Raise your voice

Yesterday, as I do every few weeks, I spent the Sunday morning worship service in the church balcony, running the computer as part of our congregation’s AV team.

Tucked behind a big computer monitor and an even bigger TV screen, I can see but not be seen as I sing along quietly to the morning’s songs, enjoying the solitude like a proper introvert should.

The congregation seemed subdued during communion as the pianist coaxed a gentle Advent hymn from the piano at the front of the sanctuary. The organist (yes, we still use an organ, in addition to our praise team-led music) was out sick, and the congregation sang tentatively without the rich, room-filling sound of the organ to back them up.

“Let songs of praise ascending now greet the Morning Star,” we sang softly, our collective voices barely reaching over the tops of the pews.

When I was a kid, church hymns were never quiet ― not when my dad was in church. He was a booming bass, and he loved to sing. You could almost see the little old ladies in front of us bracing themselves as he barrelled out a song behind them, filling the pointy-ceilinged sanctuary with sound. 

His big voice came in handy for his job as a high school principal, its authority commanding respect in meetings and snapping squirrelly teenagers to attention. In a boisterous classroom or in front of an assembly in the school gym, his deep and slow, “I’m talking,” with a lingering and emphatic “I,” made mouths shut and ears ready themselves for whatever he had to say.

No question, volume goes a long way in getting people to listen.

Of course, being loud is not the same thing as being right.

The biggest voice usually gets the most attention, no matter what that voice is saying. The cruel voice, the self-absorbed voice, the voice that disparages and condemns too often out-shouts kinder and gentler words ― and too often we just listen, maybe shaking our heads but forgetting that we have voices, too.

In those church services of my youth, I sometimes squirmed and blushed when my dad sang out, afraid it might make people look at us. He sang well, but he didn’t always nail the melody, and sometimes he sang the words in his head rather than the words everyone else was singing. I worried we would look silly, and sometimes I wanted him to just sing quietly, like everyone else.

Years later, when I had grown up and no longer got to stand next to him on Sunday mornings, Dad told me why he sang so loudly.

He said he knew sometimes other people didn’t feel comfortable singing. He thought, if he sang nice and loud, they would be less afraid. And then they could sing, too.

Leaders don’t just yell as loudly as they can, spouting their own beliefs and declaring themselves unassailably right. Leaders use their voices to do good. To stand up for what’s right, and to encourage others to do the same. They sing loudly so others can sing, too.

In my hiding space in the balcony, as I watched my Christian brothers and sisters approach the altar and, one by one, receive wine and bread that connects us to the booming voice of a Father who loves us so much He gave everything to make us His, I found myself singing that Advent tune the way my dad would have sung it ― loudly.

It didn’t count as real courage, since nobody knew the disembodied voice from above belonged to me. But maybe raising my imperfect voice helped someone else be brave enough to sing, someone who was just waiting for a strong voice to lead them.

My dad has been in heaven a good long while now, but I can still hear his voice booming inside me. I can see it, too. I see it in the resolute doggedness of my high-school-principal brother, leading his school family with firmness and compassion, just like Dad did. I see it in my husband as he bends over his desk, finding words to inspire his people to reach a loving hand toward the hurting of our community. I see it in the many people I’ve had the honor to meet who speak up at meetings and stand up to internet bullies and run for office and write columns because they have a warmth in their chest that tells them something needs to be done, and they are the ones who need to do it.

You have words, too. You have a say in what happens around you. If nobody is saying what needs to be said, say it. It’s OK if your voice wobbles or you get some of the words wrong. Hide in the balcony if you need to. But, if there’s a song in your heart, sing.

The world needs your voice.

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End notes:

1. Above, where I mentioned “Hide in the balcony if you need to,” I first typed “Hide in the baloney,” and I thought that was pretty funny.

2. It didn’t fit in the story, but, for a while, my dad stopped singing in church because he found out it embarrassed my brother and me. I’m pretty sure there’s a profound lesson there about not stifling the people who have the courage to speak up for what’s right. Mostly, though, I just feel bad he stopped singing, and I’m really glad he eventually started again.

3. I nibbled pepper jack Cheez-Its as I typed this, and I enjoyed them very much. I just thought you'd like to know.

If you know someone who might enjoy this blog, I’d be honored if you’d share it with them. I enjoy getting emails from you sometimes (somewhere down at the bottom of this page there’s a place to send me an email) and would love to read and reply to more. Life’s more interesting when we talk about it.

*If anyone’s looking for a last-minute gift idea for someone you love, I was thinking this morning how much I like and use the air fryer my son gave me a while back. You’re welcome!

Now I feel like sharing a picture of my dad. This is him and my brother and me, at Yellowstone Falls, around the time he stopped singing. ...Ever wish you could go back in time and tell someone how much you love them?