Monday Morning Music Ministry

Happy Monday.. and Happy Holy Week.

“Happy”?

Sure. It was a happy week, back in Jerusalem. Jesus rode into town; if we were there, we probably would have joined the happy throng with our palm-branches. Things turned ugly, the crowd was incited, Jesus was falsely accused. He was tortured, put on the cross, and died. Chances are that we — or at least I — would have been part of that crowd too. In fact, I sort of am, every time I sin.

But it sure was a happy week, after all, because He rose from the dead. He took the sins we commit upon Himself… died the death we deserve… and conquered death so that we might live with Him. I’m happy; are you?

Even Good Friday… etymologists speculate its origin was “God’s Friday”; maybe so. That willing, sacrificial death was Good indeed. Greater love hath no man than this.

Here is possibly the most unique, certainly a most memorable, version of the Easter story you might ever see. A little account of a kid’s Easter pageant. Father and son; death and resurrection; humor and Truth.

It is pianist Anthony Burger a few years ago talking about his five-year-old in an Easter pageant. Ironically, not long after this, Anthony himself died, suddenly, at the keyboard on a gospel-music cruise. His life was a mighty testimony… and so was his little boy’s story.

Click:  We Shall Behold Him

All the Merrys of this season, and the Happys of greetings like the thousands we hear and say, cannot mask that sometimes life is not always merry and happy.

Even Christians, as secure as they can be in their faith, and mindful of God’s many blessings, not only have difficult times and enormous challenges (not warned about in the Bible, but promised to occur)… but also deal with moments of doubt.

To be a follower of Jesus, and admit to these things, does not make you a bad Christian; it just shows that you are… a Christian. We believe, but sometimes doubt things. We trust, yet need His hand to walk forward. We take the risk of trusting like a child…

Those last words are in Bill Gaither’s song I Believe… Help Thou My Unbelief. If you are ever in that fragile spiritual state, or ever have been, or might be sometime, this brief emotional song might minister to you:

Click:  A Hymn for Doubters

On top of all the holiday busy-ness, this season seems, to me,  exceptionally intrusive. Do you have the same impression in your “space”? You don’t have to be a news junkie or a cable-news addict to be aware of economic hard times, health-care battles, political corruption, intrusive government, a war, another war, global “worming,” terror threats, runaway spending, and probably another war somewhere. And that’s just yesterday. Next week will probably have its new problems.

For friends outside the US, I’m sure there are the same and similar challenges in the news every morning and every evening where you are.

My son Ted is a TV news producer, and I don’t want to take any work off his plate, but…

This is an appropriate time — this is a good season — to remember what the really big news is. Here is a video of the great Russ Taff, singing with his daughter Madi at his side; and backstage with members of the Gaither musical family, a little song about “The Really Big News.”

Family, friends, life’s little pleasures. Stop the presses! Let’s all remember the big stories in our lives.

(And, at this season, the really good news, too. The gifts we will be exchanging began as a commemoration of God’s greatest Gift, Jesus Christ! May we all remember that initial impetus!)

Click: The Really Big News

Last week my daughter Heather, who is expecting her second child, received a shocker. Awakened by a phone call from her doctor, she heard a disturbing possible prognosis after tests on the baby.

I’ll fast-forward and let her note of a couple days ago tell the story:

Hi, family and friends
This week was a weird one…we all got sick, Pat had a deadline at work so was working 15-18 hour days, and on Tuesday we got a call from our Dr. that blood work showed a possibility for our baby to have spina bifida.

Not knowing much about the condition but also realizing that dreams of a healthy baby might not be the case, we were initially worried but as we took time to pray together and on our own we both felt stretches of incredible peace. We’ve been praying since we were married, for any future kids God had planned for us, that in everything He would be glorified. So during this time, we kept reminding ourselves that God was still in charge and if this is what he had planned for this little one and us, that it would be fine.

