There are certain hymns in any hymnal that one approaches with reverence, trembling, and possibly the phone number of a chiropractor. Those hymns exist in every hymnal ever published. These are the hymns with eight verses, four key changes, and harmonies so complex you suspect the composer was having a difficult afternoon.
We’ll call these pieces of musical turpitude Hymn 742, for the sake of ease.
Now, I won’t name a hymnal in particular, because they are all equally culpable, and because clergy everywhere deserve plausible deniability when cornered by choir members wielding sharpened pencils. But it’s that hymn you flip to and immediately think, “Oh dear heavens, how do you even count this? Is this English? Why are the altos already shaking their heads?”
Selecting it for Sunday was — naturally — an act of deep theological purpose. The words seemed to fit so well into the readings and the message, or at least that’s the explanation I’m sticking to when the choir director next raises an eyebrow. In truth, I had forgotten that Hymn 742 contains no fewer than three modes, a descant that would challenge a migrating Canada goose, and a time signature that changes mid-stanza just to see who’s paying attention.
Yet the brave choir approachs it with the resolve of saints and the optimism of people who clearly didn’t read ahead.
Behind the scenes that morning, page-turning was its own ballet. One soprano flipped too soon and landed briefly in hymn 743, which is entirely about the Resurrection but in a minor key — an unsettling combination. A tenor accidentally folded his page in half, rendering the harmony a theological mystery. And one noble baritone was valiantly singing verse three during verse two, thereby creating a new form of Anglican jazz.
And still — bless them — they sang. They sang with courage, heart, and only occasional looks of quiet panic. By verse four, we were all in this together, choir, congregation, clergy, and the Holy Spirit, who (I am convinced) nudged us mercifully back into the right key more than once.
When we finally reached the last triumphant chord, the choir exhaled like mountaineers who had summited Everest without oxygen. I half expected someone to plant a flag in the chancel.
But oh, the beauty of it. The shaky beginnings, the courageous middles, and the glorious finish — this is the Church. This is what community looks like when we set out together, slightly unsure, yet committed to the journey, trusting that God will turn our mismatched notes into something resembling grace.
Hymn 742 has earned a permanent place in parish lore. And next time we sing it, the choir will be ready — with faith, fortified nerves, and perhaps laminated pages.
After all, courage comes in many forms. Some wear vestments. Others carry tuning forks.
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Companion Prayer
Gracious God,
You who delight in joyful noise — regardless of its accuracy — thank you for the courage of all who lift their voices in praise. Strengthen our choirs, our musicians, and all who dare to lead us in song, especially through hymns that test our faith and our sight-reading. May our harmony reflect your grace, our laughter your joy, and our every shaky note a reminder that perfection is never required—only love.
Amen.