Some couples seem to have a clear idea about the music for their wedding and simply draw from a small, well-worn canon of classical music.  As elegant or joyous as the pieces may be, not all are suitable or even intended for marriage ceremonies.  Other couples are less decisive about the prelude or recessional but have a favorite popular song that they want to incorporate into the service.  Some couples want to include a musical friend or family member while others will only hire professional musicians for the occasion.  Each couple has such different expectations and depending on how I approach them, these can cause anxiety or provide opportunities for learning and growth.

As a musician who cares deeply about the role that music plays in sacred ritual, it is sometimes difficult to strike a balance – to honor the beauty and significance of a service that is a formal, public expression of partnership and commitment while also making space for what is meaningful and authentic to the couple.  No matter who I work with, in our first conversation I always ask the couple to create a list of words that describe the mood or feeling that they imagine for the service: joyous, solemn, participatory, simple…  I ask them how they met, about the unique qualities and character of their relationship; all in an attempt to understand where their values and priorities lie and how the music for the service might connect with them.  Using that information, I take them to the organ loft and begin to match their descriptors to pieces of music that seem to resonate.  Granted, these are subjective associations and it may take some time and repetition before we find pieces that work but I feel that it helps couples to feel invested in the creative process.  And because many individuals have limited access to or interest in organ music beyond the standard wedding literature, this also provides an opportunity to share lesser-known but equally beautiful pieces.  It’s amazing how easy it is to talk someone out of the Pachelbel Canon when you have a compelling alternative.

Sometimes when it’s clear that the music they are interested in is better suited to the piano than the organ, I have demonstrated pieces on both instruments so they could hear the difference.  I have played weddings on the piano because it was better suited to the feeling and scope of the service.  I also find that many couples are so focused on music before and after the service that they don’t often see the ways that congregational singing can build community and focus the intention of those in attendance.  Depending on the character and size of the wedding, I will sometimes suggest a hymn or two to open or close the service.

My role in these situations is as much teacher as pastoral musician.  Even if they ultimately select pieces that I may not be excited about (or that I will be playing for the umpteenth time) I have done my best to widen their perspective and to help them see the vital role that music plays in their service.  And there are also wonderful surprises when couples embrace new music that resonates with them and becomes part of their celebration.

As with any human relationship, the degree to which I take them seriously – their interests and experiences, their hopes and dreams for the service – is often the degree to which they respect my musical/pastoral sensitivities and experience.  And that mutual respect and trust often allows us to shape a very satisfying service, incorporating pieces that are distinctive and authentic, while also drawing from a more familiar canon of wedding music.

A few times over the past years, I have met couples with whom wedding music planning has been a truly nourishing, creative process, departing significantly from usual paradigm.  Later this week, I will post a reflection on a recent experience at a wedding in Chicago that was a joy to plan and play for.  Stay tuned.

In the two years since I began serving my congregation, the music ministry has seen significant growth – 2 new choirs, a concert series and and a forthcoming artist-in-residence program. There is deepening trust and engagement in my relationship between congregational leaders and members. By all standards, these are marks of success. However, I am slowly realizing that I am the hub at the center of the wheel. Too often, I have the uncomfortable feeling that the ministry we are building is a bit like a house of cards – not that it lacks depth or authenticity but that it is structurally very shaky. Folks are dependent on me for much of the decision-making and communication; there is not always a shared sense of vision and purpose.

I feel more and more that my ministry needs to be about calling out and equipping a core group of support staff and lay leaders who will truly share the ministry with me. If my blogging habits over the past year are any indication, I have been seriously strapped for time to think and reflect and have really gone into “work” mode – getting things done just to stay afloat. I believe that my gifts are not simply in making the donuts (even though every job has elements like that) but in creative reflection, composing, and imagining what can and will be. In order for those gifts to continue to grow and thrive, it would seem essential for me to put my concentrated time and energy in developing a leadership team that will share in the work of ministry so I am not overwhelmed.

The question is how to get there. I welcome the thoughts others may have on this topic and will keep you apprised on my own journey.

“Tomorrow is the 20th Anniversary of the release of Nelson Mandela from prison in South Africa.

He had been sentenced to life imprisonment for resisting against the ruling party’s apartheid policies and was lodged in Robben Island prison off Cape Town from 1964 to 1982. Thereafter, he was at Pollsmoor prison, near the mainland. He was released February 11, 1990.

If you’re doing the math, you know that as momentous an occasion as this is, Mandela spent more time behind cold iron bars than he has in the warm sunshine of freedom.

His hair may be gray and his body may be showing the unmistakable signs of age, but his mind remains keen and sharp. His spirit still inspires us.

