For this issue of the Outlook, we asked readers to send us their answer to this question: What music are you listening to and why?
I struggled to find one answer to this question. Music serves me in so many ways.
When I’m at the gym, pushing to finish a tough workout, nothing beats Europe’s 1986 hit, “The Final Countdown,” to get me to the end of the AMRAP (As Many Rounds As Possible).
A comforting nostalgia washes over me every time I hear Billy Joel’s “Piano Man,” remembering my college roommate and me driving around campus with the windows down, singing at the top of our lungs.
My husband, a tenor, won my heart with a serenade under my dorm window in seminary. He trained for opera, but I prefer it when he woos me with Air Supply’s “Now and Forever.”
After dropping our oldest off at college this past August, I couldn’t hold back my tears and listened to Brandi Carlile’s “The Mother” on the lonely drive home.
When I’m seeking inspiration for resistance, songs like Jon Batiste’s “Freedom,” Sam Cooke’s “A Change is Gonna Come,” and Stevie Wonder’s defiant “They Won’t Go When I Go” make my playlist.
The power of music, like all art, is that it meets us where we are and takes us somewhere new. Whether I am grieving a loss, buoyed by a gesture of love, or caught in the tedium of a long commute, the world is never so silent that I can’t find a soundtrack. Sometimes, the perfect song emerges as if conjured by the Holy Spirit herself, making me feel, for a moment, less alone, less adrift, less at odds with the universe.
But music isn’t just a private consolation; it also serves as the connective tissue of our shared lives.
This past August, I joined about 100 people in the pews of Seattle’s Wallingford Presbyterian Church for a combined worship service of three small congregations — Wallingford, Northminster Presbyterian, and Woodland Park Presbyterian. These small churches have been collaborating and supporting each other’s ministries in a part of the country where being referred to as a Christian isn’t a compliment. After I preached, I settled into the front pew to enjoy the rest of the service. During the offering, the pianist began playing “Finlandia,” the tune to “Be Still My Soul.” I don’t know who started the humming, but it felt natural to join, the musical vibration gathering us one by one, growing and lifting us all in the wave of a well-known melody.
Something happens when a room full of people suddenly, naturally, without being asked, begins to hum along. As I sat there in the Wallingford church, my voice woven into the larger sound – made stronger and less distinct at the same time – I forgot about the pressures of the world, the anxiety and division and heartache we all feel, but assume is our unique burden to bear. For a moment, I was one small part of a very old song, hummed for reasons none of us could probably articulate, but that made sense on a level close to the soul — made sense because it was what we all needed in that moment.
How beautiful it is that I can fly from Richmond, Virginia, to Seattle, Washington and find myself in a pew with people I’ve just met, all humming the same hymn, one that connects us not just to each other in the moment, but to the generations who first sang it back in 1899, and all those who have carried it forward since.
Perhaps this is what music does best: it reminds us that none of us sings alone. Our voices – cracked or strong, hesitant or bold – become part of something larger, older, and more enduring than any of us could ever carry on our own. In that shared sound, we find courage. We find consolation. And sometimes, if we’re listening closely, we even catch a note or two of God’s eternal song, binding us together, steadying our hearts, calling us home.
