Lyrics to Hold Onto--December 15, 2021

Lyrics to Hold Onto--December 15, 2021

"The choice may have been mistaken, the choosing was not... you keep moving on." (Sunday in the Park with George)

"Nice is different than good." (Into the Woods)

"You're always sorry, you're always grateful, you're always wondering what might have been... then she walks in." (Company)

In recent weeks, fans of musical theater have been mourning the passing of the great lyricist and music writer, Stephen Sondheim. And now with a remake of West Side Story, for which he wrote lyrics, out in theaters, lots of people are being reintroduced to the poetry and images and wordplay that came from his mind. And while I'm no expert on his musicals, there are more than a few of his lines that keep coming back to me.

In fact, I will confess that on a number of occasions in the last several weeks, I've been digging up old recordings I have, or hunting for videos on the internet, of some of those songs that keep coming back.  I'm not sure why, exactly, other than that somehow it is good to hear those old familiar words again, even when they are not exactly cheerful or purely comprised of unicorns and rainbows (Sondheim never runs from the sadness of life, I must admit).  But somehow, hearing the old words, the words that have stayed stuck in the back recesses of my mind for decades in some cases, helps me these days. It's not like I go looking for specific advice in my life by trying to decipher hidden messages in songs from musicals.  I don't say to myself, "What should I do about my investment portfolio?" and then consult the score of "A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum," or wonder, "Should I get a haircut?" before poring over the lyrics from "Sweeney Todd" for advice.  But somehow the lyrics that have meant something to me before speak again, and I keep holding onto them, even if I'm not quite sure why.

I want to ask something similar of us today, but with the lyrics of the songs from Scripture that keep coming back to us in this season.  I don't think I had thought of the Bible as a musical much when I was a kid or even a college student--too often, the Bible was presented as something like a heavenly math textbook where sample problems were given and lessons were taught, and then you were supposed to do the rest on your own as your spiritual homework.  But truthfully, a lot more of the Scriptures have the feel and flow of a musical, where stories unfold with periodic interruptions from a chorus of angels, or a soliloquy of lament, or a ballad of praise and wonder.  Especially in this season of Advent, we are reminded again and again of those songs, whether it's the ancient poetry of prophets like Isaiah or Zephaniah, or the spontaneous songs of Zechariah or Mary in the opening chapter of Luke, or the chorus from the angels on the night of Jesus' birth.  And again and again, the lyrics come back to us as something to hold onto when other words fail us.

"Comfort, O comfort my people..." (Isaiah 40:1)

"Surely God is my salvation; I will trust and will not be afraid, for the LORD GOD is my strength and my might..." (Isaiah 12:2)

"I will save the lame and gather the outcast... I will bring you home, and the time when I gather you..." (Zephaniah 3:19-20)

"In the tender compassion of our God, the dawn from on high will break upon us..." (Zechariah's song in Luke 1)

"You have fed the hungry with good things, and sent the rich away empty..." (Mary's song in Luke 1)

The words keep coming back to us--in my tradition, they are woven into our worship on Sundays, especially in this season.  They aren't always preached on, or given extensive commentary or explanation, but they sit there at the back of our mind, like song lyrics that have been ingrained into our memory.  

And they are there, not so much to give us specific advice for what to do today, but to remind us of the story in which we are caught up.  They are lyrics to hold onto, to remind us of the direction of our hope, when the other things vying for our trust turn out to be unreliable.  We keep coming back to those songs because they remind us that our hope isn't in a day the Dow Jones breaks another record or your 401(k) hits a new high, but in something bigger, for all creation, where at last we are at home and at peace.  We keep coming back to these songs to remind us that the goal of Christmas isn't for us to have the perfect celebration, or put on the nicest meal, or find the ideal gift for a loved one--but rather, Christmas is about the lengths God has gone to in order to reach us, reclaim us, and restore all things in creation.  That awareness might not immediately give you a "helpful life lesson" for what to do with a particular problem at work or a trouble relationship with a friend, but it does have a way of reminding us who and what we are.  We need the lyrics of those ancient songs, even if we don't quite know why.

So today, spend time in the ancient musical songbook of this season.  When we gather in worship, listen with new ears to Mary's song, or read through Zechariah's praise of God and direction to his infant son in Luke 1.  Read the visions of the prophets and just let them sit there in your mind, stewing like soup or mulling like cider, until they become a part of you. Let the poetry of wolves and lambs lying down together capture your imagination.  Let the imagery of a peaceable kingdom shape the trajectory of your hope.  Let Mary's praise of a God who pulls down the bullies from their thrones and lifts up the lowly remind you of the character of that God.  Hold onto those songs, until they become a part of you.

And then, let life come at us as it will.  With the lyrics of those inspired voices at the back of our mind, we will know how best to tune out the angry noise of the world around us, and to hear more clearly the melody of God's new creation rising above the din.

Lord God, thank you for the songs your people have sung--which you inspired in the first place--which remind us who we are.  Let us keep them with us today, as we head into the world to which you send us.