Everybody Sing

Next to theology I give to music the highest place and honor. And we see how David and all the saints have wrought their godly thoughts into verse, rhyme, and song.

                                                                                                                                                                            --Martin Luther

Church music rather than providing a harmonious background to the story of God’s people in the world has often hit some discordant, even sour notes. 

While the term “worship wars” may have been coined in the late twentieth century, occasional skirmishes have been fought throughout history.  The details of these skirmishes might surprise the uninitiated.

During the 90's there was a conference at a college in Northern Michigan where a number of church leaders met to discuss changes in church music. One group of pastors was particularly incensed by the introduction of what they considered to be "worldly" or inappropriate instruments into the churches. Another group, while appreciative of their denomination's musical tradition, felt these new instruments might help reach a new generation. The conference ended with the participants agreeing to respect one another despite their differences. In this instance, they allowed the "peace of Christ" to rule in their hearts. 

By the way, I should tell you that this conference took place in the 1890's and the instruments that caused such controversy included the piano.  As late as 1903 the pope declared the piano unfit for use in a Christian worship service.  Most of us are so accustomed to the piano in church we might believe Euodia and Syntyche’s squabble was over who got to play on Sunday morning.  (Philippians 4:2)

Actually, we do not know what these women were fighting about but mentioning them does invite us to look back to the earliest days of the church.

Singing Before Hymnals

One of the earliest non-Christian descriptions of the church at worship comes from Pliny the Younger

Early in the second century Pliny (61-c.113) wrote the emperor Trajan to ask his advice on how to treat the Christians in Bithynia-Pontus (modern Turkey) where he served as governor.  In his letter he gives an account of the Christian worship service, saying “… they were accustomed to meet on a fixed day before dawn and sing responsively a hymn (Lat. carmen) to Christ as to a god.”

New Testament scholar Ralph Martin, while acknowledging there is disagreement about the meaning of “carmen,” insists the most likely interpretation of the phrase suggests “the Christians met ‘to chant verses alternately amongst themselves in honour [sic] of Christ as if to a god’.” ( “A Footnote To Pliny’s Account of Christian Worship,” Vox Evangelica 3 (1964) https://biblicalstudies.org.uk/pdf/vox/vol03/footnote_martin.pdf. Accessed 21 January 2017.) Although I have used the letter, dated about 112, to show how early Christians recognized the deity of Christ, is also shows how singing played a role in the early church’s worship. 

Of course, there are hints in the New Testament about how music played a role, even though there is no detailed description of a worship service.  (No bulletin with a printed order of service has been found tucked into a first-century Christian’s Bible.)

Here’s how Matthew (26:30) described the conclusion of the Passover meal in which Jesus instituted the Lord’s Supper: “When they had sung a hymn, they went out to the Mount of Olives.”

Of course, strictly speaking, this was not a Christian worship service.  It resembled more a family observance of the Passover the conclusion of which often included singing one or more the Hallel psalms (113-118, though some suggest it was “the great Hallel psalm,” 136).  For Jesus, at least, this would have been no mere tradition; in singing those psalms would have found encouragement as he faced the coming hours.  Perhaps he found special comfort in the words of Psalm 115:16, “Precious in the sight of the LORD is the death of his faithful servants” or the affirmation repeated in both Psalms 118 and 136, “Give thanks to the LORD, for he is good. His love endures forever.”

To be more specific is to speculate beyond the information we have but we have ample evidence of Jesus’s followers finding instruction, comfort, and encouragement in the singing of the faith.

In Acts 16:15 Luke offers this note on Paul and Silas’s prison activities: “About midnight Paul and Silas were praying and singing hymns to God, and the prisoners were listening to them.”  Of course, Christians had already discovered the power of music to express their feelings.  Some years before this experience James had written a letter to the Jewish Christians who had been scattered after Stephen’s death—an event predating Paul’s conversion; in the letter, James instructed his readers, “Is anyone among you in trouble? Let them pray. Is anyone happy? Let them sing songs of praise.” (James 5:13) 

Again, the night in the cells was not a church service but the report attests the existence of hymns early Christians could sing and find edifying.  As James likely had in mind, the prisoners might have sung selections from the psalms; yet, they may also have sung pieces specifically created for the Christian context.  However, it is unclear just when such composition appeared.