We went to UofM hospital today to meet with a genetic counselor and have an ultrasound. The ultrasound revealed NOTHING wrong and everything looks perfect: strong heart, spine is in the right shape and position, brain has no abnormalities, and there are no holes in the abdomen. It turns out that sometimes blood work just reveals higher levels of this protein and only 1/2% of those who have this elevated protein level actually go on to have babies with problems.

This has reminded us to continue to pray for our kids and that no matter what happens that God is still God and will give us what He feels is best. Thank you all for your prayers and encouragement this week!

Love,
Pat, Heather, Gabe and Zachary (yep, we found out it’s a boy!! He was proudly doing somersaults!!)

Heather’s testimony is a tale of faith and trust in God. I have been wanting to share the video of Janet Paschal’s conversation with Bill Gaither about her own health challenge — hers was with a cancer diagnosis — and her performance of the beautiful love-song to God, rejoicing in His sovereign care and the supportive love of friends like Gloria: “It Won’t Rain Always.”

Many people who pray, and singers who sing, and preachers who preach, concentrate on the “storms clouds passing,” and “it’s dark, but morning time’s coming!” Those things are true, as symbols and reflections of reality in the life of believers… but so is the line from this song about “dark clouds” — “the Sun that they’ve been hiding has been there all along.”

Have you ever gotten up before a trip… and it’s raining or snowing? You have a miserable ride to the airport, full of delays and dangerous traffic. The flight is delayed because of the rotten weather. The plane finally takes off into the black clouds… and then the blue sky and blinding sun meet you above the clouds.

It’s been there all along!

Click:  It Won’t Rain Always

Amidst talk this week of the 9-11 anniversary, and bad economic news, and the health-care “crisis” in the US, I actually wonder whether Americans know what “hard times” are. I have been through some difficult patches, but I cannot say that I have known Hard Times in the sense that every previous generation in history, virtually everywhere in the world, has experienced.

I have been sad, but not in sorrow. I have been in debt, but never destitute. I have had regrets, but never grief. How many of us can share such relatively comfortable testimony? In my case, to whatever extent I rightly judge my insulation, it is largely due to my standing as a Christian – receiving joy that passes understanding — but we also have to credit modern life, in America, with its technology, medicine, and general prosperity.

Hard Times come in America, but somehow all the wars and crises have the lengths of TV mini-series, and if not, the public grows impatient. The public has a sound-bite mentality. We used to face our challenges; but now we are distracted with the modern equivalents of the Romans’ “bread and circuses” — pop entertainment, push-button gratification.

In many ways this indicates that we are not advancing as a culture. I’m not sure we are “going backwards,” either, because that might actually be beneficial. Giuseppi Verdi (yes, the composer otherwise known as Joe Green) once said, Torniamo all’antico: Sara un progresso — “We turn to the past in order to move forward.”

I got thinking of Hard Times in America when I pulled an elegant old volume off my bookshelf. Folk Songs was published in 1860, before the Civil War. This book is leather-bound, all edges gilt, pages as supple as when it was printed, a joy to hold. The “folk songs” of its title refers not to early-day coffee houses, but to poems and songs of the people, in contradistinction to epic verse or heroic sagas; the way the German word Volk refers to the shared-group spirit of the masses.

Many of the titles are charming: “The Age of Wisdom,” “My Child,” “Baby’s Shoes,” “The Flower of Beauty,” “The First Snow-Fall”… However, such sweet titles mask preoccupations with children dying in snow drifts, lovers deserting, husbands lost at sea, fatal illness, mourning for decades, unfaithful friends. No need to guess the themes other titles from the index:”Tommy’s Dead,” “The Murdered Traveller,” and “Ode To a Dead Body.”

It reminded me that people 150 years ago were not gloomy pessimists: they were not. But Hard Times were a part of life, and therefore part of poetry and song. On the frontier, life could be snuffed out in a moment. In the imminent Civil War, roughly every third household was affected by death, maiming, split families, or hideous disruption; yet anti-war movements never gained traction; life went on. Abraham Lincoln almost lost his mind over an unhappy love affair; his wife likely did lose her mind when her favorite son died in the White House. Theodore Roosevelt’s young wife (in childbirth) and mother (of salmonella) died on the same day in the same house. Hard Times.

