Home : The Voice : February 2002 : Church Music

Church Music

by Bob Millard

A Small Church and the Combo Organist

In keeping with this issue's humor theme, I am reminded of that verse I'm almost certain is found in Paul's Epistle to the Filipinos, which says, "He who laughs last, may laugh best, but probably isn't the brightest bulb on the tree." This is another way of reminding us that forbearance is the milk of human kindness.

Which, as you might expect, brings to mind a story.

Many years ago money was tight in a small, struggling church I attended. That church had been the proud mother of numerous thriving suburban churches, and each had taken a sizable chunk of the church endowment when they left.

A small remnant stayed behind with a depleted giving base, and no hope for regeneration with a pastor who was a fair chaplain, but often preached entire sermons without committing the sin of a complete sentence, much less a coherent thought.

Those were the high points.

The pastor left abruptly when the district quit underwriting his salary. Just about all the little old church could afford was weak coffee and schisms. The only organist willing to play for the pittance offered was the self-taught keyboardist from a rock 'n' country motel lounge band.

For the first six months or so Combo Joe the organist came dragging into church looking hung over, usually wearing slightly slept-in stage clothes beneath the robe, to flog the classics of Reformation hymnody with our nice old pipe organ. Studio musicians call individual dissonant notes 'clams,' and his playing for the church was a veritable stew pot of chowder.

Yet we suffered in silence and encouraged him as he boldly attacked an unfamiliar repertoire, playing it to a draw, if not defeating it outright. In light of our own failings, who could cast the first stone?

At length he began to keep company with a young woman from the congregation. When he subsequently quit drinking and joined the church he was seized by a grim seriosity. He took great pains to master the masters of church music—at least it was painful from where I sat.

His newfound fervor inevitably led to an organ recital one hot late summer Sunday afternoon. Bach was his announced victim. Ruling elders, Stephen ministers, and his family—and not all of them—attended. Suffice it to say sobriety added crispness to his clams without disturbing his freewheeling sense of time signatures.

Our organist was deeply disappointed with the turnout. And as he by then chaired the church council, he later presided over the monthly secretaries report, which included a post mortem on his recital.

"The program of organ music held on such-and-such date was poorly attended," she read, ashamedly. The organist took this to heart; his countenance reflecting self-critical judgment that, had it not been generally in keeping with denominational theology, suggested major situational depression.

But God loves an optimist, doesn't he? And the quality of mercy is not strained.

"I move the report be amended," said an optimist, "Let it read: The program of organ music held on such-and-such date was well attended by a small number of people."

The motion carried by relieved acclamation.

It may cost only a few kind words to make someone feel better, and it's always worthwhile. The look on our organist's face was worth a million dollars.

Creche Conundrun

There's a more recent story I want to share, and like many of my columns it bears tenuous relation to church music, but here goes.

My nine-year-old daughter Anna sings with three choirs: the church youth choir, the Blair School of Music young people's choir, and her fourth grade school choir. She had six or eight major performances packed into the ten days before Christmas, many including solos for her. She was distracted prior to these concerts, walking around the house singing her parts for the various performances, and practicing her lines for the church children's pageant.

Meanwhile, the figures from our miniature crèche—The 'Activity' Scene, according to our almost-fiveyear- old John Edwin—contained a hand painted Holy Family, shepherds and Three Kings, all about the same size as John's collection of promotional Burger King action figures. Key religious figures kept disappearing from their grotto in the bookcase next to the TV, sometimes replaced by the likes of Bilbo Baggins, Darth Vader, and Shreck.

The day before a big choir performance Anna's mother stopped her in the hall to inquire, "Anna, do you know what happened to the baby Jesus?"

Steeped in seasonal theology, Anna stopped to consider her answer.

"Well," Anna replied, seriously. "He was born of the Virgin Mary, crucified, dead and buried, and on the third day he arose from the dead."

"No!" my wife replied. "I mean the baby Jesus from our Nativity Scene. Have you seen him?"

"Oh, Him," Anna said, with a dismissive wave of her hand. "I have no idea what happened to Him."

And that's life in the third millennium.

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