Sacred Sounds

I was reminiscing with a friend about church revivals the other day.  We were both raised in little country Methodist churches by parents who took every opportunity to attend services.  Both of our fathers sang and led music.  Both of us played piano in church, David as an adept and me as a barely adequate pianist when all other options were exhausted.  And we went to just about every Methodist revival in the county.

Most of the revivals were in early fall, most likely because these churches were in farming communities and those dates were between the days of haymaking and the rush to harvest crops before winter.  At one time, the yearly revivals were week-long affairs, gradually shortened to 3 or 4 nights, then disappearing into time.  I can’t remember the last time I attended a church revival, or even the last time I saw one advertised.  The little churches had wooden pews, simple altars, old upright pianos that were not always exactly in tune and open windows that let in the sounds of the night and soft breezes in the days before air conditioning.   The hymn books were from Cokesbury and contained songs like Revive Us Again, Love Mercy and Grace, Love Lifted Me and Just As I Am.  I always looked forward to Love, Mercy and Grace because my cousin, Emmett Thompson, would lead the men on the bass part of the chorus.  When I played it, I loved to really thump the keys on the bass part.

  “It was love (it was love), that took my place (that took my place), on the cross of Cal-va-ry.  It was grace (it was grace), redeeming grace (redeeming grace), that paid my ransom full and free…”  Number 153 in the Cokesbury.

 These were, for the most part, old churches whose walls had soaked up thousands of prayers and songs.  The acoustics in these buildings are phenomenal, and I like to think the voices from the past seep out from the walls.  I still love to go to old churches.  Even empty, they ring with silent music.

I don’t remember anything about the sermons that were preached in those little churches, but I sure do remember the music.  The county was blessed with an abundance of great musicians and singers and it seemed to me that we Methodists had more than our share of them.  Mr. Jim Martin and his three daughters, Marie, Bertie and Anna Laura were perhaps the best known.  Marie played by ear and could make the piano shout as they sang the old gospel songs like I’ll Fly Away.  They made the rounds of revivals, and I never complained about going to church if I knew they were playing. 

The Fox family were another group I remember – they were great friends of my family, and David and I were in the same class through school.  I have a vivid picture in my mind of David’s dad, Lewis, leading the singing at Little Lot Methodist Church, probably the church closest to my heart other than my own little place of worship in Shipps Bend.  Little Lot was also the scene of one of my most embarrassing moments as a teen, when a severe allergic reaction to what seemed like a whole garden of lilies on the altar led the preacher to believe I was having a profound religious experience during the singing of Just As I Am.  We sang all six verses of the song, then went back and repeated a verse or two.  My eyes were streaming enough tears that I couldn’t get a look at the preacher’s face, but I could feel him looking right at me.  But aside from that one incident, I have been blessed to hear and participate in some of the best singing I’ve ever heard in that church.

My daddy was often asked to sing at church.  I remember the first time I played piano for him after my grandmother, his usual accompanist, had died.  I was about 12 years old and a barely proficient pianist, but I could play How Great Thou Art, which was his preferred solo.  Off we went to the Mt. Zion AME Church, one of the oldest black churches in the area. It may have been my first time in a black church.  I’m pretty sure it was my first time to hear an “amen” from the congregation.  I’m sure the amen was because of my daddy’s singing.  It certainly wasn’t because of my playing! Another musical memory, which came many years later, from that particular church is a jazzed-up version of Blessed Assurance which included a piano and a saxophone.  The hair on the back of my neck stood up and I’m almost certain I caught a glimpse of angel wings in the rafters.

There is something about churches where our ancestors and friends have worshipped, sung, and sought sanctuary during hard times.  The shadows of saints gone on before peer from the shadows and join the choruses of hymns old and new.  I can still remember where people from my childhood days sat. Sometimes I think I could still see them there, if I could quiet my soul and let my eyes blur just right. 

One of the most profound musical experiences I remember was during a funeral when the congregation at the “big” Methodist church in town joined to sing Spirit Song, a newer composition that has become one of my favorites.   Then there was the time a quartet sang Beulah Land at that same church.  That one song would have been enough without another word being spoken.  Music like that can stitch up a broken heart better than words.

The town church used to have an 11-o’ clock Christmas Eve service.  There is nothing like driving to the church through almost deserted streets, hearing the old story and singing familiar hymns, then hearing the chimes at midnight and going out into the silent night, when the stars seemed close enough to reach through and if you could just stand on tiptoe and try hard enough, you could part the veil between heaven and earth. 

Revivals may have become a relic of the past, but the music we made then lives on.  We keep talking about inviting a bunch of musicians and anyone else who wants to show up for a night of singing.  Maybe this will be the year we do that.  I expect some of those voices from the past will join us, if we listen closely enough.  It’s been a tough couple of years, and our hearts can certainly use some healing.  I’ll make sure we sing Love, Mercy and Grace.  And I’ll be listening for echoes from Emmett, my daddy and Mr. Fox.  They will be there.