Keep Singing: Congregational Song in a Time of Grief, Rage, and Terror
By Amanda Udis-Kessler When the world is crumbling around us, what should we do? When the democracy that we thought undergirded our country falls prey to dishonor, corruption, and theft, what should we do? When political polarization is less about policies and more about differences in basic moral understandings, what should we do? When we are exhausted, overwhelmed, furious, horrified, and despairing, what should we do? When we are frightened of our country's leadership (and with good cause), what should we do? When we have no idea what tomorrow will bring, what should we do? We should sing.
Yes, we should also weep and scream and fall silent. We should pray. We should comfort one another. We should march in the streets, write our congresspeople, share helpful information on social media, hold our children, and somehow get through each challenging day. But amid everything else, we should sing. And specifically, we should sing in church. Together. Leaving space for all of the emotions, all the complexities, and all of the uncertainties. Gathered in fear, we should sing of love. Gathered in despair, we should sing of hope. Gathered in rage, we should sing of gentleness. Gathered in uneasiness, we should sing of God's never-ending and never-diminished grace. Not because we are necessarily experiencing love, hope, gentleness, or grace at that moment, but because we have the audacity to believe that they are still there, still possible, still available to us even when they seem absent. This singing is a lament and a protest, all the more poignant for being both things. Even when it is pastoral, intended to comfort, this singing is also prophetic, reminding us that discomfort is our daily bread when the world is on fire – and strengthening us to meet that discomfort with resilience and trust, as Jesus did, over and over again. This singing reminds us that cruelty cannot conquer beauty. It reminds us that voices together are louder and more powerful than any single voice. It reminds us that we each have a part and that while our parts may be different, they complement one another. It reminds us that we each get to stop and take a breath when needed, that the song will continue as others cover us, and that we will then return to our parts and cover their parts when they need to pause. This singing reminds us that sorrow does not cancel out joy but co-exists in complicated ways.
In the leadup to Advent last fall, I adapted the text of "How Can I Keep from Singing?" It seemed to me in the wake of the 2024 election that now was not the time to envision our life's song flowing on "above" earth's lamentation; instead, it was a time to ask what happens if we understand our life's song flowing on "amidst" earth's lamentation. The rest of the text followed naturally, acknowledging how hard things were (and how much harder they would soon be) and how our song did not need to stop – indeed, must not stop. The original text acknowledges the world's difficulties but envisions something glorious apart from ("above") the world; I sought to find that glory, that wonders right in the middle of all the horror instead. I am delighted to share that text with you here. Replacing "kin-dom" with kingdom or even Kingdom is fine if you wish to program this version. Please do not change "faith of Jesus" to "faith in Jesus," however. That word choice is based on a particular translation of the Greek used by the Apostle Paul and my understanding that Jesus's faith in God is a model for our faith in God. My Life Flows on in Endless Song (text adapted by Amanda Udis-Kessler)
A lovely musical interpretation of this text is available online. I want to leave you with one last image. During 2020, the COVID-19 pandemic spawned a wide range of marvelous virtual choirs covering Broadway songs, pop tunes, classical music, and more, available on YouTube. In New York City, the Podd Brothers assembled a magnificent virtual choir and orchestra and released a heart-rending version of "How Can I Keep from Singing?" on May 9, 2020. (Watch it on YouTube) At the end of the arrangement, the text shifts from "How can I keep from singing?" to "Keep singing!" – an invitation, a demand, a plea. That invitation, that demand, that plea, calls to us today. So, may we keep singing. May we do our work, give our care, and raise our voices, part of the endless song through which our lives flow, individually and collectively. May that singing help us find some joy amidst the grief, some peace amidst the rage, and some wonder amidst the terror. May it be so.
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