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Sunday mornings used to be time to sit in a pew, so I never made it to my running club’s Sunday morning runs at the river. But now I can run and do church—well, by “going” to church at home while sitting in my own chair instead of a pew—and by not needing to change out of my running clothes.

I have to go down to the river as we live on the hill above the South Platte valley. I started attending the now socially-distanced and masked Sunday runs in July when, even early, the river was alive with action—of the human, canine, and avian kinds. Being by the river and the birds was soothing even as the trails were full of activity.

But as the weather turned colder and certain birds flew off to warmer spaces, peace became the river’s language. Fewer humans and dogs ventured out during the chilly morning hours, but more ducks and Canada geese claimed the waters.

In a way, my pre-church runs by the river have become part of the liturgy that is my church worship in these winter days of 2020/2021. With the now later start of the group runs, I have little time once finished before I must jump in my car and drive the ten minutes back to my home up the hill.

I take that peace—like the river—into my corporate worship—or what counts for corporate worshipping these days. Even if we aren’t all together as physical bodies, I feel the pull of the congregation as I see the familiar faces of the pastors and other leaders in our sacred space.

One day I will return to the good old way of in-person worship with my church community, but, for now, I appreciate going down to the river with my (running) sisters and learning new ways to pray.

How do I calm my raging heart—on any given day, but especially in times such as these when my activities and comings and goings have been pared down in this time period when we await abatement from the virus’ relentless effect on daily life?

Since March 16, 2020—when I came home to work—and the week when everything on my normally busy calendar was erased, my main solace has been time spent in exercise. First, solitary running, and then, bit by bit, electronic classes—both with my regular local fitness teacher and classmates and with sources beyond my neighborhood. And, from time to time, I have ventured out to run close—but not too close—with others.

Still, what was immediately stripped from my life last March was singing in community in my choir and church. The night of March 11, I was engaged in the risky business of going to a Lenten church service (complete with communion!) and singing in choir practice. By the Sunday that followed, church had been reduced to my laptop screen. While my spiritual needs are often met by connecting to the messages from the ministers and other leaders, it’s not quite the same singing harmony by myself along with the sounds projected from the few people allowed in the sanctuary.

My voice has become husky with disuse. Of course, I can sing by myself at home, but with my naturally limited range, I don’t have much of a voice for singing melody. My strength lies in singing harmony. I can—and occasionally do—sing harmony along with music I play for myself. But I miss singing in church—with other people. Almost every Sunday since I was 10 (give or take several during college and in my early 20s) until March 15 of 2020, I have been singing harmony from the hymn book—with others.

So, I asked myself, what can I do to sing, even if I can’t sing in the way I want to sing? Well, for Lent, I’ve broken out my copy of Bach’s St. John’s Passion, and I plan to sing along with Cyber Bass or YouTube. Tonight, I gave that scratchy old voice of mine permission to sing out—badly or not. To tell the truth, I had an easier time singing the notes than I did singing the German words. Sure, I might have scared the puppy a little bit (in all fairness—he’s scared of most everything the first time he experiences it!), but not the older dog, who heard me practice those songs often throughout Lent 2015.

And, you know what? My darkened heart—along with my lowered voice—felt a little bit lighter for singing harmony—even with the tinny background sounds coming from my laptop.

Isn’t it time I stopped keeping myself from singing?

(c) 2015 Trina Lambert

(c) 2015 Trina Lambert

When I took the Strong Interest Inventory about 20 years ago, some of the results indicated I might like to work in a church. Since I didn’t feel any calling in that direction and since I also like my weekends free from job-related tasks, I eventually put the suggestion down to a cultural bias. Just because I answered as a person of faith doesn’t mean faith-based work was my vocation. Perhaps I am just called to think and act as a person of faith in other professions/work settings. Nonetheless, I’m betting it was my “I like singing hymns” response that most directed that particular result.

But, hey, I do like singing hymns. In past centuries much of the best music was written for the Church and I’m into singing good music. Beyond that, though, part of why I am musical is because I was raised in a strong German-American family. The German-Americans where I’m from had traditions such as playing instruments together in family bands and meeting up often to sing—which included singing many of the hymns that came from the German chorales.

Even as teens and young adults in the 70s and 80s, my cousins and I had great fun doing this. It never occurred to us just how nerdy our singing hymns might appear to the general population. However, we didn’t sing just hymns—I remember singing songs such as “Bohemian Rhapsody” or pieces from musicals such as Pippin—but we always sang in at least 4-part harmony. The youngest cousins started as page-turners for my mom’s piano playing, learning from the bench before they were old enough to join in. When we reunited in song at Mom’s and an uncle’s services, it was as if we were doing what we had always done but with cousins moving into the places of director and accompanist.

My own music lessons began with piano and clarinet, but picked up vocally when we moved to a new town when I turned 10. With our family back in a Lutheran church again, Mom began to teach my brother and me—Sunday service after Sunday service—how to read and sing harmony from the liturgy and the hymns. So much of what I know about choral singing comes from first honing my sight-reading skills while singing hymns. Hymns have also helped me practice singing almost weekly since 1972, even during years when I do not participate in a choir.

