Early In the Morning…

Sunday our congregation sang Holy, Holy, Holy. One of the classics. The first song in the Baptist Hymnal, number 5 in the Mennonite Hymnal (The red one, it’s number 120 in the blue one)…

Maybe I do know a little too much about hymnals.

…and magically appearing on the screens in front of me in our modern churches.

Not that I need it printed anywhere. My face spent so much time in that red hymnal mentioned above, like many raised in a pew, I can close my eyes and sing it by heart. I can, if I try, still hear the powerful rich tenor of my pastor from childhood ringing out those phrases. I can hear my mother’s soprano and the hint of an *Amish chorus in the many voices around me as they let their notes drag and slide just a little as the melody rose and fell. The shaped notes, the crisp, smooth white pages, the hope that we would sing the verse I liked most and the freedom to belt it out as loud as I could, because the people around me were.

I miss that. In churches today, the band, the microphones, the volume is so intense that I can barely hear any voices around me. Granted, many of them don’t want to be heard and that’s a shame. Not because the world is missing out on their stellar voices, but because they are missing out on unfettered praise. Our worship leader will sometimes quiet the praise team, the instruments will go silent and he will pull the microphone away and lead with his arms instead of his voice. The congregation responds for a moment and then fades until he swings that arm again. Sing! They are shy of their own voices, it is new to them to hear themselves sing. My heart breaks a little as I realize their sudden awareness and fear of the sound of their own song.

This Sunday I let the words join me in worshiping and I was challenged with this phrase: “…early in the morning, my song shall rise to Thee.”

I asked myself what song I am singing. What is my deep yearning, my exultant praise and my focused thought as I rise to meet Him each day? My song is sung, one way or another, but am I singing something He wants to hear, or am I simply stuttering a chorus that has all the right words in it, but without my heart to lift or harmonize. What is my song? Is it prayers for others, is it joy in His presence, quiet (sometimes tearful) surrender to His amazing Truth, or is it fuzzy recognition that He’s around or distracted mutterings of oh yeah, I was spending time with God not trying to figure out what to make for dinner tomorrow? Every day, whatever portion of it we dedicate to God, we bring Him our song. My intention is always to bring Him something lovely, but not every day do I feel lovely.

Not everyday.

Some days all I have is my regret. Some days my song is nothing but silence, the words are frozen to my heart and I can find nothing in myself to warm them. I’m not always able to construct a melody and those mornings when the frost seems colder than the sun is warm, I am shy of my own voice and I don’t like the sound of my own song.

He is still waiting, listening, smiling down with a heart of warmth singing over me, blending my best and worst with His own melody. He still hears me, He still longs for me, rejoices in whatever I bring to the alter, and unlike the wires and speakers and amplifiers at church, He doesn’t overpower my unkempt offering.

He redeems it.

He finds a way to make even my sharps and flats ring with His sweet chords of perfection. My timing is off, my rhythm unsteady, my voice falters, and my throat squeaks, but He is content to join me.

Holy, Holy, Holy! He lifts me to His standard…

…and becomes my song.

Psalm 92:1-2 “It is good to give thanks to the Lord And to sing praises to Your name, O Most High; To declare your lovingkindness in the morning And Your faithfulness by night,”

*I grew up in a Mennonite church, among many saints (including my parents) who grew up in the Amish church.