Scholars, for example, are divided on the question of whether Philippians 2:5-11 and Colossians 1:15-20 are pre-Pauline hymns or, at least, written by someone other than Paul.  (If the apostle quotes preexisting material, it would have been written before the late 50’s.)  Some deny the passages are hymns, arguing there is no evidence of their being sung in the churches.  New Testament scholar and early church historian Larry Hurtado does not believe they have proven their case.  Like Hurtado, I wouldn’t insist the passages are hymns but neither do I believe their not being hymns proves such early hymns did not exist.

More explicit evidence of singing in the early church is found in I Corinthians 14:26.  In the larger context, Paul is writing to correct abuses and excesses that had crept into the Corinthian worship services.  He then describes a proper pattern for worship, one that honors the Spirit and gives an appealing testimony to Christ.  Paul begins by saying,

What then shall we say, brothers and sisters? When you come together, each of you has a hymn, or a word of instruction, a revelation, a tongue or an interpretation. Everything must be done so that the church may be built up.

Commentators are not certain the circumstances Paul has in mind here.  The confusion goes back centuries, but one of the two most common interpretations seems the most likely.  One was suggested by Adam Clarke (d. 1832).   The Methodist theologian believed “...there were many people [within the Corinthian congregation] with extraordinary gifts, each … wishing to put himself forward, and occupy the time and attention of the congregation; hence confusion must necessarily take place, and perhaps not a little contention. This was contrary to that edifying which was the intention of these gifts.”

A second popular suggestion sees the Corinthian “hymns” as being inspired by the Spirit in the same way as prophecies and messages in tongues were inspired by the Spirit.  These hymns were unplanned and spontaneous, yet potentially beneficial to the church.

Whatever the proper interpretation, Paul seeks to bring order to the congregation’s worship.  In neither scenario does Paul deny the value of singing to edify believers.

While Paul nowhere speaks at length about music, Ephesians 5:19 is filled with implications for the churches.  To begin with, it seems reasonable to assume Paul is describing a corporate experience; he directs his readers to “speak to each other with psalms, hymns, and spiritual gifts.”  The terms Paul used are instructive.

He speaks of “psalms.” Of course, Christians raised in the Jewish tradition would have immediately thought of the psalter.  The word “psalmos” comes from a root that suggests “twitching the fingers” as one does when playing a musical instrument.  So, a “psalm” is a musical composition meant to be sung with the accompaniment of a stringed instrument such as a lyre or harp.  Beyond suggesting the earliest Christian music was instrumental, Paul seems to be tacitly stating that gifted musicians had a place in the early Christian community.  This would have recalled those gifted musicians who had a place in the temple ministry.

He speaks of  “hymns.”  The Greek term refers to songs in praise of the gods or heroes. 

Augustine believed the use of the term meant the only proper hymns encouraged worship.  This is implied by the instructions calling believers to “Sing and make music from your heart to the Lord, always giving thanks to God the Father for everything, in the name of our Lord Jesus Christ.” (Eph. 4:19b-20) 

Read through a hymnal and you will discover how frequently the classic hymns call believers to worship, to extoll the glories of God’s character and work.  One of the most popular hymns, ranking in the top five in most internet lists, is Reginald Heber’s “Holy, Holy, Holy.” The song calls believers to recognize God’s greatness and worthiness to be worshipped.

  Holy, holy, holy! Lord God Almighty!
Early in the morning our song shall rise to Thee;
Holy, holy, holy, merciful and mighty!
God in three Persons, blessèd Trinity!


Holy, holy, holy! though the darkness hide Thee,
Though the eye of sinful man Thy glory may not see;
Only Thou art holy; there is none beside Thee,
Perfect in power, in love, and purity.

The doctrinal depth of such compositions raises questions about so-called “gospel songs.” Such songs become became popular in the late-nineteenth century.  They were generally simpler than hymns and were often directed to unbelievers, urging them to trust Christ.  Made popular by evangelists like D. L. Moody and his song-leader Ira Sankey, gospel songs were soon being sung in church services, not just evangelistic crusades.

