The Role of Singing in My Life

Singing around the piano was a big part of my earliest memories.  When our family got together, my Grandmama Mamie loved to play the hymns from the Scottish and the Genevan Psalters.  The whole family would gather around singing --

       Our God, our help in ages past, our hope for years to come,
     
       Our shelter from the stormy blast, and our eternal home...  (Psalm 90) 

Or at times, she'd play gospel hymns like:

       Amazing grace, how sweet the sound that saved a wretch like me
       I once was lost but now I'm found, was blind but now I see...

I’ll never forget the way my dad’s strong and melodious second tenor, my Uncle Tom’s high tenor and my Aunt Robina’s lilting soprano would lead us all into spirited chorus. Singing these hymns became a part of my inmost spirit in those growing up years.  It was about the time I learned to speak that I learned to sing--

       Jesus loves me this I know, for the Bible tells me so...

Singing the hymns in church was also a part of those early years.  Sitting in the pew beside my dad, I remember the air of deep solemnity which seemed to come over him.  Standing with him as his strong voice rang out loud and clear, I was moved to join in the singing of the hymns. These great songs have remained with me through the years, and I am occasionally moved to belt them out! 

In my seminary days, I loved singing the hymns in the daily chapel services.  Once, a professor invited me into his office after chapel and advised, “Mr. Walker, it is good that you sing with vigor, but please, take care not to bellow like a bull of Bashan!” Years later, holding my four dear little ones in the wakeful hours of the night, I would sing more quietly:

       The Lord’s my shepherd I’ll not want,

       He makes me down to lie in pastures green,

       He leadeth me the quiet waters by...

Beyond the experience of the sacred, the celebration of life in singing took many forms.  As a little one, I loved to watch my dad shave with his straight razor. He would typically voice a song as he shaved.  In childish delight, I would sing along.

       There’s a little brown road winding over the hill,

       To a little white cot by the sea,

       There’s a moss-covered gate by whose trellis I wait,

       Where two eyes of blue come smiling through at me!

 And in my college years, some buddies and I ranged into a somewhat profane repertory with our “Cat Mountain Four” quartet. We were hardly sublime, but we had fun! Clyde Cook, Clarence Cook, Amos Hudson and I performed around North Alabama with such ditties as --

       Said Morphine Joe to Cocaine Sue,
When strolling down 5th Avenue,

       Said Joe to Sue, “Now let me see,
 Won’t you come along and have a snipfft on me?

As I write, I’m reminded of another chapter in my singing history which dates back to childhood days.  It was then that I learned to sing and to love the Negro spirituals:

       Steal away, steal away, steal away to Jesus,

       Steal away, steal away home,
       I ain’t got long to stay here.

Singing Steal Away always reminds me of Addie, the much loved "colored" woman who “helped” our family with the washing and the ironing.  As a young lad, I would sit by the ironing board for long stretches as Addie ironed the clothes.  I listened to her tell life stories enhanced with an occasional quiet song or perhaps, when she felt the need for a talk with Jesus, a prayer.

My deeper awareness of the power of singing among black folks didn’t fully emerge until my pastoral years in ghetto communities on the south side of Chicago. I recall years of advocating for the poor in an Alinsky-led community organization, protesting de facto segregation in housing and schools and “demonstrating” with my black friends in this community.  I remember the singing of such powerful spiritual testimonies as:

       Wade in the water,  Wade in the water children!

       Wade in the water, God’s goin' to trouble the water!

And then, when Martin Luther King came to Chicago in 1966 to encourage the “movement” against war and racial injustice, I got to meet with James Bevel and a couple of Dr. King’s lieutenants who were (unsuccessfully, sad to say) appealing to youth gangs to join the non-violent movement.  I attended gatherings where Dr. King spoke, including Reverend Jesse Jackson’s “Operation Breadbasket.”  At the close of each of these meetings, we joined hands and sang Dr. King’s favorite:

       Precious Lord, take my hand, Lead me on, let me stand;

       I am tired, I am weak, I am worn.

       Lead me on through the night, lead me on to the light,

       Precious Lord, take my hand, lead me on!

