“It don't mean a thing if it ain't got that swing.” It's a quote by Duke Ellington a friend sent me last week. It introduced a chapter on “The Music of Religion.” There is a lot of truth to it.

Worship over the centuries has matured much like early folk music began around primitive camp fires and then matured into Bach, Mozart, and Parry, who set Milton's poem “Blest Pair of Sirens” to melody. A poem we use this morning to help us think about the connection between our great music at Covenant and our worship.

Daniel Dennet writes, “There is an artifice in the design and execution of religious practices, as anyone knows who has ever suffered through an ineptly conducted religious ceremony. A stammering, prosaic minister and boring liturgy, shaky singing from the choir, people forgetting when to stand and what to say.” But Dennet goes on, “More artful celebrated occasions can raise the congregation to sublime ecstasy.” From some of your comments, that surely was last Sunday in spite of nature's tricks. Yet, those high and lifted moments at Covenant on Easter or any given Sunday are not by accident. We strive toward excellence, and above all theological integrity in our worship, always mindful of an important balance. A balance caught poetically by Milton, “Blest Pair of Sirens, pledges of heaven's joy,... sisters, Voice and Verse, wed your Divine sounds.... Sung before the... throne to him that sits there on.” This is how, “We on Earth, with undiscording voice” keep in tune with heaven.

From the beginnings of our faith, music has been the vehicle for celebration before God. From a young shepherd boy named David, to the nomadic tents of Miriam and Moses, even back to Abraham, Isaac, and Jacob lyrics floating upon the wings of melody have offered a ribbon of scores stretching throughout Judeo-Christian history.

But like Milton, I'm aware that music in any church can become like another form of sirens. The sirens of Ulysses who lured travelers onto the rocks of shallow distraction. In “Tales of the Greek Seas, the Wanderings of Ulysses” Homer wrote, “On the island lay the bones of many who listened to the strange music that carried away the soul,” which is an ever-present danger.

In the second book of the ancient chronicler, we hear of the beginning of the reign of King Hezekiah who in the first month of the first year, as one of his first acts of authority, re-opened the doors of the house of worship. It was done with great fanfare. Those leading were instructed to use cymbals and harps, lyres and trumpets, and the music was to continue until the offering was complete.

The account frames an important lesson. The music we so enjoy every Sunday is to be the vehicle that accompanies our offerings to God. Offerings that once were livestock, land, and pigeons evolved into money, time, and talent. Offerings that are to be accompanied by the words of those who gather. Our pledges and our prayers, our promises of praise carried out in how we live are our modern gifts to our Creator.

David as a child strummed his harp to sooth sheep and kings, writing words of lamentation and joy that we know as the Psalms. The words being every bit as important as the music. The Apostles' Creed was once a plain song for new converts to Christianity summarizing what the early church believed. Saint Francis in 1225, lonely, blind, and sick found peace in the songs of birds that moved him, just before his death, to write, “All creatures of our God and King, lift up your voice and with us sing....” Martin Luther painted with simple words that picture that each year draws the world to a special place, “Away in a manger, no crib for a bed....” And by contrast, the words “A mighty fortress is our God, a bulwark never failing.” And how to know that God? “By letting goods and kindred go and this mortal life also.”

The words of our faith passed down through time on the wings of music. Verse and voice together, pledges of heaven's joy, but now questions. How often do we hear the words? How much attention is paid to the lyrics? How often do people in the pews see this hour as a concert? How often do Christians forget that the primary reason they gather is to make an offering to God?

Unfortunately, today in too many churches, there is the quest for “feel good” music with shallow theology. We don't get that here. In too many congregations, there is the misconception that the choir is present along with the organ and instrumentalists so that those gathered can be entertained. We try our best to say “no” to that here, and can do so because we are blessed with musicians who understand well the meaning of worship. We print the words to our anthems sometimes making the bulletin resemble the Sunday Times; we do that because the words are for everyone's meditation, not just a crib sheet for the choir.

Some of you sing the morning hymns with gusto. I know that, because I love to watch you. Others say they enjoy just listening because they can't carry a tune in a bucket. Trouble is the command of the Lord is to make a joy-filled noise not a sweet melody and all of us are capable of that.

So it is we take this opportunity to remind ourselves that when we come together for worship, our music, great as it is in this church, is not a concert. We remind ourselves that our calls to worship, our responsive prayers, the hymns we sing all blend with the talents of our choir to make a witness of faith as we act out what we believe. And we remind ourselves that when we are tempted to follow along mechanically, if we settle back and become voyeurs, we not only diminish our own opportunities to meet God in new and exciting ways, we also take from those around us that opportunity as well.

In the opening line of his contemporary Mass, Leonard Bernstein, put it this way, “Sing God a simple song, make it up as you go along, sing it like you like to sing. God loves the simple thing.” Bernstein, having conducted more concerts than any of his predecessors, gave up conducting for composing because he believed there to be a crisis of faith, which to his way of thinking was the crisis of the century. It was a crisis caused in part by the fact that people no longer had a rhythm to their faith, they no longer participated and therefore their worship “didn't mean a thing.” Yet for Bernstein, that simple song would never be a shallow song.

His Mass ends with the words, “When the thunder rumbles, now the golden age is dead and the dreams we've clung to dying to stay young have left us parched and old instead; yet, we go on to celebrate still another day.” It is saying that as people gather to struggle with their faith in the midst of their life experiences, their offerings are made whole. Offerings created out of a dialogue with those who have enabled the worship they are part of.

Milton captures it perfectly each Sunday when we lift high the offerings not only of those who assist us with their wonderful talent, but as we listen to the message of scripture and follow the words to the music as we share our prayers and response and the singing of hymns. We, the players on the stage of worship, become one in a symphonic offering and then the heart of God is touched. The “Mysterium Tremendum” is seen. And in return, each person's heart joins to “keep in tune with heaven,” till we live with God and “sing in (that) endless morn of light.”

Instruction was given to those who assisted worship. They were told to prepare the temple and then use cymbals and harps, lyres and trumpet as were the traditions of old. And then they were to get ready an offering to be raised up by everyone present. And the music was to continue until the whole offering was complete.

Words and music, “Voice and Verse wed in your divine sounds,” a pair of sirens blest each and every Sunday by you, the saints who gather.

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