Since gospel songs usually focus on some aspect of Christ’s work and since those who respond to such songs by becoming believers are “trophies of God’s grace,” it is difficult to argue that this music, as a category, do not promote worship.

The next term Paul uses is at once the simplest and potentially the most controversial, “spiritual songs.”

The word for “songs” is “ode.” As compositions, such songs are less complex than hymns.  But the key to understanding Paul’s meaning is the adjective “spiritual.”

In this context, Paul seems to be implying songs spontaneously inspired by the Spirit, at the time they were sung.  Craig Keener suggests such “songs from the Spirit” (NIV) were likely commonplace in the early church.

Given the widespread presence of Pentecostal and Charismatic churches in the non-Western world, there may be many Christians who claim to have experienced or witnessed such unplanned “songs” generated during a worship service.  Yet, that probably does not explain the origin of most hymns.

Still, prolific Baptist hymnist B. B. McKinney was apparently inspired to write some of his hymns while serving as the song-leader in various revival services.  This is suggested by his hymn-tunes having names such as Lubbock or Muskokee, to denote where he was when inspired to write the song.

Years ago I became acquainted with Ira Stanfill.  He was the author of several hymns, including “Room at the Cross,” often used in Billy Graham crusades.  I had a conversation with Stanfill about his music and he said he believed the Spirit helped him create the songs.

Whether a song-writer composes a meaningful piece in one sitting or only after several drafts and revisions, they can only be spiritually effective when we “sing … to the Lord with praise in [our] hearts.”  

Not only does Paul see singing as a means of worship, I think he also sees it as a source of solace and encouragement for Christians.

In Colossians 3:16, Paul makes explicit what is implicit in his counsel to the Ephesians.^[1]  He says, “Let the message of Christ dwell among you richly as you teach and admonish one another with all wisdom through psalms, hymns, and songs from the Spirit, singing to God with gratitude in your hearts.”

Paul seems to be suggesting that the “psalms, hymns, and spiritual songs” may be instruments for teaching the message of Christ.  Therefore, we must measure the content of any song used in Christian worship by the Scripture.  This does not mean the song must sound like the Bible but the song’s message must be consistent with the biblical material. 

Three times the Revelation reports singing in heaven (5:9,14:3, 15:3).  Perhaps this is intended either to let believers know their worship is mirrored in heaven or that their worship is a foreshadow of eternity.  Professor Craig Koester, of Luther Seminary, says Revelation not only contains examples of song but its language has inspired music through the centuries. Handel’s “Hallelujah Chorus,” echoing the words of Revelation 11:15 (“The kingdoms of this world have become the kingdoms of our Lord and of His Christ, and He shall reign forever and ever”), is probably the best known in the classical genre.  Congregational hymns inspired by the book include “Crown Him with Many Crowns,” “All Hail King Jesus,” “I Will Praise Him,” and “All Hail the Power of Jesus’ Name,” to mention only a few.

With Revelation’s glorious vision in mind, the naïve might be forgiven for imagining Christians during the ensuing centuries would always sing from the same page, in perfect harmony.  It was not to be.

Singing the Faith Through Time

While the Christian faith spread rapidly across the empire but some Christians apparently had not embraced the practice of hymn singing.  Historians believe Ambrose (c.339-397), bishop of Milan, introduced his churches to congregational singing in the late fourth century. He knew the practice was popular among Greek speaking Christians in the eastern regions of the empire and believed his people would benefit from it.  As Ivor Davidson observes, Ambrose saw “the value of hymns as a medium of doctrinal instruction.” (A Public Faith: From Constantine to the Medieval World, AD 312-600,  p.103.)  The bishop proved to be a skilled hymn-writer, using the simple Latin hymns he wrote to reinforce Nicene Christology in the hearts and minds of his people.  

One of the four hymns scholars confidently attribute to Ambrose begins by addressing God as “Maker of all things…Great ruler of the starry sky.” The hymn then moves on to thank God for the “soft repose of night” when “sleep my wearied limbs restore.”  After two further stanzas addressing the moral and spiritual challenges ordinary people face, the hymn ends with an appeal for God’s protection and an affirmation of orthodoxy:

Christ with the Father ever one,

Spirit! the Father and the Son,

God over all, the might sway,

Shield us, great Trinity, we pray.

