There are several great mysteries in parish life: the location of the rector’s favourite pen, the theological significance of that one switch that controls exactly nothing, and the ancient, inscrutable habits of the church choir. Of these, only the choir is willing to speak—though not always in unison.
Now, if you ask any choirmaster, they will tell you (often with a twitch behind one eye) that the choir always shows up early. Liturgically early. Monastically early. The sort of early that suggests they’ve been spiritually preparing since Wednesday, communing with the angels and warming up their vocal cords in the key of “holy anticipation.”
Until, of course, they don’t.
Choir punctuality obeys its own sacred calendar, utterly unrelated to the one printed on the vestry door. You can have the best laid plans, the clearest emails, and a rehearsal schedule written with more precision than the Dead Sea Scrolls, and yet there will inevitably come that Sunday where everything begins exactly two minutes late — because Brenda’s car wouldn’t start, or Harold got distracted by a garage sale, or someone remembered at the last possible second that their black folder is still sitting on the piano at home, meditating quietly beside last year’s Advent wreath.
Folders, in fact, are a recurring spiritual theme. There is always one missing. Always. It is the liturgical equivalent of “Lo, he is not here,” accompanied by the faint rustling of frantic page-turning and the sotto voce whisper, “Does anyone have an extra copy?” Choir folders are the sock pairs of the church universe: frequently misplaced, occasionally reunified, and occasionally replaced with something close enough to pass under dim lighting.
And yet — this is where the holy mystery comes in — despite all of it, music happens. Beautifully. Miraculously. The anthem, once begun, rises like incense (or occasionally like a determined kettle boiled one too many times). Notes land. Harmonies appear. And the choir, this most eclectic of spiritual families, becomes a vessel of grace for everyone gathered.
Why? Because beneath the logistical comedy, beneath the forgotten pencils and the shoe that clicks, beneath the inexplicable late arrival of the tenors (seriously, tenors, who hurt you?), there is love. Love for the music. Love for the community. Love for God. And that is something worth arriving early for—or rushing frantically toward with a half-zipped robe and a borrowed binder.
So here’s to the choir: early birds, occasional wanderers, ministers of melody, keepers of the sacred cacophony until it blossoms into beauty. You show us that grace doesn’t require perfection, only willingness — even if your folder is in the wrong bag. Again.