Sadly, many of our conversations about the church’s hymnody these days take place in sour-spirited debates about worship styles and liturgical formats. In such debates, Christian hymnody is frequently treated as little more than an expendable liturgical component, the antiquity of which has made it anachronistic in light of current liturgical developments.
Personally, I have remained a staunch pacifist in the worship wars. Having been called upon to facilitate both “contemporary” and “traditional” worship over the last fifteen years (and, believe me, I don’t know what those adjectives mean any more than you do), I have had no choice but to craft a personal ecclesiology that makes room for both the ancient and the modern (or postmodern).
Last week, however, I experienced something that brought me back to the preciousness and power of the church’s historical hymnody. Pull up a chair, because I’d like to share the experience with you.
As some of you know, my father, who is a retired United Methodist pastor in the Western Pennsylvania Annual Conference, is in the midst of an Alzheimer’s journey. I describe it as a journey because that is precisely what it is. To make reference to it only as a “disease” would be to truncate what my father and my entire family have experienced over the last eight or nine years.
As I have said many times, my dad is my hero. Beyond that, he’s the man I want to be when I grow up. He taught me how to live and love, how to worship and pray, how to throw a baseball and stop the bleeding after a bad shaving experience. Most of all, through his discipleship, he taught me about the urgency of maintaining consistency between who I am in church and who I am everyplace else. To put it as simply as I can put it, my dad is the best man I know. Not being able to talk with him the way I used to is one of the most difficult and painful things that I have ever had to face.
That said, I’m still very grateful to God that Dad’s still here. Still laughing. Still loving. Still giving to us the chance to love him back, albeit in a different way and with a different kind of care.
Having experienced a recent stay in the hospital, Dad is currently undergoing a two-week time of physical rehabilitation at a nursing home. On Friday of last week, I spent the day with him there. Interestingly, in the nursing home setting, Dad goes into what I like to call “pastoral mode,” no doubt hearkening back to familiar patterns of pastoral care that are woven into the very fabric of his spiritual and vocational DNA.
Case in point, when I walked into the nursing home on Friday, I found Dad sitting beside a non-responsive and wheelchair-bound man, holding his hand and assuring him of God’s love and care. It made me wonder if Dad, in his mind’s current configuration, experiences regular glimpses of the thousands of nursing home visits that he made throughout his 42-year ministry.
Dad and I had lunch together on Friday. Then we took a long walk. Then we went back to his room for some rest and conversation. Something (or, perhaps more appropriately, someONE) inspired me to take a hymnal to the nursing home that day. I had no plans to use the hymnal. Something just felt right about bringing it with me.
The hymnal that I carried that day had a certain sentimental value to it. It was a commemorative hymnal from United Methodism’s 1980 General Conference in Indianapolis, Indiana. Dad, who was a member of Western Pennsylvania’s delegation for that general conference, purchased the hymnal and had all the members of the delegation sign it. I felt like I had a significant piece of history in my hands that day.
As we sat in Dad’s room, an impulse suddenly formed within me when I saw the hymnal lying on his dresser.
“Dad,” I said, “do you want to make some music together for a little while?”
“Music?”
“Yeah. I brought a hymnal, and I thought it might do us both some good to spend some time singing the faith together. I remember how you used to love to sing the hymns in church and even at home. You remember that, don’t you?”
“Sure I do. Those were great days of singing.”
“Well then, let’s make some music together this afternoon.”
We started with a hymn (written by Fanny Crosby) that I remember hearing Dad sing hundreds of times as he showered, shaved, and got dressed in the morning:
To God be the glory great things he has done
So loved he the world that he gave us his Son
Who yielded his life an atonement for sin
And opened the lifegate that all may go in
Praise the Lord! Praise the Lord! Let the earth hear his voice.
Praise the Lord! Praise the Lord! Let the people rejoice!
O come to the Father through Jesus the Son
And give him the glory, great things he has done
I sang the hymn quietly, and Dad did an interesting thing: Because it is difficult for him to process large collections of words, he began to whistle. Sweetly and perfectly, he whistled every note of the hymn. In a sense, I provided the vocals and Dad provided the instrumentation! We chuckled at the thought of what people must have thought as they walked by the room. The Park boys were holding an impromptu father-son hymn sing, and all was right in the world.
