“My life flows on in endless song
Above earth’s lamentation.
I hear the real though far-off hymn
That hails a new creation.
No storm can shake my inmost calm,
While to that rock I’m clinging.
Since love is lord of heaven and earth,
How can I keep from singing?”
~Robert Lowry (1826-1899) 

Here is one thing I know for sure: singing with people is powerful work. Those who sing in choirs know this to be true. Those who are blessed to be a part of a faith community that really sings together also know this. I grew up on singing. It was part of my life from as far back as I can remember and probably even in the places of memory that are unconscious. My mother is a singer and sang to all of us while rocking us to sleep and in the car when going to and from places. Songs like ‘Beulah Land’ and ‘Always’ float through the membranes of my memory like a comforting blanket.

On Monday evening I had a unique experience. A member of our church had told me about a gathering for Irish singing at a pub in Minneapolis. It is an establishment that is a favorite but I had never been there on a Monday evening. It was the eve of my birthday and I invited those who could to join me for this adventure. I had no idea what to expect. I only hoped it wouldn’t be an awkward, unpleasant experience. I couldn’t have been more pleasantly surprised.

Gathered in a large room were people of all ages. Children to elders lined tables, some eating their supper, others just nursing a glass. One man seemed to be the keeper of the lineup of songs. He moved among the ever-growing crowd of people writing down  titles in a small, black notebook. Every now and then he would, himself, teach a short phrase and others would come in on the refrain of song. Without introducing who would be the next singer, he must have given them some visual cue that was subtle and the next song would begin. Each tune was a sea shanty, a love song or a mining song. Some were quick and lively. Others were more melancholy as Celtic songs can be. Many there knew all the words and joined in quickly. Others, like myself and my friends, learned as we went along. All of us threw in harmony with wild abandon. At the end of the first hour the children and parents left to go home. Others filled in their seats and the singing continued for another hour. Nearing nine o’clock, one man came into the center of the room and began what was clearly the last song of the night. Everyone stood without invitation and sang this final song. It was a ritual moment.

I thought of all the places around the world where such singing happens. Those places without trained musicians and with no accompaniment. People making music for their own enjoyment, mimicking the voices of those with wings. People telling the stories of hard work, lost love, life’s ups and downs, their faith and doubts, their wildest dreams. People telling tales of ships on the sea, love of the earth, death and grief, some ancestor story. I felt sad that there are fewer places to do this work, that we have allowed those with training to do so much of this for us.

The energy of that song circle has carried me through this week. Looking at the faces raised in song, standing firm in the power of their own voice. A few singers admitted that this was there first time to stand and sing and they were nervous.  It seemed to me that the group only undergirded their sound with even greater spirit. As it should be. To have been in that circle seemed a primal thing, something that connected me with an ancient droning that goes very deep.

I am grateful to have learned of this opportunity and hope to attend whenever possible. In many ways it was a kind of worship. Unscripted, free of the trappings of traditional church, but full of a dancing Spirit that could not be denied.