Music

Canticle for Parish Ministry: Psalm #1

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Canticle for Parish Ministry: Psalm #1

Recently in a retreat with pastors in New Harmony, Indiana, I saw again the power of music to heal and restore. Pastors gathered there told stories about sacred objects in their lives and ministry and the remarkable musician, Ken Medema, would then respond in improvising a song on the spot for each person.  Often when the song ended there would be applause, sometimes laughter and other times dancing.  On a few occasions, there was sustained silence. We knew we had come to a place of holiness, a thin place, a space where the eternal presence of the divine had touched each one present in that room.  It was a sacred time of reflection and renewal.  Music gave us space to catch our spiritual breath.  Here we begin a series of reflections we will call “Canticles for Parish Ministry.”  Below is Psalm #1.

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In the movie “From Mao to Mozart: Isaac Stern in China” the internationally renowned, Polish-born, violinist addresses students in a master class in China: “What is music all about?” Stern asks and continues, “The instrument is only a means to an end; you don’t use music to play the violin, you use the violin to play music.” 

I think of the many times I have been fortunate enough to experience the music of God’s people of faith. These stories are abundant… they will be shared in future canticles. 

I recall the time a colleague was scheduled to lead a holy communion service early one Sunday morning.  He was late; people were waiting; I was angry. Then the few gathered to receive the eucharist heard laughter approaching.  Folks were coming up the stairs from the street into the sanctuary.  Soon our small group was overwhelmed by the arrival of a dozen or so persons from the neighborhood. My colleague, a young pastor “who didn’t know any better” had shared communion with persons sitting on porches or waiting for a store to open.  He then invited them to join us in the sanctuary for the service. You see, a congregation is the instrument, not the music.

Parishes are historically set in geographical bounds but in truth are not limited by space, the clock, or scheduled times of worship. Parishes cut cross the limits of time and space. I know of many small faith accountability groups that were begun over thirty years ago that still gather for meals, support and prayer… some gather weekly or monthly on-line.

Think of the music that baptized the streets of Minneapolis during the winter of 2026. Following the tragic deaths of Renee Nicole Good and Alex Pretti and the shooting of Julio Cesar Sosa-Celis, even then, amid tragedy, there was song.  Song from many congregations and from many with no religious commitment at all. During the terror that ICE agents reigned across the metro area, people marched and sang and laughed and gave witness as a choir that could not be muted by violence. Some of the songs had been practiced before in the pews or choir lofts of congregations. Some songs were familiar, but not all. New music was created.

The fortunate pastor knows she is doing more than “playing” an instrument (the congregation) at worship on Sunday mornings or in ministry each and every day. She knows that with enough practice, congregations are made ready to offer up a true and much needed canticle of faith in times of terror and in times of blessing.

In the movie, Stern offers: “Every time you take up the instrument, you are making a statement, your statement, and it must be a statement of faith, that you believe this is the way you want to speak…  Unless you feel that you must live with music, that music can say more than words, that music can mean more, that without music we are not alive, if you don’t feel all of that don’t be a musician.”

As pastor, as church member, if you don’t sense a congregation, a parish, can offer the music of the spheres, why be a pastor or member at all? Perhaps the primary task of pastor is to gather resources for the music of and by the parish. In my experience, the best examples of joy-filled music of faith often comes as a surprise after weeks of practice.  It is, more-often-than-not, played from the outside in rather than from the inside out.

What is God already doing all around you? Many anxious church bureaucrats seek to save the instruments (congregations) without knowing, seeing or hearing the music, the romance, and the offerings of the people. Many remain blind to the opportunities all around. 

Some turn away from an intended democracy of voices among members toward top-down management to control – for the short term.  Or they may try quick fixes imported from elsewhere. Maybe they turn to consulting services and coaching projects for “congregational development.” Theseoften completely miss, or filter out the music, that to be heard all around. A false hope for preferring the instrument rather than the music of the surrounding parish.  (See Geraldo Marti’s “The Church Must Abandon its Search for the Perfect Formula.[i])

I remember attending meetings where those around the table were asked to share a “glory sighting” experienced in recent days. I understood the purpose. However, it seemed so contrived.  It seemed an invitation to limit the real and abundant gifts all around. It was too small in theology, too trivial in scope. One glory sighting only?  Each time I was asked for my “glory sighting,” I thought of Elizabeth Barrett Browning’s words:

“Earth’s crammed with heaven,And every common bush afire with God,
But only he who sees takes off his shoes;
The rest sit round and pluck blackberries.”

