In his seminal book about Sacred Harp, Buell Cobb quotes an old southern singer as saying that it's "good music to die on." Indeed, many of the over 500 tunes in the 1991 revision of The Sacred Harp accompany lyrics that are chiefly concerned with death, dying, and the life to come. In combination with the ethereal harmonies that characterize the tradition, Sacred Harp does seem particularly suited to sending souls forth to whatever awaits them beyond the joys and sorrows of this present world.
Yesterday a small group of us gathered at Arlington National Cemetery to pay our respects in song to the recently departed relative of a local singer and friend. Presumably due to the number of funeral services conducted daily at the Fort Myer Chapel, the pace of the service was brisk, though not perfunctory. Most of the allotted twenty minutes were filled with singing, punctuated by brief prayers, scripture readings, and a lovely, heartrending eulogy delivered by our singing friend, who selected the songs for the occasion.
We sang Nashville as the ashes were borne into the chapel by a soldier from the Old Guard. Following a prayer we sang Ortonville, and Evening Shade was sung after the scripture reading. This was followed by Wells, and then by the incomparable Farewell Anthem. As the remains were commended to God we sang The Hill of Zion, and Bethel as they were carried from the sanctuary. At the gravesite under a stormy sky we sang Traveling Pilgrim, which Sacred Harpers in some areas of the South traditionally sing at interments. After the requiem we sang Arkansas, and then closed with A Cross for Me.
More than once the coordinator of the singing was approached by friends and family members of the deceased, complimenting us on the music and inquiring if we sang as a group for different events, and whether we would sing at their church, and what were are rates, and so on. These well-intentioned queries were met with courteous but unambivalent demurrals. We are not a band, we are not a choir. We are a community. When we sing, it is neither for a fee nor for the pleasure of a well-received performance, but for each other and ourselves. Many of us sing for the glory of God, to feel the divine Presence flow through and reverberate within voices raised up in thanksgiving and praise.
Yesterday, singing in the pouring rain among countless rows of white headstones, surrounded by the fallen of too many bloody wars, I discovered anew the reasons why I am drawn time and again into the heart of the hollow square. When I sing each week and each month, I experience the pure and immediate pleasure of making prayerful music in concert with my dear friends and fellow singers. But as I realized yesterday, there's more to it than that. Singing each week and each month also prepares me to be present for those friends and fellow singers when they need it most. To be a witness and a comfort to them in times of both grief and celebration. Likewise, the singing helps prepare my spirit for its own times of testing.
In Mark Helprin's novel A Soldier of the Great War, a character experiences death as everything running together, "like a song." I can't imagine a more beautiful, more redemptive, or more right way for life to end. I hope and I pray that when my time comes, it comes for me in that manner: with everything running together like a song. And if it does, I believe that the sound of that song will be like the ones we sang yesterday at Arlington in honor of our friend and her family. It will be, I believe, good music to die on.
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