His dear friend and spiritual mentor, Desmond Tutu, the retired bishop of Cape Town and Archbishop of South Africa who became the ‘voice of one crying in the wilderness’ against the evils of Apartheid, said,

“The day Nelson Mandela walked free from Victor Verster Prison our collective spirit soared. It was a day that promised the beginning of the end of indignity. Four years later we voted for the first time. Some termed the new South Africa a miracle, the Rainbow Nation of God.

“Now, 20 years and four national elections down the line, our infant democracy is learning to walk. So much has been achieved, and there is so much yet to achieve.

“When we look around us and see the number of our compatriots still living in squalor, attending under-equipped schools, crammed like sardines into unsafe minibus taxis… we wonder when the fruit of democracy will reach the tables of all of our people.

“If we really want to make a difference we must recapture the spirit of that day of Nelson Mandela’s release. We must recapture the spirit of pride once articulated by Steve Biko.

“We must not forget the past.””

I am remembering another momentous day in my past – the second time I met Desmond Tutu.

The first was at the Omni Hotel in Washington, DC. It was January, 1986. I had just finished taking the General Ordination Exams and, as a present, my bishop sent me to attend the Consecration of Edmund Browning as new Presiding Bishop of The Episcopal Church.

I was there and heard Ed Browning’s newly minted gospel promise that, “in this church there will be no outcasts.” He paid a very high price for that promise, but living the promises of the gospel of Jesus Christ has never been without cost.

After the service, I had taken a table way over in the corner. I had walked about three miles from the National Cathedral to the Omni Hotel – not a bad hike – but I had worn my proper Episcopal pumps for the occasion and, quite frankly, my feet were sore and I was cranky.

I just wanted a few minutes – 15 or 20 – to be by myself before the rest of the madding political crowd arrived and started the relentlessly chipper glad-handing and back-slapping and prognostication – and well, gossip – that always happens at events like these.

I had been seated about 5 minutes when I felt a hand on my shoulder and heard a delightful male voice in an accent I couldn’t quite place ask, “May I join you at this table, please?” When I looked up, there he was. Desmond Tutu.

I’m not sure what I said, exactly, but what I meant to say was, “Certainly, I’d be honored. Please sit down.” It must have come out something pretty close to that because, the next thing I knew, there we were, sitting next to each other like long lost friends, catching up on each other’s lives, sharing a bowl of ice cream.

I later learned that his security had selected this particular table because it was near an emergency exit – very important when death threats follow you wherever you travel. It was hard not to notice the bullet-proof vest he was wearing.

He asked me what had brought me to this event. I explained about the GOEs and my bishop’s gift. His eyes brightened. “You will be a priest?” he asked.

“God willing and the people consenting,” I said, laughing.

He laughed and then looked deep into my eyes for a few very uncomfortable seconds.

“Good!” he declared, rather loudly, which startled me. “I see compassion. Which means you know something about suffering. And so, God’s love. And, you have a great laugh. You will be a good priest,” he said, then, slapping his hand down on the table and laughing, declared, “This is good.”

I could hardly breath. I was stunned that he could see something in me that neither the Commission on Ministry nor anyone at my seminary had even questioned me about, much less discussed with me as something that qualified me for ordained leadership in the church.

No one had even asked me about Jesus or my prayer life. What everyone seemed most concerned to know is where I, a woman – which was bad enough – but a woman in a committed relationship with another woman and a family of six children, thought I could find work.

As I tried to regain my composure, he continued, “We do not ordain women in South Africa. Yet. Do not worry. It will come. Justice and mercy will come to South Africa. It will come more fully, even to the church.”

This was 1986. In June of that year, the State of Emergency declared 10 years earlier after the Soweto Uprising was extended to the entire country of South Africa. Apartheid would not officially be over turned until 27 April 1994 when the first democratic elections were held in South Africa, with people of all races being able to vote.

There are so many wonderful stories I could tell you about that amazing one hour visit with Desmond. Perhaps you and I, one day in the not-too-distant future, will also have a serendipitous meeting and we’ll sit cross-legged on the floor, me with my bourbon and you with your favorite libation, and I’ll tell you all about it.

Right now, I really want to tell you about what happened the second time I met him, more than a decade later.

I was at a special awards ceremony at NYU where one of our daughters was working. Both Hillary Clinton and Desmond Tutu were slated to be speakers. Our daughter, having been regaled over the years by my stories and sermons about Tutu, thought I might like the opportunity to see him again at the special reception that would take place just before the ceremony. Gee, ya think?

“Ah,” said the Archbishop when he saw me, “You made it! You are a priest!” I think my jaw hit my chest. Could it be that he remembered me? No! Not possible. He’s just a very clever man, I thought.

