And, of course, the songs themselves — as I have sung them — have gotten into my bones, and they have generated a longing to return to them over and over again. I have not only been sanctified to sing, but sanctified through song. I still don’t sing well-  I won’t get tapped for choir membership in this life.  But that’s good – it wouldn’t work very well if we were all up there in the loft, would it?  However, I love to sing His songs— so much. 

I am a poor singer. Like amusingly bad.  I know it is amusing, because those nearest and dearest often actually chuckle at me.  No bucket is big enough for me to carry a tune in it. Though I read music well, that has never translated to making my voice do what it’s supposed to do.  I’ve never had any vocal training, and my Creator did not endow me with much natural ability. I don’t even understand the vocabulary behind the use of one’s voice to make music. I am very fuzzy on the difference between finding the correct pitch and finding a right note. I’m positive that is supposed to embarrass me, but I’ve never been very good at being appropriately chagrined.

For most of my life, this meant that my participation in music at church was reluctant. In contrast, I have always loved listening to music — both in the church and out of it. My father prioritized teaching me the canon of American singer-songwriters, and he was always singing along. I know nearly every John Prine lyric written — and it has long been poetry for my soul. But, I was acutely aware of my paltry vocal contributions, and so I avoided singing audibly in any formal group setting, church services being the prime example. Pride is a powerful motivator.

When I had a gaggle of young children, I always chose hymns as my moment to leave a worship service to change a diaper. I thought I wasn’t adding value (and probably was making others’ experiences less holy or something) during that time, so it was likely a good time to scoot out.

Over the past ten years, this posture has radically changed. And a retrospective about this change provides a view into the paradigm in which I believe much of the work of sanctification happens.

Sanctification is one of those big theology words that carries a good bit of baggage. I’ll not attempt a scholarly parsing here. I’m not qualified, and as soon as I say any words, I will step on the toes of my theological betters. But, I will say sanctification happens, and it is the process of being made more like our Creator.

In The Magician’s Nephew, C. S. Lewis tells the story of the creation of Narnia. Aslan the Lion, the great God-figure, sings the world into existence. Lewis is often accused of taking theological liberties in his stories (usually by people who need to be tickled). But, Aslan creating through song is not that far off a picture from the God of the Bible. God gave us a book of 150 Psalms — in which lament, praise, and thanksgiving reign — not through sermon, but through song. The minor prophet Zephaniah, often forgotten, bursts forth with a most beautiful picture of the Lord of Zion, having rescued His people:

The Lord your God is in your midst, 
a mighty one who will save; 
he will rejoice over you with gladness; 
he will quiet you by his love;
he will exult over you with loud singing.

We worship a God who sings over us. And to be more like Him — to be sanctified — we will sing as well. What an absurdly prodigal God — to make one of our marks of holiness the making of joyful noise. And that’s an important theological point — all sanctification is making us more joyful. The process may absolutely at times involve much pain (don’t pray for patience, someone once told me), but the actual differences wrought in us will only and always lead to more joy, peace, and contentment.

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