I’ve been thinking about the word “sing” this week. You know, not in the surface way—like, “we should all feel better if we sing.” But the deeper thing. What it means to raise your voice when things don’t feel worth singing about.
There’s a passage I keep coming back to, about singing in dark places. Not singing to make the darkness go away. But singing anyway. And I think that’s the real discipline of faith. Not having good feelings. Not figuring it out. But choosing to raise your voice—to the church, to God, to yourself—when the natural thing is to stay silent.
We have people in this congregation right now who are in genuine pain. Surgery. Loss. Family stuff that’s messier than anyone wants to admit. And the church’s first instinct is usually to fix it or comfort it. But what if the real gift is permission to sing the lament? To say—without sugarcoating—”This is hard. This is real. And I’m going to say that out loud anyway.”
That takes more faith than the cheerful singing, honestly. Because you’re not pretending. You’re just taking your actual life and offering it to God and saying: I’m still here. I’m still trusting. Even when it sounds more like a cry than a song.
A reflection by Rev. MaryGean Cope