We are experienced in turning congregations into instruments to be played while missing the continuing glory all around. There are benefits to “glory sightings” I guess – asking for one sighting may be a start, but it also too often turns into a narrow focus suggesting the pastor is a fixer and the coach is the expert. Congregational revitalization too often is sold as a solution to worried investors (denominational and congregational leaders). It seeks to better play the instrument, without asking what God’s music is, already in the hearts of those beyond these walls. It ends as a selling of premature funeral plans to those deaf to the music of the spheres.

Yale Divinity School theologian Willie James Jennings speaks of visiting a place where despair and futility was the accepted institutional analysis of members. Jennings spoke then of the joy of the discovery of the newness of God’s mercies discovered as the future was seen in new opportunities.  He reports that the members came to understand they had been “leaving a whole lot of unused Gospel lying all around!”

When I saw the movie about Isaac Stern’s visit to China, I thought of a comment made by Robert K. Greenleaf, who wrote about Servant Leadership. Visiting with Greenleaf many years earlier he said that being a leader is a little like playing the violin, if you can’t hear the music, you shouldn’t try to play the instrument.

Communities contain the essentials of the ongoing human/divine encounter. They are sustained by people who weave and reweave common lives. These are the ones who live the music. These are the music makers because they hear the music of lives shared in harmony. They welcome an ongoing rebirth of a commonweal, suffused with songs, shared stories, timely rituals, friendships, brokenness, tears, language, homes, economic and social artifacts and so much more. These are canticles of human co-existence. Here is the conviviality of abundant life… lived even in the most horrid of settings. 

Our vocations have been often updated by sighting the gifts of reciprocity and mutuality – dialogue, laughter, some tears and the gift of abundant joy and friendship. We have benefitted from the wisdom found in the approach known as Asset Based Community Development and our friendship with many practitioners, especially modern-day prophets like John McKnight and Jody Kretzmann. 

We will say more in future Psalms, from The Canticle for Parishes.  Stay tuned.  Share your thoughts at philipamerson.com.

Attached Below are images from the April 2026 We Belong retreat in New Harmony, Indiana. We weere learning the practice of Accompaniment. If you would like to know more about future events you may contact me at phil@belongingexchange.org.

ENDNOTES:

[i] Marti, Geraldo, “The Church Must Abandon its Search for the Perfect Formula,” in American Blindspot <reply+37rv9h&kxukl&&1d2ba7865550e339e32ead945ffe565f0f8adf82dc1dda3a827884f314f90eec@mg1.substack.com>

Music: Social Distancing isn’t for the Birds

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Music: Social Distancing is for the Birds

Song bird feeders are now empty, cleaned and stored until we have an “all clear.” Feeders have been taken down around the region. From Washington D.C., then west through Indiana, songbirds are endangered by a mysterious disease. Not long ago I could sit by a bird feeder, watch the congregation gathering there and hear dozens of songs and calls. Gold finches, sparrows, grosbeaks were common. Not all were song birds, but all were welcome at our feeder.

Then we were told that avian social distancing should be practiced. Bird feeders and birdbaths should be cleaned and left empty.

At one time from tiny chickadees to the proud redheaded Pileated Woodpeckers they would come. There was chatter. From downy to red-bellied, the woodpeckers came when not chiseling a nearby tree… or the eves on a house! Some of the birds would call or cry out from nearby limbs, others would sing glorious tunes, sometimes in a liturgical call and response. I admit to being less than happy when a cowbird flew in to feed. I knew they had bullied their way into a nest or two they did not construct, with a female laying eggs there. This, so that cowbird chicks might be incubated, hatched, fed and cared for by another more industrious bird. Some spring afternoons indigo buntings would stop by to feed on their way north.

Alas. Now silence. I miss the music and the chatter. I miss the surprise of a new visitor. My photography is barely amateur grade: still, I offer some evidence of the visitors. There were days I could count a dozen birds at the feeders. And another dozen or more waiting… Some politely waiting their turn… others just commandeering a place, pushing neighbors out. I miss the chatter of it all, the wonderful mix of guests at these feeders. I often could not predict the “pecking order” of the various varieties. Mostly I miss the noise they bring — especially the music. I feel I owe an apology to the birds or at least an explanation that I understand how they must feel. Do birds feel? Well, I suspect they do but that is another matter. I know humans do.

