music.

I miss singing the hymns. It's my favorite part of worship and how well a ward does it has a direct impact on how happy I am in that ward.

Not that it takes a lot to keep me happy, but I do like a chorister who sometimes chooses my favorites, who likes the big, grand Protestant-old-reliables now and then, who knows how to get people to sing and how to keep the tempo moving (which means you need an organist who not only pays attention but can keep up, and sometimes that's where the real challenge lies. Let me say here that I am sincerely grateful to every member who did not squander their talent/lessons and who will play the organ in church so I can indulge in my beloved hymn singing. As a squanderer, I am undeserving of your gift. Thank you. And if you're a good organist, double thanks.)

And I like it best when I can't really hear myself sing, because everyone else is giving it their all too. If you've ever sat next to me in a meeting, you know that I'm often the loudest person in the room. 

Provided my sister isn't there. We believe in singing praises.

But then, many of my most profound spiritual experiences have been in some way tied to music. A lot of that probably has to do with the ward I grew up in. It was one of Salt Lake's more prestigious, with a building to match. I realize the very title "prestigious ward" has problems, but then that's another post. Like it or not, it was. The building itself was grand. The chapel was presided over by an impressive, bone-rattling pipe organ, and chances were good that the person playing it would have an advanced degree in organ performance. The choir director was likely to be equally well-qualified, and the soloists were some of the same voices who soloed with the Tab Choir. Easter morning might be heralded with the brass section from the Utah Symphony. Sacrament meeting could be the Utah Oratorio Society performing their work-du-jour. The people who wrote the hymns or the primary songs were sometimes sitting in the audience. It was the home ward to one of the prophets, and the governor showed up there too, for Christmas and pre-election Sunday. And oh, how that ward did music.

Funny that my three favorite church music experiences didn't come in big shiny packages. They came quietly, one as the young leader of a bad ward choir with more than enough heart to make up for what was missing in the singing, and one as a ward chorister saddled with an earnest-but-just-beginning teenage boy as my accompanist. In both of those instances, every hymn was an exercise in creativity and faith. 

I've led plenty of church music over the years with tears streaming down my face, and loved every beat. For me, singing is believing.
 
Anyway, the earliest thing I can identify as a true spiritual experience came in a ward Christmas program. My siblings and I were sitting alone, my parents being seated on the stand to perform with the choir. I'm not sure how young I was, but I'm pretty sure my feet were swinging in patent-leathers, so they didn't yet reach the floor. It was dark outside (yes, sacrament meeting used to be in the late afternoon/early evening -- I'm that old) and the chapel had lovely tall windows that ran all the way up both sides. It began to snow, big wet flakes floating down in a soft blessing that stood out against the sky. And just then the choir started to sing "Still, Still, Still." It was the first time I had ever heard that song. And it was nothing short of magic. Or at least I thought so.

Looking back, I realize that it was more than that. It was the kind of magic the spirit works, the kind that sets you off on a journey in pursuit of getting to that feeling again and again.

I've gotten back many times since, to that serene, believing place, and probably forgotten more times than I remember. But that experience stands out because it simply stopped me in my little-girl tracks and assured me that I was exactly where I should be. And that all was right with the world in that moment, in that room.

"After silence, that which comes nearest to 

expressing the inexpressible, is music."

 -- Aldous Huxley

That's my experience, and I'd like to hear yours. We all have one, the first time we figured out that we were on to something that would change everything that came after. The day the spirit stopped by, and then we followed it down the street begging it to come back. I hope you'll share your story in the comments.

And next time you find yourself in church, sing loud please. If only to drown me out.

-S.