hymns, vol. 1, no. 5: how can i keep from singing?

Description

THE COLOR OF EVERYTHING-NESS

What is hope? The exhausted endurance of present suffering and a desperate patience for better times ahead? An ever-fading spark and shadow at the end of the tunnel, one that just barely inspires the however-futile attempt to put one foot in front of the other? A spectral illusion given only to fools, children, and dreamers?

Or is hope a white light in the distance so brilliant that it illuminates even the darkness of today? Can it be a promise whose truth holds you in the palm of its outstretched hand and whispers that this too shall pass? Does hope’s anticipation and expectation of the future beckon with a foretasting of beatitude breaking into the present even now, like a perfectly blue sky and the most gentle warmth of the sun weeks before the thaw?

The new life that dawned in Jesus’ incarnation, pierced sin and darkness in his death, and radiated throughout all creation in his resurrection, ascension, and the sending of his Spirit will indeed reach its fullness one day. On that day, we will see color like we have never seen it. We will laugh with our spirits and taste from the tree of life. All the blind will see and the deaf will hear, and every pain and suffering and struggle and dis-ease will be redeemed and even glorified. We will be drawn into God himself, who will be all in all. And he himself will see to it that every tear is wiped away as he welcomes his prodigal children home.

This day may be beyond time and space, and it’s certainly beyond the limited confines of linear thoughts and black-or-white analysis. But perhaps it can be glimpsed even still. Perhaps it breaks in during those moments of feeling fully alive, those moments when we give ourselves entirely away in the present moment. Maybe it emerges in the rhythm of a heartbeat and the sheer joy of good news. It makes itself known in the way a sunset shatters your plans and makes you gasp for the glory of God. It’s when you remember that your first name is Love, and it’s when you become just a little bit more who you have always been.

In music, perhaps it’s color. It’s the layering of sound and harmonies and rhythms in such a way that it all somehow fits, and you intuit a deep knowing that everything belongs. It’s the way a chord rings and sustains itself through time, aching for a resolution that arrives precisely at the right moment of rest. It’s the tender care of a whispered pianissimo and a robust forte and a triumphant fortissimo, all to return home to silence once again. 

This arrangement of how can i keep from singing is a hymn to this hope. It begins with the most gentle, eyes-closed, singing-to-yourself verse of a folk song that gets wrapped up in the warmest embrace of a hug. But then something happens. A quiet heartbeat animates the song from the highest heavens, and time begins to stretch and expand and almost disappear. Layer over layer become a rainbow of sound that spins you by the hand, and all seems to move further up and further in until a moment when — just as the dance becomes almost too much to cry out for joy — the once far-off hymn bursts forth in triumph and worship and jubilant praise and rings its victory here-and-now. And, in one pregnant moment, it holds. And it waits. It suspends itself in time until we find ourselves exactly where we started: in the hope of the present moment. We return once again to what has always been before us, but perhaps this time we see it in more radiant color. Perhaps we listen across the silence as if hearing birdsong on that very first morning. Perhaps we remember the story and its goodness. Perhaps we rest and remember that one day this rest will be complete. And perhaps we really do hope — in faith — for the everything-ness of Love.