Gold Finch and Red Bud in Bloom

Birds are one thing. Even more, I miss the human music: the choirs, orchestras, brass bands, string ensembles, and even the cacophony of “Take Me Out to the Ball Game” during the seventh inning stretch at Wrigley Field. Public music was an essential part of life prior to the COVIC human-social-distancing we practiced. Many of our human “feeders” were closed down and empty. It has been a long time since I was physically present in worship and heard a choir sing, or sat at the opera and heard a dueling soprano and tenor blend their song.

Elaine and I retired in Bloomington in part because of the remarkable Jacobs Music school at Indiana University. Before COVID there were hundreds of concerts every year at the University. And these were augmented by community choirs, orchestras, festivals and impromptu music around town. A great student opera and local entertainment at the Bluebird club or the Lotus Festival were a possibility. I miss hearing Carrie Newcomer or Sylvia McNair singing in a local park or theater. I miss it all.

The lost chords of these months of pandemic will never be recovered. Lost forever. We are the poorer for it. The prospect of the new delta variant, or the next variant of the coronavirus (what is it, lambda?) continuing to deny this gift is hard to bear.

Music is soul mending. Highlights of my life were painted with music. Tears, laughter and new life understandings have emerged from the music of my journey. I have been blessed to hear the rich harmonies of Mennonite congregations in Northern Indiana, while listening to the orchestra at Chautauqua Institute, or reveling in one of many church choirs as they sang a Felix Mendelssohn or John Rutter piece. I have been transfixed on hearing Charles Webb or Jaebon Hwang master the Widor Toccata on the pipe organ. There were times when Ken Medema would improvise weaving story and song at the keyboard or Ed Kilbourne was adding his folk touches to enrich a story. There was the evening James Taylor had us up dancing at Red Rocks in Colorado.

Sorry birds, I can only guess you miss the music of others who congregate as well. There are now dozens of research studies that demonstrate music, especially choral singing, offer health benefits. Other studies show the power of listening to music in reducing stress, even lowering blood pressure. Might it be that the ugliness and meanness we see in our world might at least be somewhat mitigated with a little more music and less cable television? Let me just say that I look forward live music and singing with others soon. Social distancing isn’t even for the birds!

James Cone, Gaye Hudson and Other Difference Makers

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James Cone, Gaye Hudson and Other Difference Makers

I have come to understand that there is a rather simple human choice each of us can make.  It is this, will the generosity of a loving God be reflected in our lives?

In the past week two such difference makers for me, died.  Their names, James Cone – renown theologian, faculty member at Union Seminary in NYC and author of ground-breaking work on Black and Liberation theologies, and Gaye Hudson – elementary school teacher, musician and supporter/surrogate parent of students at Indiana University both passed away.

Gaye and James were in many ways different, and yet, in essential ways they were similar.  It is this — though both of them had reasons to live otherwise — they turned toward hope and healing as they lived their lives.

I remember the joy it was for me when James Cone would visit during my time in the administration at Garrett-Evangelical Theological Seminary or when we were attending various academic meetings together.  I would argue that more than any other writer in the last century, James Cone named the racism that constrained and corrupted the church in the United States.  James understood the way all of our institutions, including his own alma mater, Garrett-Evangelical, were diminished by the toxins of racial bigotry and discrimination. 

Still I knew him as a man of hope and… wait for it… JOY.  I can see that smile and loved the ease with which he shared a small laugh, a riddle, a pun, that betrayed an underlying sense of hope.  On more than one occasion, he expanded my ability to see past the fear-filled static and toxins of our society.  Even when his words began in anger, they found their way to the gift of transformation. John Robert McFarland writes meaningfully and beautifully of memories with his seminary  classmate James Cone — the difference maker (see: http://christinwinter.blogspot.com/).

Gaye Hudson was a member of First United Methodist Church in Bloomington, Indiana.  This is a church I served as pastor for almost a decade.  It was, and is, a congregation filled with remarkable folks — few more remarkable than Gaye.  For over thirty years she sang in the choir and for all of this time she was a friend to many.  Hundreds of students knew of Gaye’s care while in school.  She fed them, provided transportation, encouraged them, attended their recitals and on occasion slipped a little extra cash their way.  Some went on to teach; some became opera or recording stars; many were choral conductors, some wrote music and published books — ALL of them were in debt to their “dear friend Gaye.”