(“A Hymn of Ambrose,” trans. J. D.

Chambers, 1864.)

Anyone unfamiliar with church history might read that hymn after so many centuries and see it simply as a declaration of devotion to God; it was also a jab at Arianism.  While Ambrose successfully used Latin hymns to spread the orthodox view of the Trinity, centuries later those Latin hymns would pose a problem, especially for those who wanted to foster a lively devotion to God.

Let me offer a couple analogies. I like to listen to Gregorian chants. I find them soothing.  The chants, usually sung by monastery choirs, are in Latin; I don’t speak Latin.  I am attracted solely to how they sound.  Another example involves a song that made to number one on the Billboard Hot 100 chart in 1963 (right, I was still in high school).  The song was Sukiyaki by Kyo Sakamoto.  Chances are—even if you weren’t even born in 1963—you know the song was sung entirely in Japanese.  I remember enjoying listening, though I had no idea what the song was about; it could have been extolling the virtues of a brand of canned spinach.  Both the Gregorian chants and Sukiyaki sound good but they don’t contribute much to my understanding.

By the sixteenth century, Latin hymns had become so complicated only professionally trained singers—usually monks—could sing them.  Yet, they were sung in churches everywhere in the west; including Italy, where Latin was no longer the common tongue, and Germany, where a former monk named Martin Luther was intent on spreading the evangelical message.  As the impulse toward reform began to grow Luther produced hymns in German so ordinary people could once again sing.  One of his hymns, “Ein Feste Burg” (“A Mighty Fortress”), became something of a Protestant anthem.  As the Reformation spread, most reformers saw the value of congregational music.

But, of course, Protestants being Protestants, these reformers did not agree on the details of this music.  While Luther believed modern compositions could be sung as hymns; other reformers, like John Calvin, believed only the biblical psalms should be sung.  Tunes were composed for each of the 150 psalms and the psalter became the official hymnal for most Reformed Christians for two centuries.   Some reformers were open to the use of some musical instruments; others were not.  Though reputed to be a skilled musician, Huldrych Zwingli (1484-1531) had no use for musical instruments in worship services.  He felt the New Testament offered no justification for their use.  So, though he saw value in the new hymnody promoted by Luther, he ordered the organ in his Zurich church destroyed.  According to contemporary reports, as the organ was dismantled, the organist stood by weeping.

Since this is not meant to be a detailed history of church music, we can jump ahead a century or so.

A wonderful story is told about an English teenager who constantly complained about the music at the church he attended with his parents.  Finally, his father, tired of hearing his son’s grumbling, said something like, “If you think you can do better, do it.”  Isaac Watts (1674-1748) did just that.  Watts’s hymns were fresh and well received by Christians weary of the psalter.  While it might be hard for twenty-first century Christians to imagine “O God Our Help in Ages Past” and “When I Survey the Wondrous Cross” as revolutionary, they were.  Moreover his works are found in hymnals of several denominations; chances are, you recently sang or heard one of his hymns, “Joy to the World.”  In time, historians would call Watts “the father of English hymnody.”

In New England, Cotton Mather found the new music exciting and endorsed it at first.  Most of his fellow-minister in the Boston area supported him.  But change is hard and Mather later seemed to waver.  The laity—especially the older members—did not like the change (which included the “new” practice of singing in parts).  Nonetheless, by 1725 the new music was accepted, at least in eastern Massachusetts.

In Jonathan Edwards’s account of the early days of the Great Awakening, the pastor of the western Massachusetts town of Northampton wrote of how his congregation’s worship was enriched during those heady days:

Our public praises were then greatly enlivened; God was then served in our psalmody, in some measure, in the beauty of holiness. It has been observable, that there has been scarce any part of divine worship, wherein good men amongst us have had grace so drawn forth, and their hearts so lifted up in the ways of God, as in singing His praises. Our congregation excelled all that ever I knew in the external part of the duty before, the men generally carrying regularly, and well, three parts of music, and the women a part by themselves; but now they were evidently wont to sing with unusual elevation of heart and voice, which made the duty pleasant indeed. (A Faithful Narrative, emphasis added.)