And, of course, we always concluded with another of his favorites, “We Shall Overcome.” It defies words to express the power of singing in the life affirmations which I recall here!

My life singing story would be incomplete without mention of the influence of the “folk song” movements of the 50s and 60s.  Dad had an old guitar on which he would strum from time to time, and he taught me a few chords and a few of the “old songs” from his minstrel singing days.  My guitar repertoire was limited, but I could muddle through an accompaniment for sing-a-longs in the family parlor or on the church chancel.  I could strum out a good chorus of “If I Had a Hammer,” “Where Have All the Flowers Gone?” or some of the great Yiddish and Russian songs that Theo Bikel introduced us to.

Singing along with the folk song movement was charming and delightful, but more than that, became a much-treasured way of celebrating life, affirming community and lifting up a vision of justice and peace.  Knowing that our son, Hal has picked up and carried on this, and other aspects of the singing tradition, is for me a source of great personal pride and satisfaction!

A Letter to the Record-Courier

It's Christmas. My brother and I are sitting in the living room. My dad has just brought downstairs a copy of an article he wrote which was recently published in the local paper. The article is a response to the tragedy in Newtown. Following up on a previous discussion, my brother said, "Dad. I have an assignment for you. Every week I want you to send me a one page paper telling me what you're thinking about this week, and I'll post it on a blog." Dad wasn't so interested in a blog, but he was interested in the assignment. So he's doing the assignment, we're doing the blog. He's been talking about writing a book, publishing all his sermons, for years. So...here we go. This is the first article.  (The follow-up article to this one is being revised as we speak, so that'll be the next installment.) We'll see how it goes. Enjoy!

I am about to enter my 86^th year, and through those years, I have sought, and continue to seek to worship and serve the God who was manifest in Jesus of Nazareth, and to remain open to the guidance of the Holy Spirit, and have tried to convey this heritage to my children, and to the congregations which I have served as minister.

But I am weary, and  not a little angry with the sort of “God-talk” which has been voiced in response to last week's tragic slaughter of innocents in Connecticut:  either that this tragedy is a result of failure to teach about God, prayer, and the Ten Commandments in the public schools, or that this is God's “punishment” of our society for its separation of  public education from such religious instruction and practice.  

I grew up in Alabama  during a time in which prayer and Bible reading began every school day, and the Ten Commandments hung on many classroom walls.  And yet this was a time of “Jim Crow” and racial segregation, and it occurred to few that God or the Commandments would have any  problem with this.  At my sainted grandmother's knee, I was taught that “the Bible teaches that the races should be separate.”   My Mississippi forebears were constant in prayer and Bible reading......but were also slave-holders.  In the first congregation I served in East Mississippi (before “Civil Rights” legislation was passed), while we were holding special services in the church one morning, a couple of black men were beaten bloody in the square outside because they had tried to register to vote.

The story of my transition to the pastorate of a largely black congregation on Chicago's south side is too long to tell here, but over decades of ministry, I learned that there are many and diverse sorts of “God-talk”, and that “God-talk” in itself  has to be assessed for its deeper meaning, and for its implications for the complexities of the particular situation.  Even in the Bible there is a diversity of  “God-talk”.  In one place, God is said to have told Saul to slaughter the Amalekites and destroy them …...” Spare no one; put them all to death, men and women, children and babes in arms, herds and flocks, camels and asses.” (I Samuel 15:3) ….. and yet Jesus advised : “Love your enemies; do good to those who hate you;  pray for those who treat you spitefully.  When a man strikes you on the cheek, offer him the other cheek too.” (Luke 6: 29)

It's interesting that people are being beaten and killed in Egypt today because religious adherents are trying to force a certain sort of “God-talk” into their new constitution.   Our forefathers saw the danger in that, and so took a different course respecting the public status of  religious speech and instruction.

So, over the years, I have grown to believe that the deeper issues, challenges, and threats of life are complex, and cannot be reduced to “formulas” of whatever religious, or non-religious tradition.......that the practice of  leaving instruction in prayer, Bible reading (including Ten Commandments), and “God-talk” to families and communities of faith is a sound practice in our diverse society.......and the suggestion that the roots of  the horrendous event of last week are due to this separation is simply small-minded.