Gaye was the choir-mother — caring, challenging, sometimes lovingly disagreeing, anticipating the needs of others, and, yes, difference making.  At her funeral service on April 29th, the choir loft was overflowing with her “children.”  My, my, the music they made in her memory!  I suspect that nowhere in American — or the world for that matter — was music of praise and generosity more gloriously sung than yesterday in that sanctuary.

In a world too full of anger and blame, fear and shame, I give thanks for James Cone and Gaye Hudson, two folks who didn’t know one another, two who knew injustice and burdens, but they knew more, they knew the joy of living with generosity toward others.  I give thanks for these two who make a difference in my life.

 

The Gifts Behind Door #1408

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The Gifts Behind Door #1408

It is a short, rather boring, walk from the elevator to our Chicago apartment. Twenty-three paces.  We rarely meet anyone in the hallway.  Nor is there anything particularly unusual about the tan walls and dark carpet.

It is this very ordinariness that makes what sometimes happens in the hallway so remarkable.  The first time it occurred I was rushing to bring in groceries.  I noticed the music — “what fine music,” I thought.  It was a piano sonata, probably on the radio or a recording.  Nice.

Shortly afterward, I heard the music behind the door again.  Chopin, I thought… and just then, the piano music abruptly stopped, then began again a few measures earlier. 

This wasn’t a recording at all!  There was an actual pianist — and a talented one at that — practicing in #1408.  It was my special gift, each time I walked past and listened to the artist at practice.  I suspect she didn’t know she was gifting me or any of the others of us who passed by. 

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The Gifts Behind Door #1408

Then one afternoon, a violin was added to the piano.  On another occasion there was a flute.  Then I noticed a few times when the pianist wasn’t as accomplished. 

[I am both slow-witted and a bit dull, you see, because it took me weeks to understand that this was the apartment of a music teacher.  Of course, of course, there is a college of music nearby our apartment.  Students, with differing skills and who play various instruments were coming for lessons.] 

On one occasion, there was such a marvelous combination of violin and piano that I confess I stood in the hallway and luxuriated at the fine, hidden away, performance for several minutes.  So exceptional were the musical gifts being practiced behind the door they demanded my slowing down and listening. That is when I first met one of my neighbors.  A young woman.  We exchanged greetings.  She smiled, and stood with me for a moment, listening.  “Isn’t this wonderful” she said as she moved on to her apartment. 

The doorway to #1408 offers me a valuable lesson in a world chock-full of anonymous, mundane interactions.  All around — just on the other side of this anonymity, this troubling news and fear-filled analysis — there is often beauty that I otherwise tend to miss.  There is teaching and learning that is going on.  There are glorious gifts waiting to be heard, to be seen, to be understood or simply appreciated.  Sometimes the gift is offered as a solo, sometimes it is more than one who is sharing.

Then it happened, one afternoon, I met her, the pianist, the teacher. 

We were leaving our apartments at the same time.  She was almost as I had imagined her to be.  Petite, handsome, she was moving carefully to close her door, a violin case in her hand.  When I told her how I appreciated the music emanating from her apartment, she seemed surprised, a little worried.  “I hope my music isn’t bothering you,” she said.  “Bothering?” I reacted.  “Not at all!  Every time I leave the elevator on the 14th floor, I hope you will be playing.  It is the best part of returning.”

I still don’t know her name — this teacher, this beauty maker.  That will be remedied one day soon, I will make certain to learn more at the right time.  For now, even though we are still moving in anonymous worlds, I receive her gift as a reminder that my senses are often too dull to receive other offerings.

What gifts around us do we miss each day?  What gifts might we be sharing that we are unaware of at the time?  Where are there human and transcendent notes of joy and hope that are muted by the “normal.”

I find that by passing my neighbor’s apartment, even when there is no music, I am reminded to consider such questions — and I am able to approach my day with an anticipation of the gifts all around that I often otherwise miss.

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(Our primary residence is in Bloomington, Indiana: we also keep an apartment in Chicago.  We love both cities and because we have a couple of grandsons in Chicago, well…)