The singing Edwards describes was still the singing of the psalter.  Though Edwards, who loved singing, liked Watts’s hymns and had taught them to the youth in his church, he still had not made them part of the public worship.  A few years later, about 1739, Edwards allowed his congregation to adopt the eighteenth-century version of “contemporary music.”  Still, Edwards had not presided over the change.  It happened this way.

Samuel Buell, a gifted young evangelist, came to Northampton early in 1739 to stay with the Edwards’s and minister in the community.  George Marsden writes, “Buell was a great proponent of the new hymnody, not only in private meetings, as Edwards had, but also introducing them for the first time into the regular Northampton church services.” (Jonathan Edwards: A Life, p. 245.)  While some pastors, famous or not, might have bridled at this somewhat presumptuous act.  Edwards did not.

A few months later, Edwards commented on the propriety of the new hymns. He said, “[It is] unreasonable to suppose that the Christian church should forever, and even in times of her greatest light in her praise of God and the Lamb, be confined only to the words of the Old Testament, where in all the greatest and most glorious things of the Gospel, that are infinitely the greatest subjects of her praise, are spoken of under a veil.” (Marsden, p. 553, fn 12.)

Of course, it is doubtful even so formidable a person as Jonathan Edwards could hold back the impulse of revived Christians to sing out their faith.

When revived Christians remember the beauty of the gospel and the joy of salvation they break out in song; explaining, perhaps, why awakenings are often accompanied by the creation of new hymns and Christian music.  Such music might range in style and character from the thought-provoking hymns of Charles Wesley to the more sentimental gospel songs of Ira Sankey.  But all of them involve Christians remembering what Christ has done for them.

In the decades after Edwards’s death, the Evangelical Awakening in Great Britain inspired songwriters such as the combative Augustus Toplady, the prolific Charles Wesley, the gloomy William Cowper, and the passionate John Newton. Their words are still found in our hymnals.

The nineteenth century in America brought the Second Great Awakening, with its diversity expressed on the one hand through learned Yale president Timothy Dwight (who wrote “I Love Thy Kingdom, Lord”) and on the other through the flamboyant Lorenzo Dow (no hymn-writer as his best-known verse attests, ““You can and you can't — You shall and you shan't — You will and you won't — And you will be damned if you do — And you will be damned if you don't.”).  Camp meetings, the typical venue of the frontier revivals, inspired their own music, music that appealed to “the plain folk” who populated that raw edge of the growing nation.

Few of those songs survived.  Among the few still sung today is the lively “On Jordan’s Stormy Banks.” Some, like “The Papist Lady,” are best remembered as a token of less tolerant days.  In any case, frontier-style music disappeared because the conditions that gave birth to the songs—the illiteracy demanding easy-to-remember lyrics, the precariousness of life in a hostile environment, and ignorance of the most fundamental Christian doctrine—were no longer a reality.

Some songs survived; some did not.  Surviving songs have an appeal that transcends the times.  “Amazing Grace” speaks to all Christians who understand the depth of their spiritual poverty and the riches of God’s gift. Other good songs may be time-bound and, consequently, do not endure. The 1975 Baptist hymnal included a hymn by Thad Roberts beginning with these words: “God of earth and outer space, Bless the astronauts who fly, As they soar beyond the sky.” Pat and I were members of the church where Roberts served as minister of music, a church in Houston (you know, as in “Houston, we’ve had a problem”).  Back in the seventies, it made sense to be singing about God and outer space.  Yet, somehow the hymn seems to belong to another age, an age when space travel hadn’t become such a drain on the national budget.  The hymn was dropped from later editions of the hymnal.

Perhaps those who become distressed about shallow choruses should remember there is a good chance they won’t be sung in a few years.

By the mid-nineteenth century, changes were taking place in evangelical churches.  Methodists, no longer marginalized, were now the largest Protestant group in the United States; they would maintain that status until the Baptists overtook them near the beginning of the twentieth century.  In larger cities, Methodists, Baptists, and others used brick, mortar, and stained-glass to reflect (and reinforce) their new respectability.  Robed choirs appeared, along with the professional “minister of music” to replace the layman who was gifted in carrying a tune.  (Earlier, the pastor sometimes led the singing; my congregations are profoundly grateful the task never fell to me.)  Choirs sang anthems and more complicated music.