Thanks to Mom, I always had an opportunity to sing while growing up, whether at home, in church, or through some group she was directing for my brother and me and our friends. Of course I also sang at school, but only through my freshman year in college. The hymn-singing is what has remained most constant for me.

And when I can, I sing the harmony in those hymns, week after week. Over time I’ve noticed the patterns of particular organists. For example, the organist playing for the church I attended in college always changed up the harmonies on the third verse while my church’s current organist usually varies the final verse. Until I joined the choir at church again in 2011, hymn-singing has been one of my only opportunities in adult life to sing harmony besides the three years in the 80s in another church choir and an earlier year (1990) with my current church choir. Singing harmony with hymns is to singing in choir as doing warm-up jogs are to running races or as writing in a journal is to formal writing—it is a very good way to practice skills even when you aren’t performing, so to speak.

As our society has transitioned to a post-Christian one—a society where a person who likes to sing hymns might not just be considered an average churchgoer but instead someone who should work in a church—so has the Church’s desire to be welcoming—as it should if it wants to remain relevant to all who hunger for God. We need to remove barriers that make others feel unwelcome. Yet at the same time we are also losing traditions, some strongly tied to eras when our ethnic traditions carried into how we “did” church services. Nonetheless, what feels inclusive to me most likely feels exclusive to someone raised outside my tradition.

I get it, but that doesn’t mean I like musical changes in the church service such as (only) the words of hymns being displayed on walls for us to sing or our hymnals showing just the melodies for many songs. For me so much joy has come from communal singing—in harmony.

Which means I better keep singing in a church choir. Trust me, though, when I say no one is going to pay me to do so as a profession. As Bach wrote at the bottom of each of his works, “S. D. G.”“Soli Deo Gloria” or glory to God alone. To get to sing to God—in harmony with others—is enough.

cbaptism1992Every time I go to church lately, I feel like crying. In a lot of ways, I’m not sure why. I suppose a good part of why tears form in my eyes is because I have so little contemplative time these days. It is so rare that I can just sit still and be alone—or somewhat alone—in my own head. And, well, there are burdens in my life these days that are heavy.

All these tears are almost enough to make me want to stay home from church. Isn’t that funny? The last place I want to be seen crying in public is in church. Can you tell that I am one of the “frozen chosen”? Yes, I prefer to keep my church cerebral, not emotional. Yet if you can’t allow yourself to cry in church, what good are your church and your faith?

I admit that it’s not really my church’s fault for this attitude, but no doubt many of the other people in those pews feel the same way. Our Scandinavian and German forbears didn’t take much stock in crying—or little things like physical contact or admitting weakness. Forgive the pun, but it’s a crying shame that more of us don’t reject our upbringing, despite knowing how unhealthy those attitudes really are. How often do we really tell others how things are? Not often, unless we really, really know them well. Even then, we tend to downplay the problems.

jbaptism1992Maybe that’s why I am so comforted by seeing family groups leaning into one another. This past Sunday I watched a six foot plus sixteen-year-old boy rest his head on his even taller father’s shoulder as they stood in church. Was he tired from having too much fun the night before or even just from being up on a Sunday morning? Did he have something heavy on his heart? Or was leaning together just part of how he experiences church?

And, in one of those recently too frequent moments where I swing from joy into sadness, tears filled my eyes. Despite how I want my heartaches to stay private, here I am telling my story to the world. I cried because my children weren’t there to lean on me nor could I lean on them. Our casual contact from Sundays past is a distant memory, not because they’ve left home, but because they don’t want to come with us.

It’s not out and out rejection of the faith of their parents. Just doubt, apathy, and the critical assessment of youth toward the foundations of previous generations.

“Nobody in our generation believes anymore,” I hear. In my head my voice responds, Tevye-like, “And this makes all these kids so happy?”

Just because certain traditions aren’t applied perfectly by previous generations, doesn’t make them invalid. Although the questions themselves are as old as our faith and well worth asking, staying away doesn’t make it easy to improve how things are done.

Previous generations would have insisted, “While you’re in my home, you’ll do as I say.”

jcbaptismcandles1992Me, as part of my own generation, I ponder whether forcing attendance is really a good way to demonstrate why my faith is valid or to show the initial love behind all the imperfect traditions and institutions based upon that love.

Yet, that doesn’t stop me from feeling a pang in my heart and acutely feeling their absence whenever our church leaders mention the importance of faith foundation. I’ve tried to build that cornerstone. I brought my babies to the baptismal font, to classes and services, placed the Bible in their hands, prayed with them, discussed the issues, but as long as I believe it’s my cornerstone to build, I am guilty, once again, of thinking I am the one in control.

1stcommunion2001Christ is the true cornerstone and I can only attempt to build upon that foundation. In the end, it’s up to Him. I just have to trust that, in the words of their baptisms, they are children of God and are marked with His cross forever.

It’s my job to pray—and to be ready to welcome them back to our fold whenever the day comes when—God willing and the creek don’t rise—they take up, again, the faith of their father and mother. How can I demonstrate the worth of attending church if, tears or no, I am not in the pews to hear God’s word myself?

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