And so, I sang. My voice only lasted for about 5 hours, but my repertoire of Christian hymns and songs could easily have carried me through the 10 hour trip without delving too far into the territory of "um's" and "la, la, la's" when I forgot the words. This heritage is that much a part of me. Nevertheless, what the songs say to me changes over the years as I change and, particularly, as I have become more aware of the perspectives of others. One of the first times I became particularly disconcerted about the words to a familiar hymn was when the Methodists decided that maybe Rise Up, Oh Men of God should be retired from regular Sunday worship. I was still young and it was new to me to question what it means to have the whole church singing as though only the MEN of God matter. But even though I never consciously felt excluded, the discussion made me realize that when I, like all the other kids of my acquaintance, played Knights of the Round Table or dreamed of going on the Crusades, I always wanted to be a Knight or even the King. I had no use for the women's roles and refused to play one in my mind or in our games. I had internalized our society's message that only men could grow up to do great and wonderful things. Of course, these days I am also squeamish about those Crusades that I so wanted to go on as a child. Though I still love the "DUM, dum, DUM, dum" rhythm of Onward Christian Soldiers, I cringe when I sing it not only for the lasting damage those historical episodes wreaked on Christian/Muslim/Jewish relations, but also for my comfort in adopting a decidedly militaristic outlook. Did I love the music I sang as a child because it reflected my very narrow world view? Or did the music I loved unconsciously write these attitudes so deeply on my soul that is has taken a lifetime to pry them up from under that bedrock and examine them in the light of day?
Whatever the cause and effect, my attitudes continue to require a lot of soul-searching and frequently go through sea changes that leave me reeling. It is still the music I sing that serves as my touchstone for interpreting these changes. During my trip, one of the songs that came to mind was John Prindle Scott's setting of Come Ye Blessed Of My Father. For a trained-but-not-spectacular singer like me it's a great solo piece. It's not vocally challenging and is both emotional and accessible -- the kind of music people like to hear. It's always been one of my favorites to perform, but I suddenly realized that I am not going to be able to sing it anymore, at least not until I can sort out my new antipathy towards the words. The song, if you don't know it, is a setting of Matthew 25: 34-36 ("I was hungry and you gave me meat ... naked and you clothed me ... sick and you visited me ... I was in prison and you came unto me.") The prison part, in particular, feels all wrong.
I've been teaching in the local men's medium security prison for several months, and am having the time of my life with "my guys." It's a great job, but it is also just that -- a job. I react viscerally when I tell people about my new job and they respond with, "What a ministry!" It happened again this morning. I mentioned my job and someone at church remarked, "Oh, I know a pastor who does prison ministry. It must be so rewarding." But it's not just that I don't "do prison ministry," on some fundamental level it seems just plain wrong to think of "ministering to" anyone. There's such an implied power dynamic, a "higher" and "lower" that I think has no basis in reality and no place in a healthy world view.
The truth, to me at least, is that I am a teacher. I can't be a teacher without students, and I need them at least as much as they need me. The fact of their incarceration is incidental, and I would also say, quite arbitrary. "My guys" are not much different than any other group I have known or taught. Some of them I would trust with my life, others no further than the edge of my field of view. Some I like, some not so much. Some work hard, some hardly work. Nevertheless we are all in it together, we are all part of each other. We would not be the same class -- we would not be whole -- with any one of us missing. That's just the way it works.
I guess what bugs me about the Prindle Scott song setting is that it seems to interpret the passage as God promising us a reward for doing good; God saying, "Come inherit the kingdom because you did all these good things!" I don't see it that way. Definitely not now. Especially not the prison part. I think the meaning of the passage resides in vs. 40 where Jesus says "as much as you have done this to the least of these, my brothers, you have done it to me." In other words -- or at least in my words -- whatever I do for anyone, anywhere, is both to and for myself and, in a wider sense, to and for God because we are all a part of each other and the image of God resides in us all. It's about "if you don't love your brother, whom you have seen, then how can you love God, whom you have not seen?" (1 John 4:20) And it's about looking for that sister or brother not only among those we admire, emulate, and wish to know, but also among all those that society tells us are underprivileged, outcast, and even beneath our notice.
In the song, the emotional center -- the high point -- is where the line crests at the word "came" in the line "I was in prison, and you came unto me" and then in its quiet echo "you came unto me." I'm going to be uncomfortable singing that until I can figure out some way to effectively convey to the people who accuse me of "ministry" that it would be just as profound a spiritual message to sing, "I was a teacher and you listened to me, you learned something from me!"
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