Take-away theology

Air Canada’s flight to Vancouver was now two and a half hours late as I wound my way down the aisle to seat 28G, knowing the five-hour flight wouldn’t arrive in Vancouver until 2 a.m. my time. Fatigued from an already busy day and facing two days chock-full, I had no energy to take up my usual habit – opening my computer to work. Instead, I slipped in my earbuds, opened my iPhone to a library of hymns and gospel songs, and settled back into the darkened cabin. The plane felt like a sanctuary at 35,000 feet.

Those treasured hours gave me the luxury of hearing again how hymns and gospel songs have nourished me for more than 80 years. While I appreciate – and even like – some contemporary songs (if I can find the tune and catch the rhythm and cadence), I understand that each generation must discover what suits its world, experience, and changing musical forms. We did it in ours. And while I sometimes feel lost in what our worship band presents, if I can’t follow along, I stand silently, thanking God that the worshipers around me are receiving what, in that moment, leaves me on the sideline. That’s okay. I’m well settled in my faith. What matters more is that their singing gathers them into the throne room of our Father. In fact, I find myself celebrating as their faith is kindled and accelerated through songs that give them comfort and courage.

My ear is tuned to a different set of musical patterns, melodies, and lyrical forms. I once heard a musical psychologist say that as we age, we gravitate back to the music we loved in our late teens and early twenties. Those songs are like well-worn paths in the forest of memory. I get it. So there I was – alone, five hours ahead, not driven to work, at a time when I should have been in bed.

I leaned my seat back, closed my eyes, and listened to songs I had learned over the years – songs stitched into my journey of faith. Richard Mouw, philosopher and former president of Fuller Seminary, has said that we probably learn more theology from songs than from preachers. Songs travel with us. We hum their tunes. Their words slip from our lips and lodge in our hearts. They become theology we carry in our pockets. Consider these words of Charles Wesley. As you read them – if you know the tune –sing along. Notice how the rich theology teaches us who we are and who God is.

Hark! the herald angels sing,
Glory to the newborn King;
Peace on earth, and mercy mild,
God and sinners reconciled!
Joyful, all ye nations, rise,
Join the triumph of the skies;
With th’angelic host proclaim,
“Christ is born in Bethlehem!”

How much of Christ’s coming do we learn from carols? Bethlehem scenes may charm us with soft light and manger straw, but what is at the core of this event? Wesley helps us remember

Easter, too, gathers up a complex Hebrew history – the Exodus, the prophets’ fulfilled promises, and Roman hostility, burdened with the weight of our own guilt. All converge in the suffering and death of Christ. These are not simple ideas to sort through. Yet Wesley, steeped in Scripture, gives them language, melody, and rhyme so that we may understand and remember:

And can it be that I should gain
An interest in the Savior’s blood?
Died He for me, who caused His pain?
For me, who Him to death pursued?
Amazing love! how can it be
That Thou, my God, shouldst die for me?

The great Swiss Reformed theologian Karl Barth was reportedly asked what he believed to be the essence of the gospel. One can imagine his eyes twinkling, knowing that the questioner expected theological profundity in response. Instead, he quoted the childhood line: “Jesus loves me, this I know, for the Bible tells me so.” Music, a gift of our Creator, is more than harmony; its purpose is more than pleasure. Along with enhancing worship, it is pedagogical – it teaches. It tunes the heart as well as the mind.

As I waited for the plane, a woman wrote to say she was reading a book I had written four decades ago. She was distressed by what she sees unfolding in our country and wondered if I might offer a word of comfort or counsel. As I wrote back, I found myself whispering, “Me too.” I am weary of the harangues in our land and of what we witness with our neighbour to the south. The noise is constant, the anger corrosive. Aren’t you fatigued by these deep political divisions, by words that wound, by hurts that fracture both public square and private conversation?

She was looking for courage – a word of faith reminding us that not all is illusion, that truth still stands in God’s world, and that He remains present as we face another day. I follow civic affairs closely, yet there are days I long to shut it all down. But we cannot run from life; we are called to live faithfully within it.

Then through my earbuds came these words:

What a fellowship, what a joy divine,
Leaning on the everlasting arms.

And then:

Song after song wound its way through my praying spirit, like cathedral bells calling me back to worship. And then:

All to Jesus I surrender,
All to Him I freely give;
I will ever love and trust Him,
In His presence daily live.

Next time you stand in worship, singing with your best voice, allow the lyrics – both obvious and subtle – to sink deep. Let them invest your inner life with His wonder. Let them revive your faith in His care and supremacy. For long after the sermon fades, the song remains, echoing down the corridors of our soul.