Also before the Civil War, a composer named Stephen Foster wrote a song called Hard Times. He is barely recalled today, sometimes as a caricature, but he might be America’s greatest composer. He wrote My Old Kentucky Home; I Dream of Jeannie With the Light Brown Hair; Old Black Joe; Carry Me Back to Ol’ Virginia; Way Down Upon the Swanee River / Old Folks At Home; Oh, Susanna; Camptown Races; Beautiful Dreamer … and Hard Times, Come Again No More. This last song has been resurrected lately to a certain repute, or at least utility. In some circles it has become an anthem for charities and lamentation of poverty. Bob Dylan, Bruce Springsteen, even the Squirrel Nut Zippers, have sung it. It has taken on the air of a secular anthem. But in fact, although Stephen Foster did not embed a Gospel message in the lyrics, he had written many hymns in his life, and — if we can turn back our minds to the world of 150 years ago — it is clear that the Hard Times he wrote of were the world’s trials, to be relieved in heaven. It is clear that the “cabin,” and its door, in the song are metaphors.

Here is a memorable video to evoke the reality of life’s Hard Times, the promise heaven holds, and the beauty of Stephen Foster’s music to you. The seven singers are from the amazing project of a few years ago, “The Transatlantic Sessions” — singers and musicians from America (US and Canada), Ireland, and Scotland singing old and new “folkish” songs in a living-room setting.

(By the way, they are, left to right, Rod Paterson, Scotland; Karen Matheson, Scotland — hear her incredible soprano harmony on the left channel; Mary Black, Ireland; Emmylou Harris, US; Rufus Wainwright, his mother Kate McGarrigle, and her sister Anna McGarrigle on the button accordian, all Canadians. The other musicians are fiddler Jay Ungar — he wrote the haunting “Ashokan’s Farewell: tune of the PBS “Civil War” series — and his wife Molly Mason on the bass; and the project’s shepherds Shetland fiddler Aly Bain, and American dobro player Jerry Douglas.)

Listen to the wonderful performance, the amazing music, and the important reminder that we should keep Hard Times in perspective… but also that God provides a joyful relief from life’s disappointments when they come. By and by, they will “come no more.”

The lyrics are printed out under the link:
Click:

Hard Times Come Again No More

Let us pause in life’s pleasures and count its many tears,
While we all sup sorrow with the poor;
There’s a song that will linger forever in our ears;
Oh hard times, come again no more.

While we seek mirth and beauty and music light and gay,
There are frail forms fainting at the door;
Though their voices are silent, their pleading looks will say
Oh hard times, come again no more.
(Chorus)
There’s a pale drooping maiden who toils her life away,
With a worn heart whose better days are o’er:
Though her voice would be merry, ’tis sighing all the day,
Oh hard times, come again no more.
(Chorus)

A bit of a personal story, prompted by the video to Click, below.

A number of years ago I was working on a book, a three-part biography of rock ‘n’ roll pioneer Jerry Lee Lewis; evangelist Jimmy Swaggart; and country-music superstar Mickey Gilley, all first cousins to each other. A friend offered me his unused condo in Montgomery, Texas to get away for research and writing one summer. Since Lewis lived in Mississippi, Swaggart in Louisiana, and Gilley in nearby Pasadena TX, it made geographical sense.

Once settled, I took out the Yellow Pages to chart the location of Assembly of God churches for all the weeks ahead, intent on visiting as many as I could. East Texas was in every way new to me, and I wanted to experience everything I could.

Well, the first one I visited was in Cut and Shoot, Texas. That’s a town’s name; you can look it up. A small, white frame AG church was my first stop that summer… and I never visited another. For one thing — coincidence? — I learned that a member of the tiny congregation was the widow of a man who had pastored the AG church in Ferriday, Louisiana, the small town FOUR HOURS AWAY where, and when, those three cousins grew up in its pews. She knew them all, and their families, and had great stories. Beyond that, the pastor of the church in Cut and Shoot, Charles Wigley, had gone to Bible College with Jerry Lee Lewis and played in a band with him, until Jerry Lee got kicked out. Some more great stories.

