Thursday, November 19, 2009
SWEETEST of sweets, I thank you when displeasure
Did through my body wound my minde,
You took me thence ; and in your house of pleasure
A daintie lodging me assign'd.
Now I in you without a bodie move,
Rising and falling with your wings :
We both together sweetly live and love,
Yet say sometimes, God help poore Kings.
Comfort, 'Ile ; for if you poste from me,
Sure I shall do so, and much more :
But if I travell in your companie,
You know the way to heavens doore.
"Here was a man who seemed to me to excel all the authors
I had read in conveying the very quality of life as we live it
from moment to moment, but the wretched fellow, instead
of doing it all directly, insisted on mediating it through
what I still would have called the "Christian mythology."
The upshot of it all could nearly be expressed, "Christians
are wrong, but all the rest are bores."
-C. S. Lewis
Sunday, November 8, 2009
You have Sunday’s dates all memorized through the next few months, and are able, at the drop of a hat, to reel off all the musicians involved.
You arrive at church at least an hour before anyone else and make a beeline for the organ.
You have a food stash in the church basement (not even kidding).
You have a hard time getting downstairs to socialize because you’re always wrapping up “loose ends” of the music scene.
You acquire music faster than you can organize it.
Your way of “killing time” is getting in a few more hours of organ practice.
You receive news of an upcoming funeral, and immediately think, “Can I get off work that day?”
Your idea of a successful Christmas/Easter service is stuffing it full of as much music as folks will sit through.
You’re suddenly aware that you forgot to give the congregation that crucial piece of music history that would have made the chorale so much more meaningful . . . . that must be the reason for the lackluster singing.
Halfway through the introduction, you realize you’re playing the right hymn, wrong tune.
In an exchange with a Baptist, you come to the realization that he has (gasp!) no clue who Paul Manz is.
Your congregation is really eager to sing a nominal German stanza of “Silent Night.”
Posted Nicole at 3:17 PM