Of course, not everyone liked the changes.  Though written in the late-twentieth century, a popular country song doubtless expresses feelings of some Christians decades before.  The song laments, “They tore the old country church down, built a big new church way uptown, with the steeple so high it reaches to the sky,” a place where “… pride has slipped in where love should have been.” (© Buddy Starcher)  Though Starcher suggests there was nothing wrong with the “big new church” that could not be fixed, most fans of the song likely would have argued the church would have been better off remaining out in the country. 

Some historians suggest the popularity of Ira Sankey’s sentimental gospel songs was due, in part, to their appeal to displaced men and women who had moved from the farms to the cities in hope of a better life, men and women who felt out of place in the city churches. 

Not everyone greeted the changes peaceably.  In his autobiography, fiery fundamentalist J. Frank Norris recalled an incident that happened in 1909 soon after becoming the pastor of Fort Worth’s First Baptist Church.  The Monday morning following his first Sunday as pastor, Norris marched into the church offices and summarily fired the minister of music.  Norris objected to the “long-haired music” the choir had sung.

Despite the occasional kerfuffle, Christians continued to sing, continued to write good songs.  Some Christians, it is hoped, became better singers as travelling musicians led “singing-schools” around the country, especially in the South.  Because of these schools, thousands of people learned to sing “shaped notes” with the “Fa-So-La” method. Such schools were conducted well into the twentieth century.

 Hymn-writers came from all walks of life.  Ministers, society women, housewives, theologians, and others wrote hymns still being sung.   In 1874, bereaved Chicago businessman, Horatio Spafford wrote a hymn that continues to comfort and encourage, “It is Well with My Soul.” Of course, there was still resistance to change.  Beloved hymn-writer Fanny Crosby (1820-1915), author of "He Hideth My Soul" and "To God Be the Glory," originally published her works under an assumed name because some people reacted so negatively to her new style of music.

Now, another leap is in order, this time to the late twentieth century, the era of the “worship wars.”  I hate the term.  It reflects the worst elements of the quest to be “seeker sensitive.”  Of course, appealing to those interested in Christ is hardly new. 

George Marsden writes about the overriding desire to make church services venues of evangelism in the late 1940s.  Every sermon was expected to end with an invitation to trust Christ and the music was to be appealing to outsiders.  Marsden says, “Worship itself was secondary and subordinate to evangelism, so that catchy hymns and choruses or thrilling xylophone recitals to warm up the audience transformed or entirely crowded out the traditional American Protestant liturgy.” (Reforming Fundamentalism, 1995 edition, p. 85.)  As Marsden observes, many evangelical churches were strangers to liturgy so the changes would have been easier for some than others.  Yet, Marsden’s observations notwithstanding, these same churches often had informal liturgies and expectations about the kinds of music fitting for worship.  Jazz and then Rock and Roll, were not welcome in the churches of the 1950s; but the rise of the Jesus Movement in the sixties prompted Christian musicians to craft music that sounded like what was playing on secular radio but carrying a very different message. 

While some insisted this music represented a compromise with the world, others seemed to feel it had a place—youth rallies and beach gatherings of “long-haired friends of Jesus.”  Just keep it out of the church.  Didn’t happen.

 I recently sat in a service where the music was so loud I could not hear the person next to me; I saw something I had never seen before, a drummer in a plastic box—I could still hear him.  Though I felt no urgency to return the next Sunday, I understand how the music might appeal to those are differently inclined (note, I did not say “younger”).  Hard rock and Bach anthems can probably never be blended.  But I wonder if some churches might find a middle ground. 

Until we do, we will have those, like Larry Norman, who describe traditional hymns as “funeral marches” and those who insist R&R-style music is Satanic. Until we do, we will have pastors like the one I recently heard about who uses the brief time between his church’s early service and its later service to strip off his suit and tie to put on a tee-shirt, jeans, and sandals. And, until we do, we will have churches announcing: “Traditional Service, 9:00 am” and “Contemporary Service, 10:30 am.”  (Apparently, those preferring more laid-back services also prefer to lay back in bed a while longer on Sunday morning.)

