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That kind of clergy/liturgist/musician conversation would call us to a deep partnership that goes far beyond the parallel planning of liturgy that we often do because of—dare I name it?—fear of the self-denial required to work together in such deep relationship. I close with a piece of music that many might call un-sublime, but it's sublime to me because it has something genuine and important to say to us. It's by a Texas troubadour named Guy Clark, whose work I'm pleased to bring to the attention of the Yale Institute of Sacred Music, if it is not already known here. Clark has a song called "Stuff That Works," and the refrain goes:
In the verses he sings about an old blue shirt that suits him just fine, he likes the way it feels so he wears it all the time, stuff that works; he sings about his old guitar that never stays in tune but he likes the way it sounds in a dark and empty room, stuff that works; he sings about an old pair of boots that fit just right, so he can work all day and dance all night; he sings about a pretty good friend who's seen him at his worst, who can't tell whether he's a blessing or a curse, but is always there when the chips are down—that's the kind of stuff he likes to be around. The stuff that works. For our liturgy, we want actions like that and symbols like that and prayer like that and proclamation like that and music like that, no matter what the style. We want "stuff that works...stuff that holds up, stuff that's real, stuff you feel...the kind of stuff you reach for when you fall." |
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