But there was more than that kept me there for that summer. In that white-frame church and that tiny congregation, it was, um, obvious in three minutes that I was not from East Texas. Yet I was treated like family as if they had known me three decades. It was the Sunday before July 4th, and a fellow named Dave Gilbert asked me if I’d like to go to his farm for the Fourth where a bunch of people were just going to get together and “do some visitin’.”

On the Fourth I bought the biggest watermelon I could find as my contribution to the pot-luck. Well, there were dozens and dozens of folks. I couldn’t tell which was family and who were friends, because everybody acted like family. When folks from East Texas ask, “How are you?” they really mean it. There were several monstrous barbecue smokers with chimneys, all slow-cooking beef brisket. (Every region brags about its barbecue traditions, but I’ll still fight anyone who doesn’t claim low-heat, slow-smoked, no sauce, East-Texas BBQ the best) There was visitin,’ after all; there were delicious side dishes; there was softball and volleyball and kids dirt-biking; and breaks for sweet tea and spontaneous singing of patriotic songs.

I sat back in a folding chair, and I thought, “This is America.”

As the sun set, the same food came out again — smoked brisket galore; all the side dishes; and desserts of all sorts. Better than the first time. Then the Gilberts cleared the porch of their house. People brought instruments out of their cars and trucks. Folks tuned their guitars; some microphones and amps were set up; chairs and blankets dotted the lawn. Dave Gilbert and his brothers, I learned, sang gospel music semi-professionally in the area. Pastor Wigley, later in the summer, opened for Gold City Quartet at a local concert, playing gospel music on the saxophone. But everyone else sang, too; of course in some churches, in some parts of America, you’re just expected to sing solo every once in a while. You’re not expected to — you want to. So into the evening, as the sun went down and the moon came up over those farms and fields, everyone at that picnic sang, together or solo or in duets or quartets. Spontaneously, mostly. Far into the night, exuberantly with smiles, or heartfelt with tears, singing unto the Lord.

I sat back in a folding chair, and I thought, “This is Heaven.”

(By the way, not only am I not from East Texas, although it is sort like home now; but I was born in New York City, so you might appreciate just how different, and not merely special, that day was for me.)

Here is a video that very closely captures the music, and the feeling — the fellowship — of that evening. A wooden ranch house, a barbecue picnic just ended, a campfire, and singers spontaneously worshiping, joining in, clapping, and “taking choruses.” There were cameras at this Gaither get-together, but it took this city boy back to that Fourth of JU-lye, finding himself amongst a brand-new family, the greatest barbecue I ever tasted before or since… and the sweetest songs I know.

Click:  The Sweetest Song I Know

Here is a tale about a not-so-happy Saturday I just endured… that got me thinking about current events as microcosms of larger issues in life.

I stupidly opened a blind link from a bogus e-mail address (“cloned” to be similar to that of a friend). Well, dozens of pop-ups popped up. I lost access to all my filters and cleansing software, my internet connection, even my Word files, proposals, unfinished manuscripts, research notes… and I went of my mind.

I pulled out the laptop and Googled everything I could. The pop-ups were phony ads trying to save me from viruses, but was itself a virus. “RansomWare,” it is called, because I was frozen unless I would purchase the program (and even at that, who knows?).

Frantic, I checked in with my new son-in-law in Ireland, a computer wiz. He has a Mac, so (all together now) “never has to deal with such things.” But he Googled too, and checked blogs of other victims, and on the phone and Skype simultaneously, we found a solution that worked. I am now free and clean. Six hours total of angst, three and a half solid hours on the phone with Ireland.

When I recovered, I got to thinking…

It shows how little — that is, not at all — human nature has progressed. People who cause these problems, whether for a little profit or pure malice, are no different than highwaymen hiding behind trees along forest pathways a thousand years ago, or urban pickpockets of Dickens’ time.

