How to Sing in the Dark

Every January when I was in high school, I joined hundreds of other students to perform for an annual choral directors’ conference. We’d had a few practices regionally, but mostly we were expected to show up that weekend with our parts memorized. Before performing at the end of the second day, we spent the whole time practicing, occasionally stopping for meals but listening to our pieces while we ate.

One year, one of our pieces was Sicut Cervus by Giovanni Palestrina, a setting of “As the deer pants for streams of water, so my soul pants for you, my God” (Psalm 42:1 NIV). The song is as close to perfect as any sacred choral piece can be.

For whatever reason, we weren’t getting it. Some of the other pieces we were performing were far more difficult, and we nailed those with no problem. Sicut Cervus was an entirely different story. It took hours of rehearsal before everyone started singing the correct notes, and even then there was no depth to our performance, no emotion. Our interpretation of the song was completely awful.

Finally our director threw up her hands and said, “Okay. Everyone stand up and form a circle. Don’t stand next to anyone singing the same part as you, and alternate boys and girls.” We slowly wandered around, eventually forming an amoeba-like shape around the perimeter of the large conference room where we were practicing. Our director made her way to the center of the room, saying, “I’m going to give you your starting note on a pitch pipe and count to four. Then I want you to sing the whole piece without stopping. No matter what wrong notes happen, just keep singing.”

Then she left the circle and turned out the lights.

It was completely and totally pitch-black. Not even the doors to the hallway allowed any light to creep in beneath them. We couldn’t see our hands in front of our faces, let alone our sheet music. The anxiety in the room was palpable. What if we messed up? What if we didn’t remember our parts? How could we all sing our parts while those standing next to us sang something completely different?

We heard a single note pierce the air and a quiet, “1, 2, 3, 4…” followed by the tenors’ starting pitch.

Then pure glory filled the room. I believe it was the closest to a chorus of angels I will ever hear this side of heaven. Once we were free from trying to sing the song exactly as it was printed, we sang it exactly as it should be sung: with patience, grace, care, and longing.

The director took away our sight, our crutches, and our comfort, and it resulted in beauty we could not have imagined. Our voices and a song were all we had left. But it was all we needed.

Christ has written the church a love song, but these days we do not often sing it well.

We’re separated into sections of people singing the same part we are. Basses say the tenors are singing incorrect notes just because their part is different. Sopranos say the basses are singing too loudly when the song calls for them to be silent. Altos say they don’t like the soprano part because it’s too high for those with lower voices. Tenors say the alto part steps on theirs because they sing in a similar range.

We’re spending so much time chatting with our own sections about how the other parts are ruining our song that we have forgotten to sing together.

We may not be able to portray what our composer has intended until we move around a bit, until we get next to people who are singing different parts. It may involve discomfort, nervousness, and perhaps feeling just plain terrified, but if we want to be a part of beautiful music, we must take risks.

As Christians, we are all singing the same song: a song of love. Let us rejoice in our different parts and join in harmony to glorify the God who created our voices: beautiful alone, but even better together.

Bethany Beams is a certified doula who can’t get enough of storytelling, which she pursues through website design, photography, and freelance editing. Her many loves include her husband and son, napping, libraries, ice cream, singing, snow leopards, Bagel Bites, 75° weather, and lists. She blogs very occasionally at bethanybeams.com.