It’s not what you think.
Right now I’m listening to Matt Redman singing, “Nothing But The Blood” on Pandora. Anyone who knows me understands: I love music.
“Amazin’ love, how can it be–that a king would die for me . . .”
Chicago. Good jazz, energetic or smooth, depending on my mood.
New on the scene? Sure, I’ll give it a listen. I try to be fair, with very few exceptions–one of those being anyone driving slowly by with a subwoofer the size of Iowa thudding something-or-other with such ferocity that the accompanying music couldn’t be ID’d on a bet.
I’ve a widespread palate and palette where the enjoyment of music is concerned.
When trauma closed in and the looming dark brow of Death frowned, I laid there unable to sing; there were too many alien objects competing for room with my available throat space.
But I could hum. “Pardon for sin, and a peace that endureth; Thine own dear presence to cheer and to guide…” “I’m so glad I learned to trust Thee, Precious Jesus, Savior, Friend…”
Well, at least I called it humming. They usually thought I was in pain. Or had gas. I think I might’ve inadvertently caused them to call in the trauma team a couple of times. What? You guys never heard anybody hum before?
I was raised on the great hymns of The Church. I’ve lived long enough to observe my parents both cross from here to Home with verses of hymns on their hearts and the choruses brushing across their lips with their final breath: “Jesus is the sweetest name I—”
This isn’t a shot at contemporary praise and worship. Just as I prefer some hymns over others, the same is true for contemporary sacred music. I enjoy a rousing praise anthem and some following lively, joyful praise as much as the next guy. Okay, not him. He doesn’t seem to be, ah–well, let’s just say he’s joy-resistant.
During life’s real stuff, though, when it’s get-down-to-business time? I’m just sayin’ we’ve got this thing goin’ on: I’M IN LOVE WITH HYMN.
© D. Dean Boone, May 2015