Singing, Sound, and Silence

Last Sunday morning in worship at my own local church, the man who was sitting in the pew directly in front of me (whom I know to be something of a musician and one who sings the hymns lustily and with good courage) commented on the fact that while he enjoyed my wife's lovely soprano voice, he had not heard me singing at all through the service. I mumbled something about sometimes just wanting to listen, and that seemed to satisfy him. But it has set me to thinking more about his question this week.

By way of answering his question truthfully, I want to share with you a story that I recalled this week in thinking about the question. It is a story from my very young elementary school days — from a book that I loved as a child, but that I haven't thought of for nearly fifty years. It is The Loudest Noise in the World by Benjamin Elkin (1954). You can find it at Amazon.com or with a Google search. In the story, a young prince, who lives in a very loud and hectic kingdom (was it called Hubbub?), declares that for his upcoming birthday he wants to hear the loudest noise in the world. So his father, the king, declared it so, proclaiming that at noon on the day of the prince's birthday, all the people in the kingdom would come to the palace, shout as loudly as they could, clap their hands, bang pots and pans together, and honk horns for one full minute.

Another child in the kingdom also thought that this would be a great chance to hear the loudest noise in the world, and he decided he would open his mouth and only pretend to shout. He told one of his friends of his secret plan; his friend told a friend; that friend told a parent; and when noon of the day of the prince's birthday came, every citizen of the kingdom went through the motions but remained absolutely silent. For the first time in the Kingdom of Hubbub, there was silence. The prince, king, and all the people listened, stunned — hearing for the first time the sound of birds singing, the ripples of a nearby creek, the wind rustling the leaves in the trees, even the breathing of the people nearby. The prince, overcome with the silence and its beauty, felt sadness for what he had been missing; but he was also filled with joy because of the beauty that he was experiencing for the first time. The king declared peace and quiet in the kingdom from that day forward, and they all lived happily ever after.

Throughout most of my forty-eight years as a professional church musician, I have led congregations and choirs in singing by directing or accompanying their songs. Today, for almost the first time in my life, I do not have that privilege and responsibility; and there are times that I greatly miss it. However, now as I worship in my pew rather than on the piano or organ bench or from the front of the choir loft, I have the luxury of truly hearing congregational singing, unencumbered by the need to encourage and lead others, pull the pistons, watch the words, or even open the hymnal. For the first time, I can truly listen to the singing and — like the prince — marvel and be overcome by what I hear.

In this new experience, I have been able to listen and observe our congregation, our large semiprofessional choir, the 100+ rank pipe organ, and the very talented and competent musicians all around. What follows are some of my observations:

• Many of the people are mumblers, and they are carried from word to word and note to note by the congregation, almost unwillingly. Others, like my friend in the pew in front of me, enter into the singing with great enthusiasm, not caring whether they are on pitch or enunciating properly.
• Teenagers and old people like to talk during the hymns.
• Young children are happy if they can keep up with the words in the hymnal as they speed along, not allowing time for sounding out. Some of them simply open their mouths and make a joyful noise that is totally unrelated to anything the congregation is singing, but they understand and enjoy the corporate experience. Other children sit silently in the pew, perhaps coloring or looking at a picture book, but occasionally looking up — an indication that they are listening to every word and note.
• A choir descant, intended to inspire and lift the congregation in its singing experience, all too often brings confusion and causes the people to be silent and listen.
• An alternate last stanza harmonization by the organ will often do the same.
• The participation of bells, brass, or other instruments is a signal for the congregation to listen rather than sing.
• There is the delay of the sound of the congregation in the rear balcony as it finally reaches my ears.
• There is always my wife, standing next to me, singing with her strong, lovely soprano voice and occasionally singing alto or improvising a new harmony line.
• There are other sounds that enter into the mix of congregational song: a passing truck or emergency siren, a crying baby, the talking teenager, the rustle of bulletins and hymnals, opening and closing swell shutters, a distant door slamming, the footsteps of ushers and late-arriving worshipers, and the sound of nearby worshipers shifting their weight, taking their breaths, tapping on the pew in time to the singing, and taking care of young children. One of my favorite sounds is the momentary silence between stanzas, filled with people breathing and shifting their bodies, as if to fortify themselves for the coming stanza.
• Congregational singing is not only aural; it is visual. There is sunlight streaming through stained glass, the sight of the choir members in their white and black robes, the flair with which the organist releases the final chord, the observation of whether the pastor is singing or not, the colors of congregational clothing all around, the pillars, arches, and architecture of the sanctuary, the flowers, table, cross, rail, font, pulpit and lectern, paraments, candles, and the faces of the people.
• And there is that wonderful five-second reverberation that follows the final word and chord. Occasionally, we even allow that five seconds to stretch into fifteen or thirty seconds, allowing the people to savor and prolong the joy of the singing experience, or even to take time to think about the words they've just sung.

For all of my musical life, I have known that these things take place during congregational singing; but I have not really experienced them. When I stand silently in my pew, sometimes mouthing the words from memory, I am both transfixed and transformed. I am able to hear all of it and integrate it into a grand and glorious mix that I never knew before. The musician in me accepts and glories in the music — its melody, harmony, rhythm, and form — and in the talents and gifts of those who lead us. The artist in me embraces the visual, aural, and tactile elements of the rest. I used to think that I understood what Martin Luther meant by music as "as fair and glorious gift of God," but I know now that I never really did.

Sometimes I sing. There are some songs to which I am unable to resist adding my voice. But mostly I stand silent, sometimes with eyes wide open and sometimes shut, and sometimes filled with tears because of the joy and beauty that accompanies the experience. With the prince, I have been surprised and transformed by the silence; in his case, the silence of the citizens; in my case, that of myself.