I used to sing in a 100-voice choir, though it wasn’t that big when I first joined.
I knew how to read a little bit of music because I’d taken a whole year’s worth of piano lessons. But I didn’t know how to make my voice create the notes.
So I suspect I started to sing by just moving my lips, listening to the others, following their lead, tuned my ears to them.
Eventually, I felt brave enough to “let it rip,” and I still remember one of our members, a singer in her own right, tell me during practice, “You just hit that high A perfectly.”
I’ll never forget it.
And that whole big choir? There were several with strong solo voices. But when all of us gave voice together, melting our songs into one, we crescendoed into a rich wave that must have vibrated heaven’s thrones.
Many of us whisper our way into writing. We cower in corners, hide behind voices, afraid to speak too loud, afraid our words are just noisy gongs.
Afraid we have nothing worthy to say.
Sometimes it takes time to grasp that the same God, the same Voice, speaks to all of us. It takes time to tune ourselves to a voice that’s sometimes muffled but grows louder and louder. That voice tells us to “let it rip,” and so we grow into our voice, age into it. And finally we let our own voice stream from our fingers and join the chorus of other voices.
We own our own voice.
And the voiceless break into song and join the rest to give voice together. Weak without each other. Because together we are rich, and the song is an ageless song, and the words are the Word. And with one tremendous voice we shatter fear and discouragement and despair. We raise the roof of poverty and pain.
With one voice we raise the Voice.