It’s the same thing with, say, abortion. Forty million dead babies today since Roe vs Wade — how is this different than “human sacrifice” or babies on pagan altars, in ancient or “primitive” societies? In fact, it might be worse today, in terms of the blackness of our souls. In ancient and primitive societies those people were mistaken, grievously, but at least believed they were serving and appeasing their gods. A murdered baby is still a murdered baby, but in American today, abortion (and so many other sins) are sacrificed to the “gods” of selfishness, greed, laziness, hatred. That’s not progress.

Is there a spiritual lesson? Yes. Human nature has not changed. Human nature won’t change. Human nature can’t change. One of the 700-billion reasons to resent politicians’ assault on freedom and responsibility these days, is that they nurture the lie that human nature is perfectible… and that government can bring perfection about.

Only Jesus can change humans’ nature. And do we despair that the world, without Jesus, is as rotten as it ever was? No… because we are not without Jesus. That’s the plan.

Sometimes this walk seems so dreary, life’s problems seem so challenging. God never said He’d keep us from troubles… just be with us through troubles. A friend wrote the other day, “Life isn’t about how to survive the storm, but how to dance in the rain”!

So, we go through this ol’ life, in the words of this week’s song, “While I’m here I’ll serve Him gladly, and sing Him all my songs”…

… because we know at the end, we’re headed  Home, Where I Belong

Not much to write here this week, because the music we have chosen, and the message that both inspired and flows from it, are delivered beautifully by Sonya Issacs on the clip.

You might know the story of the horrible accident, and the faith of the man who suffered the loss of his family, behind this song.

To me there are several lessons. The role of faith… a faith that can only arise supernaturally by the Holy Ghost. How God can heal through the creativity of music and poetry – and be turned back to praise Him – what mystery! How healing can come from a determination to trust, and even praise, God when the world cries “despair.” Amazing.

In Mr Spafford’s case, these lessons he learned and taught have blessed uncountable millions of people. Yet that was not his intention. He was just having a conversation with God about his family who drowned right where “the sea billows rolled.” How profound this hymn is when we know the circumstances of its creation.

Is it well with your soul?

Click:  It Is Well With My Soul

Spring… a sense that all things are new. Don’t let the pagans fool you into thinking a celebration of life’s “newness” is somehow all “nature” and no God. Many things are new in the Spring – it seems like dead trees come to life; dormant earth turns green again; cloistered souls spread their wings.

“All things new.”

God grants us New Days, not just because His earth spins and the sun inevitably shows up every morning. The promise of a new life is what flows from being Born Again.

When we are born again, it’s not an “other” life; it’s not a “different” life; it’s not a “second” life; it’s a New Life. And it’s not just once that we are Born Again. Oh the mysteries of the Father! When we are born again, we experience the New Life every day.

Experience the New Life! He tells us it is ours to have! We don’t blaspheme God’s name; neither should we blaspheme His promises.

Here’s Janet Paschal with Gaither Homecoming friends, and a room full of joy-filled believers —

Click:  Born Again

I’m not sure I’ve ever known a time when so many people — so many Christian friends — are distressed, hurting, facing challenges, as right now.

Of course it’s the economy. Of course there are political crises. Of course when a culture loses its moorings, the ship is going to be tossed around. And the people in it will be buffeted.

The Bible not only warns about such travail… it assures us its part of the package: raining on the just and unjust; but also that the faithful will experience persecution.

Yet we are not without a Friend, and surely not without hope. A new precious friend, Becky Spencer, has a CD out with a wonderful song of hers, “The Coldest Winter (Always Turns to Spring),” and it got me thinking… spring always follows winter; life replaces death, the sun always shines after the storm. And isn’t the most beautiful Spring the one that follows the hardest Winter? and the most amazing sunny day the kind right after an awful storm has swept through?

There is hope, and even in hard times (not SPARED from hard times, but THROUGH hard times) God’s promises are true. This song sung by Cynthia Clawson reminds us, even further, that even when the storm is at its worst, behind the clouds the Sun is still shining!

Click:  It Won’t Rain Always