It’s tempting to wonder what the unchurched think as they drive by our churches—assuming they think about our churches at all—and see those signs.  Maybe something like, “Those Christians, they can’t even worship together.”

One of my students once said he liked his church—with its band and choruses—because it was a place “where people could really worship.”  Though he may have simply been fearful of his grade tumbling, he didn’t seem to know what to say when I asked if that meant people singing “When I Survey the Wondrous Cross” could not possibly be worshipping. 

If we use the style of music we prefer as a test of spiritual depth and an excuse to hold a fellow Christian at arm’s length, could it be our music has become the Devil’s music?

I came across a statement in C. S. Lewis’s writings that may apply; I liked it when I first read it, I like it now.  He is recalling his response to going to church shortly after becoming a Christian.

I disliked very much their hymns, which I considered to be fifth-rate poems set to sixth-rate music. But as I went on I saw the great merit of it. I came up against different people of quite different outlooks and different education, and then gradually my conceit just began peeling off. I realized that the hymns (which were just sixth-rate music) were, nevertheless, being sung with devotion and benefit by an old saint in elastic-side boots in the opposite pew, and then you realize that you aren’t fit to clean those boots. It gets you out of your solitary conceit.

Something Like a Finale

“Brothers and sisters, can you feel it?”

It is an irony of Christian life that what is supposed to bring us together often pushes us apart.  Certainly the post-Reformation clashes over baptism and the Lord’s Supper illustrate this.  (Indeed, my own tradition judges the validity of your baptism, not only by your age when it happened, but by the amount of water used.)  Realistically, we must add church music to the list of paradoxical conflicts.  Sometimes, instead of singing from the same page we have elected to throw the hymnals at each other.

Generally, our conflicts over music have followed a pattern: “Sing this, don’t sing that!” 

Recently, however, I have heard of church leaders saying,  “Don’t sing at all.”  Their rational, as I understand it, for opposing what the church has done since its earliest days is put like this:  “Singing panders to the emotional, not the intellectual.”  I infer from this they believe the emotional is inferior to the intellectual.  Sermons, teachings, lessons enhance the intellectual; music does not.

There are so many reasons why this is a spurious dichotomy.

As we have seen from our brief review of music in Christian history, many leaders believed music could bolster the pulpit. In his later years, after his ouster from Northampton, Jonathan Edwards served briefly as a missionary to the Indians.  He believed teaching the Indians to sing would help civilize them, help them embrace the lifestyle he was preaching about.  Music, as Edwards, Luther, and countless others understood, was the pulpit’s ally, not its rival.

Then, too, the position ignores the dynamics of communication.  From pre-Christian times, those writing on rhetoric have insisted the most effective communication involves ethos, logos, and pathos.  To put it very simply, whether a speaker influences us or not depends on the answers to these questions:  Can I trust the speaker? —Does the speaker make sense? —How does the speaker make me feel?  Aristotle has lot more to say about it but you get the idea.

Imagine three scenarios:

--During a routine visit, your doctor says, “John, all the facts say you should quit smoking?”  Your doctor is a highly trained health care provider, a scientist in fact; when she speaks, she can be trusted.  Given the information she shared, quitting would be logical.  Do you quit?  Maybe, maybe not.  After all, you already know the facts she mentioned; indeed, the US Surgeon General has placed a warning on the cigarette package in your pocket. 

-- During a routine visit, your doctor says, “John, all the facts say you should quit smoking?”  Now, as she tells you to quit, you glance at her open purse next the desk; in the purse, you see a half pack of cigarettes.  Do you quit?  Maybe, maybe not, but the doctor’s ethos has dropped a notch. 

-- During a routine visit, your doctor says, “John, all the facts say you should quit smoking?”  Then, the doctor adds, “I’ve met your family.  Shouldn’t you do all you can to make sure you’re around to walk your lovely daughter down the aisle on her wedding day?”  Do you quit?  Maybe, maybe not.  But chances are you’ll give quitting more thought than if the doctor had just quoted some statistics.

Not once, in any of the scenarios, did the doctor neglect the facts of the case, the intellectual content of her message.