From there, we moved to a more regal and majestic selection: “Immortal, Invisible, God Only Wise.” (Dad stood up as he whistled that one, as though he sensed that the worship of God occasionally demands the inconvenient reverence of standing.) As I sang the third verse of that hymn, I could not help but think about Dad’s current journey:
To all, life thou givest, to both great and small
In all life thou livest, the true life of all
We blossom and flourish as leaves on the tree
And wither and perish but naught changeth thee
For nearly forty-five minutes, we leafed through the pages of that hymnal, singing and whistling our way through a good portion of the church’s rich hymnody. We sang hymns that are vibrantly doxological (“Praise to the Lord, the Almighty, the King of Creation…”); hymns that are poetically soteriological (“What a fellowship, what a joy divine, leaning on the everlasting arms…”); hymns that are deeply penitential and confessional (”Just as I am without one plea, but that thy blood was shed for me…); and hymns that give expression to the steadfastness of God’s presence in days of hardship and suffering (“Precious Lord, take my hand, lead me on, let me stand. I am tired, I am weak, I am worn. Through the storm, through the night, lead me on to the light. Take my hand, precious Lord, lead me home.”)
After a long while, Dad became very sleepy, as he often does in the afternoons.
“Dad,” I said, “if you want to take a nap, go ahead and climb into bed. I won’t be offended at all. I’ll just keep singing for a while.”
“I think I might do that,” he said.
I helped him out of his shoes and into his slippers. He was asleep before his head hit the pillow.
As my father slept, I sang these words as tears began to stream down my cheeks:
Abide with me; fast falls the eventide
the darkness deepens; Lord with me abide
When other helpers fail and comforts flee
Help of the helpless, O abide with me
It was one of the most tender moments of my life—a kairotic intersection of the eternal and the everyday, as a grateful son sang and prayed a hymn of faith over the man who had taught him that faith.
The hymns became something more than liturgy to me that day. They became language. MY language. OUR language. A language that I am able to share with my father, even when spoken communication is difficult to render. It is a language to be cherished, sung, prayed, and even whistled.
The church’s hymnody has never meant more to me than it did on Friday afternoon. As I type these words, I am looking at Dad’s hymnal which is currently on my desk.
And I am whistling.
Eric:
your visit to your dad brought back fond memories of when your parents were Homestead First church’s youth leaders. I would have been in seventh or eighth grade at the time but I still remember both of them fondly and cherish what they taught me. My prayers have been with your parents through these years of trial. My dad also traveled the alzheimer journey.
Marilyn
Eric
Every morning when I get to work I click on your blog. (I have it in my favorites). I check during the day from time to time to see if you have written something new. As in your sermons that I was so privileged to hear, your words are so special and relatable. I felt the urge to send you this comment this morning after reading the beautiful sharing of your time with your father. Tears fill my eyes as I write this. You and your Dad both exemply the true meaning of love between God, Dad and Son. You and your family are in our prayers. Give our love to Tara. You are missed good neighbor.
“Therefore, do not be foolish, but understand what the Lord’s will is . . . .be filled with the Spirit. Speak to one another with psalms, hymns and spiritual songs. Sing and make music in your heart to the Lord, always giving thanks to God the Father for everything in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ.”
You were speaking the language of God. Thank you, Eric, for allowing us to evidence your obedience to Scripture through your daily walk. “Do not merely listen to the word and so deceive yourselves. Do what it says.” And may God be glorified by your testimony that strongly points to God’s faithfulness to His children through necessary suffering. “I know, O Lord, that your laws are righteous, and in faithfulness you have afflicted me.” Everything God does is right and He brings necessary suffering into our lives in order to perfect us. May you continue “to go and make disciples” through your spoken and written words and by your daily walk . . .Sheila
In addition to this beautiful experience that you and your dad shared, I have really been amazed by the notion that while your father is on a journey that probably includes a lot and reflection upon what he can no longer do, God still sees him as fully capable of furthering his kingdom. Imagine how many times during his stay there that he is touching the lives of those that can no longer communicate. What a purpose - continuing to share love with others.