Not so. He actually recalled parts of our conversation and, when I looked astonished, dismissed it by saying, “When I share a bowl of ice cream with someone, we are friends forever. Besides,” he added with a twinkle in his eye and looking Mrs. Clinton, “I never forget a priest. Especially one of the first women priests I ever met.”

Well, you could have knocked me over with a feather.

As I struggled to gain my composure, I asked him about his health. He had been recently diagnosed and treated for prostate cancer. He seemed genuinely flattered that I would ask and said that he got tired from the radiation but that his “spirit was still strong.”

“You know, I must say, bishop,” I heard myself say with surprising calm, “that when I heard that you had taken on the position of Chair of the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, shortly after your diagnosis, I thought to myself, ‘Is he crazy?’”

Tutu roared with absolute delight and said, “Yes, yes. Now you know the secret.”

And then he looked at me. The same way he had looked at me more than a decade earlier. Everyone else in the room seemed to fade away and it was just me and the archbishop, looking someplace deep into my soul.

“When my President. . . you know ‘My President’, yes? Nelson Mandela – when Mr. Mandela asked me to chair the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, I declined,” he said.

“I said to him, Mr. President, I am not well suited for this position.”

“‘Why?’”asked President Mandela.”

“‘No, no, no, sir,’ I said to him, ‘You see, I am tired. I am weak. And besides, I laugh too much.’”

“‘Hmmm, said Mandela’, who then brightened and declared, “Then you are perfect to be the Chair of Truth and Reconciliation Commission!’”

“‘How is that, sir?’” I asked.”

“‘Well,’ said my President, ‘if you are tired and weak, then you know something about the hard work of telling the truth, and if you laugh too much . . .,” Tutu paused, raised an eyebrow and looked expectantly for me to finish the sentence.

“Then you know something about the nature of reconciliation!” I exclaimed.

“Ah!” said the archbishop,”See!” he said, looking over his shoulder to Mrs. Clinton, “I told her years ago that she would become a good priest!”

I must say, in that moment, my spirit soared.

If he had said, “Drop whatever it is you are doing and come, follow me,” I would have done it in a heartbeat.

What he said was, “It has been so good to see you again. Now, you must go and so must I. We each have something Jesus wants us to do. Go. Follow him.”

And then we embraced and he was escorted to the stage.

Over the next twenty-four hours, political pundits will wax poetic about the leadership of Nelson Mandela and the Evils of Apartheid. Analysis will be made, opinions will be expressed, and accolades will be given.

Yes, it took a political process to overturn the governmental system of Apartheid. Yes, there is still much work to be done in South Africa. On the entire continent of Africa. And, Asia. And Europe. And North America. Indeed, right here in my neck of the woods. And yours, too, I imagine.

In the end – as it was in the beginning – it will be through the eyes of the soul that a vision of liberty and justice for all will be seen.

It will not be politics that transforms the world. It will be the human heart.

It will not be human strength that carries out the vision of justice and peace. It will be telling the truth of our stories and seeking reconciliation, both of which sit as sentinels at the entrance into the Realm of God.

All that is required is the courage to admit that we are weak and tired.

Nothing will make our collective spirits soar higher than to laugh – even too much or too loudly – into the face of evil.

Laughter, I have come to learn, is the greatest statement of faith. If you can laugh in the face of evil, there can be no doubt, no doubt on earth as it is in heaven, that you believe and trust in God.

Congratulations, Mr. Mandela. Congratulations, Archbishop Tutu. Congratulations, Steven Biko. Congratulations, South Africa.

May the love that is among us, the love that is between us and the love that is within us always inspire our collective spirits to soar to the Love that is above us.”

-Elizabeth Kaeton, from her blog Telling Secrets

“Ye fearful saints fresh courage take,
The clouds you so much dread
Are big with mercy and shall break,
In blessings on your head”
-William Cowper

I said to the man that stood at the Gate of the Year,
“Give me a light that I may tread safely into the unknown,”
and he said “Go out into the darkness, and put your
hand into the hand of God. That shall be to you
better than light, and safer than a known way.”
- Minnie Louise Hoskins

Come all you weary with your heavy loads
Lay down your burdens find rest for your souls
Cause my yoke is easy and my burden is kind
I’ll take yours upon me and you can take mine

Come all you weary, move through the earth
You’ve been spurned at fine restaurants and kicked out of church;
I’ve got a couple of loaves, so sit down at my feet
Lend me your ears and we’ll break bread and eat

Come all you weary
Come gather round near me
Find rest for your souls

Come all you weary, crippled you lame
I’ll help you along you can lay down your canes
We’ve got a long way to go but we’ll travel as friends
The light’s growing bright further up, further in

Come all you weary
Come gather round near me
Find rest for your souls