The bishop of our diocese published a very loving letter this week, attaching a very comprehensive set of guidelines for churches in Oregon. (https://www.diocese-oregon.org/wp-content/uploads/2020/05/Reengaging_English_20200518.pdf?fbclid=IwAR3LBTyI0GsJxPOjDOdH-Rs9xqXt6N3ob8HrW73zy84wE0G-E3uVPXAOxJc)
Feel free not to click on that link.
The sentence that impacted me the most is:
“Singing provides a sustained, exceptional method of carrying virus particulates in the air. Because of this congregational singing is prohibited.”
Ah. My entire faith-expression has aways been about singing. Beginning with Mother sitting at the piano with me, a tiny child, singing Christmas carols.
Over the years, I have accumulated a large collection of hymnals from a many denominations. The oldest is a tiny 1808 one published by the Diocese of New York. I picture a beautifully-dressed woman of that time walking down the aisle of St. Thomas on Fifth Avenue with it tucked into her reticule.
In recent years, my prayer has been, “Dear God, remember the hymns I have sung.”
When I was a little girl, I had this idea that when I died and stood before God hoping to be admitted to heaven that he would take one look at me and say, “I have forgotten all the things you worried about. I only remember the hymns you sang to me all your life. Come in.”
Also in recent years, I have considered when would be the right time for me to retire from my church choir. I originally thought when I turned 75. That was a couple of years ago and I just kept on keeping on. I don’t add much, musically speaking, but I don’t subtract much either.
When I leave some place, I generally just slip out unnoticed. I have always done that. Parties. Wedding receptions. States. That is how I thought I would leave choir. Just stop showing up. Taking my leave properly would have revealed me to be the sentimental old fool I am.
Now, I think it may already have happened. Right at the beginning of this unexpected hiatus.
If and whenever we can sing again, I just won’t be there. I will need to turn in some music and retrieve my amethyst cross from the pocket of my choir vestments. Otherwise, I will have already slipped out in my usual way of doing things.
A couple of years ago, I sang with a community chorus. One of the pieces we sang was “I Have Had Singing,” by Stephen Sametz. The words were taken from an interview with Fred Mitchell, an 85-year-old horseman from Akenfield, England.
“In 1961, Ronald Bly visited the village (pop. 298) in order to record tales of the lives of English country laborers — farmers, pigmen, grave diggers, fruit pickers and the like — vanishing breeds in the face of progress. He was startled by the harshness and beauty of their lives.”
“The singing.
There was so much singing then,
and this was my pleasure too.
We all sang,
Oh, the chapels were full of singing,
Always singing, singing;
Here I lie.
I have had pleasure enough,
I have had singing.”
Ah. it is enough.