The holidays are just past.  When your church or my church conducts a food drive during the holidays, are we likely to simply hear, “Our giving 500 cans of food will substantially aid the work of the food bank?”  No, we will likely be told something like this: “Give and when you sit down for your meal on Thanksgiving, you’ll know you’ve helped little Juan and little Kimmy have a nice meal too.”  An appeal to emotion?  Sure.  But that doesn’t deny the fact giving a few cans of corn or beans will help deal with the problem of hunger.

Yes, the songs we sing in church may touch our emotions, but it is the rare song without some cognitive content as well.  

Then, too—and I hesitate to ask this—doesn’t hinting those who might favor music are more emotional than intellectual seem a bit elitist, even judgmental?  Of course, I know in asking I risk sounding judgmental.  Still, those objecting to music because it panders to emotion seem to be saying, “Our intellectually based piety is superior to yours.” Reminds me of the game the Gnostics played, with its theological variant of the childish taunt: “I know something you don’t know.” Oops, becoming judgmental.  Time to move on.

Picture a pastor saying something like this one Sunday morning:  “My responsibility includes promoting your spiritual health.  Crucial to that health is Bible study.  I have recently realized that if we were to drop our hymn-singing on Sunday mornings, we would have ten to fifteen more minutes more to devote to Bible study.”  Not everyone would like it, some might even think it a bit self-aggrandizing on the pastor’s part, but most would probably believe the pastor was being honest.  Better that than the pastor suggesting too many members were in church to feed their emotions rather than deepen their understanding of the faith.

Is there an emotional element to singing?  Sure.  Many a Buckeye will get misty on hearing the strains of “Carmen Ohio.”  Some may even tear-up at “Hang On, Sloopy.”  Music sometimes inspires emotion. (For the 98.7% of the world who may not know, a “Buckeye” is an Ohio State University graduate.)

But if music touches the heart does this mean the mind is shut down when we sing?  Well, many of those sentimental Buckeyes also once sang, “A, B, C, D, E…X, Y, Z.  Now, I know my ABCs.  Next time, won't you sing with me?”  Of course, music can and does reinforce intellectual content. 

Perhaps the Christian’s impulse to sing is linked to the character of the gospel.  Consider the way fourteenth-century English reformer John Wycliffe defined the gospel:

Euangelion (that we cal the gospel) is a greke word, and signyfyeth good, merry, glad and joyful tidings, that makyth a mannes heart glad, and makyth him synge, daunce, and leep for joy.

The “good, merry, glad and joyful tidings” are the intellectual or cognitive elements of Christian message.  It describes how God is at work in our lives to accomplish what we could not accomplish on our own—our salvation. 

Wycliffe says this message inspires those who receive it to “synge.”  Christianity has a rich musical heritage generated by the good news of the gospel.  It is not an either/or situation.  Christians understand the head and the heart are linked.  We do not believe because we feel; we feel because we believe. 

Four centuries after Wycliffe, George Whitefield, reflecting on the arid preaching heard in some churches, resolved never to “deal in the commerce of unfelt truth.”  Such “unfelt truth” is the curse of a truncated orthodoxy. 

Years ago I worked as an appliance salesman at one of earliest discount stores, K-Mart.  One day I was paged to the Jewelry Department, completely across the store.  The department manager and one of his clerks were having an argument they thought a seminary student could help resolve.   “Do you have to go to church to be a Christian,” the manager asked.  He said, “No.”  His young assistant said, “Yes.”  I’m not sure either he or she liked my answer; I said, “No, but if you’re a Christian, why wouldn’t you want to go to church?”

For two thousand years Christians have sung.  Sometimes they quarreled over what to sing, who may sing, and which instruments should accompany their singing—organ, piano, guitar, keyboard, drums, brass, didgeridoo—or no instruments at all.  Still, more often than not, they sang.

Maybe, they understood the gospel like Wycliffe understood the gospel.  Maybe they knew the important question wasn’t “Should we sing?” but “Why wouldn’t we synge?”

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[1]  Some scholars believe Ephesians may have been a circular letter written to several churches in Asia Minor; Colossians, on the other hand, was written to a specific congregation facing problems not necessarily found elsewhere.