I felt enfolded in family: my husband and my college-age grand-daughter Claire sat to my right, and my daughter-in-law Amy and son Paul sat to my left; Stevie, stage lights glancing off his glasses, sat directly ahead. Joy in the Present moment lifted my heart. Yet as I quietly sang along with the Christmas carols, praising God under my breath with the "Hallelujah" chorus, tears ran unceasingly from my eyes.
Sorrowful memories of the Past gave a sudden blow to my heart. The concert was held in a building on the campus where my deceased son had attended college and taught as a part-time Drama Professor. Forced to sit still instead of escaping into busyness, I was prey to Worry eating away at me: I worried about what the Future held for an ill daughter-in-law and ill young grand-daughter, and a daughter out of work. And so, like Scrooge experienced, the Ghosts of Past, Present, and Future whirled through my soul, simultaneously lifting my heart up, and dragging it down. My life was an "Hallelujah" in joy and tears.
For the closing sacred song, "Do You Hear What I Hear?" school alumns were invited to come up on stage and join the cast. Claire, a Swing Choir alumna, hurried to the front, eager to relive a joyous yet stressful (very busy!) time from her past, and join her brother, for whom this school is his joyous - and stressful - present. I wondered, gazing at their enthusiastic faces, what the future held for them. But I knew I could not let my heart travel so far down that unseen road. And so I sang "Do You Hear What I Hear?" with them, focusing my heart and my praise on the Holy Baby who once lived outside time, entered into time for us, and now is timeless. The Baby who will, as the song promises, bring us goodness and peace in his perfect timing for each of our lives.
A lovely hymn calls us to:
"Fling wide the portals of your heart;
Make it a temple, set apart
From earthly use for heaven's employ,
Adorned with prayer and love and joy."
When our hearts open to welcome this Holy Babe who not only rules the world but rules both time and the timeless, the only song that can be on our lips is "Hallelujah" - as that devout Jew Leonard Cohen reminds us. He calls G-d "The Lord of Song." He tells us that our song of praise is the most unutterably perfect gift that we can give to God. Whether it's broken or whole, our "Hallelujah" is holy.
Jeff Buckley, utilizing still others of Cohen's lyrics (he wrote dozens of them!) reminds us that love is not a victory march, it's a cold and it's a broken "Hallelujah." How true this is - to love someone deeply sets us up to eventually suffer deeply in this limited, broken world. For the Babe shivering in the manger, love led inevitably to the cross - and yet the cross, the ultimate symbol of brokenness, leads us all to the glory of Resurrection, the final soaring "Hallelujah."
While we are here, trapped in time, what can be more faith-filled and trusting than singing "Hallelujah" to God with a heart broken by love? As vision after vision from my life drifted through my mind during the Christmas concert, the one constant image was God's Presence in every moment, weaving every experience together into a Christmas garland of hope, purpose, pain, brokenness, faith, and that joy that transcends understanding. My joy and my tears were my prayer of pain and trust. Whatever happens to me and mine, and whenever it happens, all of us rest in God's hands. For God promises to be faithful forever. His momentous choice to sleep in a manger makes His promise to always be with us overwhelmingly real - and believable.
And so, as I sang "Hallelujah," tears staining my face, a deep warmth and peace spread through my entire body and relaxed my tightly clenched heart. Fling wide the portals of your heart! The Babe slept in the manger. All would be well with the world. In God's perfect timing.