I am very grateful this morning for the hard work and loving commitment of the DePauw Chamber Singers and St. Andrew’s congregation. Together, they created an opportunity for worship last night in the homey sanctuary on Seminary Street, a festival of “Lessons and Carols” at the end of a long day.
I made Elise come along with me for the service, bribing her with some hot chocolate from McDonald’s. So at 6:50 pm, there the two of us sat near the back of St. Andrew’s sanctuary, the service bulletin sitting beside me, the two of us with our hands cupped around our hot chocolate, silently sitting. Five minutes later, Albrecht, the organist at St. Andrew’s began to play in the loft, the reverential tones of medieval Christmas hymns reverberating off wood and stone. By the start of the service, the lights were slightly dimmed and the candles flickered up on the chancel and in the windows. A young girl stepped forward holding a candle, encouraged by her mother to take her place. She walked the short space between her pew and the front. And then she waited.
She waited as Albrecht continued to play and as the chamber singers shuffled into the balcony. The music stopped for a moment. Then the chamber singers filled the whole space with song, a choral prelude to usher us into the evening.
All the while the young girl stood in front of us all, holding a single candle delicately, waiting her turn. When the time finally came, she opened her mouth and a soft song of grace came forth. Everyone naturally hushed themselves, letting the quiet and her voice do their work of easing us into something tender and calm.
By the time it would all be over, there would be much more singing, much of it boisterous and jubilant, but some of it as quiet as the young girl. Later in the service, the chamber singers would file down out of the loft and up to the chancel, where they too would stand with candles in hand, held just below their faces. And acapella they would proclaim the Christmas gospel with echoing Latin.
Lux
calida gravisque pura velut aurum
et canunt angeli molliter
moda natum
(Light, warm and heavy as pure gold and the angels sing softly to the new-born baby)
Their faces full of those two emotions that mingle and mix in our Advent hymns: adoration and longing.
Somewhere here something happened. My daughter, so prone now to avoid talking with me let alone letting me hold her, nestled up closer to me. And as the singers sang in the darkness, I felt both Elise and myself do something maybe we hadn’t done much of that day. We exhaled. We let out all the breath in our lungs, our faces relaxing along with our shoulders as we rested for a moment, succumbing to the wooden pews beneath us and the reality of evening.
There’s a certain resignation in Advent that is a gift of grace. The days don’t last long at all, but there's still an effort to them. As the colder weather sets in, there’s more that is required to make it out of bed and out into the world. More layers to wear. More work to get our shoes on. And, in my case, more effort needed to keep the fire going outside in the wood stove. By 6 o’clock, you feel as though you’ve been pushing yourself through the day, which is where that gift of grace comes in. Advent gives you the freedom to name the depletion, to embrace the resignation. There’s a heartache in the readings of Isaiah. There’s a letting go in the words of “O Come, O Come Emmanuel.” You’re allowed to breathe a heavy sigh of release, which is – in its own way – a prayer.
I’ve done what I could. I’ve tried. Now, come, Lord Jesus. Have mercy.
A body that exhales deeply makes room for the breath of life to enter in once again, to let that Holy Spirit fill us with something more than the secular efforts that keep us breathing shallow and anxious.
So, thank you DePauw Chamber Singers. Thank you, St. Andrew’s.
Thank you for the gift of an Advent evening and the chance to let down and let go.
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