What beautiful writing and what a beautiful story you have to tell. Thank you for sharing these moments with so many of us. We deal with such difficult issues every day and there is nothing that sooths our mind and our soul the way that music does. That time of sharing with your dad will remain with him in his subconscious forever, even if he can’t relate it to anyone. It’s like the times mothers share in singing to their little children, it gives peace and comfort to both, even though the baby can’t sing a word. The Lord has a way of cradling both in His arms and gives life to both because of the music and love that is shared. What a blessing you are.
Nothing soothes the soul like music. Music is the heartbeat of the soul. Thanks for sharing one of life’s most precious moments. God bless.
Eric,
Sometimes your blogging hits me at the oddest moments (in a very good and needed way).
I’m traveling for business in Chicago. I just finished lunch and thought I’d get caught up on our bloggage.
I’ve enjoyed your other recent posts - but this one pushed me over the edge.
It moved me so very much. Thank you for sharing your very precious moment with us.
As you might imagine, this story had a huge impact on me having recently seen your Dad at that wonderful worship/celebration service.
I’ll never forget that service and how incredible it was. But as you witnessed as well, it was nothing short of magical watching your dad sing those hymns as if every word was the most important word coming out of his mouth (even if they weren’t the right words). Watching him sway… and wave his hands… and sing loudly and beautifully - with those glances down to your Mom…with the biggest smile I’ve seen on ANYONE’s face in years… was so moving it brought me to tears during that service several times (and doggone it, I have tears again…)
I never saw a man so full of God’s love than when I saw him sing and hold hands with your Mom. I’ll never, ever forget that.
Sooooo… easily picturing you two together in the story above is just… special. What a treat, and a blessing.
Thank you for this beautiful story.
dfm.
Thank you for sharing. It is so moving to see God at work in your Dad as he shares God’s message to those around him, who might not have otherwise received. Every path is planned and there is no coincidence….only “God-incidences”. How lucky he is to have a son, who God placed in his life, to provide the vocal so he could participate in the instrumentation. What a testimony…what a blessing. Thanks, Eric.
At the urging of Dear Tara, I came to this place prepared for something unusual, moving, and candid! Thank you for giving us a glimpse of your heart, a view of what it is that moves you in unusual ways. I pictured you holding your dad, rocking him to sleep, as you sang those sweet words of familiar songs, that fuel your dad in ways that God alone knows.
Grace is yours, my friend~
B~
Bless you, brother. And your father.
Hi Eric,
Just finished talking with your Mom - one of our special sharing phone times - and she mentioned this blog to me and wanted to be sure that I saw it. It is truly special- as are all of you. Just want you to know how much this blog means to me. Thanks for sharing. I don’t mean for this to end up on your blog page but didn’t know how else to let you know.
Bless you and your family.
Love , hugs, and prayers,
Betsy
Hi Eric,
Just finished one of our special sharing phone calls with your mom. She wanted to be sure that I saw this blog. I can surely visualize and hear this event. I wanted to tell you how special you and your family are to me. So many special memories. I don’t mean for this to end up on your page on the computer but didn’t know how else to let you know.
Love prayers and hugs,
Betsy
Tripped across your blog this AM. Aren’t the urgings of our Father amazing. I grew up in the Washington District. I remember your Dad when they were at West Washington and he was a guest speaker at our church (Liberty). He was a guest at my parents table one evening and years later, whe I met up with you all again at Grace in Indiana-he remembered it! Then, years later our paths crossed again at St. Pauls, when he was Sr. Pastor there. I remember you as a guest speaker and how proud your father and mother were. I was so pleased to hear your were now DS at Washington, where my parents still live.
Seems we now share something else neither of us would have chose-our fathers have dementia and are slowly leaving us. Our prayers are with you, your mom and the rest of the family. Know that burdens shared are also made more bearable and that even in this bittersweet time, like the story you shared, our Father is working in ways we would have never imagined. Through it all, isn’t he gracious?!?!
Eric…I haven’t been around the blog world lately, but something (or someONE) led me here today. I sit with melancholy tears of joy in my eyes as I reflect on your time with your dad, your ministry and mine, and life…abundantly here and eternally with Him. Thanks for the grounding…
Eric, wow. This blog brought tears of joy and peace. You will treasure those moments you have spent with your dad. Your dad is a dear man and you have been blessed to share the blessings with him. Thank you for blessing me tonight with this day in your life.