Something More

The director gives the hand motion and the choir stands as one. We look out into the congregation. They stare back, expecting... what? Entertainment? Uplift? I don't know. Having been in the audience, my usual reaction to the choir anthem was to hope it went quickly. We wipe those thoughts out of our minds and give our attention to the choir director again, scanning only briefly our music to be sure we're on the right page. Done, and done. The piano starts tinkling away. The harp begins to pluck. Our lead Soprano steps forward and begins to sing a beautiful solo aria. Her words soar and sail around the clear acoustics of our new sanctuary. I am filled with her voice. Our que comes and we start in softly, backing her up - then more forcefully, as our voices blend and we stop singing the song and start feeling it. And then it happens. The words fade away. The dots on the page stop having any meaning. The song becomes something more, something that transcends the music as written, something that has life and soul, something that is pleasing to the Lord. The music becomes worship. And I can feel His pleasure bathing me in wonder and in awe that He should find such a pathetic thing as my voice pleasing to Him. It brings tears to my eyes every time.

Which isn't to say that I get this reaction from every piece of music I sing, nor from only classical music, nor from only church music. Any piece of music that transcends the boundaries of Earth, any piece of music that He finds pleasing, any piece of music that makes me forget that I'm singing - I can feel His hands lifting my spirit, elevating me. Otherwise, I might as well be singing in the shower.

I have had the reaction only a couple of times in the audience, so I imagine that for the most part, people just sit there and wait for it to be over, or garner there own limited pleasure from a pleasing performance (at least they weren't flat this time ;). I am getting older now and my voice is no spring chicken anymore. I no longer have the range I had even five years ago. But I don't think I could ever join the audience again knowing that even my crappy singing is pleasing, occassionally, to the Lord. I'd rather be active in worship than passive. I'd rather in meant something more than a tick mark on my heavenly attendance card.

In 2000, when I returned from Las Vegas, and before I started work at Yasutomo, I began an active campaign of weekly hikes to Norcal locations. One week, my friend Jay and I decided to hike a new trail in Big Basin Park. It was fairly long (something like 8 miles), but it had a waterfall at the half way point. I was convinced that this was something we could do.

We began the hike with a quick uphill struggle. I have never liked going uphill - even when I was in spectacular shape. Fighting gravity sucks. But this was fairly short, maybe a mile at the most, and then we were at the top of the ridge. The trail dove off the other side of the ridge and continued down to the waterfall.

We practically ran down the hill - it was a nice wide trail and not steep at all, the kind of path I used to love to run in cross country. It just kept going down and down and down. After about a mile and a half it leveled off and went relatively flat (though, deceptively, we were still descending) for another mile or two, until, viola! There was the waterfall. Not some pansy fairy waterfall either. This was one you could have stood under and taken a shower - even in the summer.

The path continued... up the waterfall. We grinned and bore it. We had never yet found the perfect Escher trail (downhill both ways) and this didn't appear to be it either. Besides, the waterfall was tall enough. We'd climb up to the top and be back on the ridge and then after a short hike, we'd climb back down the first part of the trail and be back to the car. Or so I thought.

Apparently, we'd come quite a ways downhill. We climbed up the trail and reached the top of the waterfall and I was seriously spent. But I knew we only had a little more ways to go to the top of the ridgeline, so we continued forward... and forward... and forward... and forward...

In three hours, we still had not found the top of the ridge. A series of switchbacks and up and down valleys had meant that for more than three hours we had been climbing steadily uphill with no end seemingly in sight. I was literally pulling energy from the very last of my fat reserves and the sun was starting to set in the tree infested park.

Jay knew that I was done. And he knew that there was no way he could go to the car and get it and come back for me. If he left me, I was going to have to crash there in the dark park by myself until help could come. And what was help going to do? Nothing. They couldn't carry me. All they could do was help me walk. I was out of water, out of trail mix, out of strength, and out of patience. I was near tears. So Jay did the only thing he could do, he got behind me and pushed me up the hill.

Physically, he pushed, prodded, yelled, poked, and motivated my ass up that hill, and up the hill after that, and finally, up the last hill until we stood on top of that ridge and looked back down the seemingly innocent downhill trail that led to the waterfall. We didn't have time to ponder such philosophy though as it was nearly dark and we still had the last mile to hike.

I stumbled the rest of the way and made it to the car and when I finally got home that night, I slept like a dead man for about fourteen hours and I was sore for two weeks.

I was reminded of this on Sunday as I suddenly felt the holy spirit wash over me in the middle of singing. I've been feeling out of sorts lately - a natural let down from the exuberance of fishing and hiking in God's country and the return to civilization. I've been feeling drained, lethargic, spent, and distant from God. And then, all at once, during the mechanical process of singing, I felt His pleasure on me and I was uplifted. And then I remembered Jay. And I realized that I was receiving this gift as a form of reinforcement - that God was now behind me on the path, pushing me uphill again.

Its a long climb with moments of sheer beauty and many hours of sweat and monotony. Sometimes we just wish it would be over soon. And sometimes we get a glimpse of something more, something beyond that which can be seen or experienced without outside help, and we can feel His loving support of us and know that we are loved and will never be abandoned on the dark trail.