The Arian-Trinitarian battles continued. The mother of Emperor Valentinian II, Justina, was an Arian. The empress demanded that Ambrose give one of the basilicas to the Arians. Ambrose refused, prompting Justina to send soldiers to take it by force. Ambrose summoned the parishioners to the basilica to hold their ground. The parishioners—among whom was Monica, the mother of Augustine—fasted, prayed, and sang. Barricaded inside the basilica, Ambrose fortified the souls of his people by teaching them hymnody. Arians advanced their teaching by singing; now, at the behest of Ambrose, the Trinitarians set biblical theology to melody, and it reinvigorated their zeal. They sang antiphonally (i.e., back-and-forth, as in the chorus of “It Is Well with My Soul”), emphatically, and prayerfully. You can almost hear the reverberation off the stone colonnades as these Milanian Christians sing: “O thou true Sun, on us thy glance let fall in royal radiance; the Spirit’s sanctifying beam upon our earthly senses stream” (“O Splendor of God’s Glory Bright”). Justina eventually backed off. Arianism was held at bay by truth well sung.

Not without reason has singing played a major role in the life of the church throughout its history. The catholic (i.e., universal) church has long understood singing psalms and hymns as a form of liturgical battle cry and a biblically sanctioned pedagogical device. And yet the church of today has drifted from this practice, largely because it has missed these reasons for singing. In a word, we typically don’t sing because we have a low view of singing. We might think that singing is for those artsy folks who can read music, and so some of us end up merely mouthing the words rather than singing. Generally, it has been us men who have become particularly proficient at this practice, and admittedly, many of the church’s modern songs appeal to a more feminine demographic.