Music of the Spheres

Pardon my lousy theology, but it seems to me that the real losers at Babel were the architects and the construction industry.  Well, and maybe the dreamers; but then few of us get paid to dream.  I'm sure that for a while good friends had to struggle through confusing new languages, and the Rosetta Stone business went gangbusters; but the rest of us came out of that apocalypse pretty nicely, outfitted as we are today in a wondrous tapestry of language, culture, and race.  Diversity--despite what happened at Babel--is a real blessing.

Our trip to New Mexico is all about diversity, really: the diversity of geological eras, each of them producing astonishing forms and colors that give New Mexico its own famed enchantment: the diversity of people and their stories and legends that give meaning to a way of life.  Navajos celebrate a baby's first laugh with community picnics, for pete's sake--whoever heard of such a thing in Iowa?  Zunis make bread in humped ovens that would give you sunburn even if you never saw the sun, and the local convenience store stocks Wonder Bread.

Red and yellow black and white, male and female created He them, hairy and hairless, thick and thin, gruff and sweet, righties and lefties, big and tall, short and small--we're all part of the kingdom, and the Kingdom.

I've learned to get along with those who believe that praise songs are the best things to hit the church since a padded bench.  I mean, I even like some choruses.  But me--and whole lot of other geezers--often miss part-singing on some golden oldies.  You got people carrying the air, right?--a host of  them, some of the men trailing along an octave lower; then you mix in just a couple of altos and the musical line gets somehow fuller.  Tenors are shiny with a bronze-like color that makes you stop and listen, and then there's basses, holding down the whole effort lest it get too ethereal.  Add 'em all up--even if they aren't accomplished like the Mormon Tabernacle Choir might--and you've got something people call harmony.

Harmony, I think, is among those very rare words in the English language that doesn't have much of a dark side.  Righteousness can get spooky because the perfect is often the enemy of the good.  Justice is a virtue except when it steps on innocent toes, and freedom is a real blessing, as long as nobody yells fire in a theater. But tell me, what's the downside of harmony?

So last night, we found it, led by a talented and friendly guitar-picker who graced a gorgeous New Mexican evening with a few songs of his own, but, often as not, just three-chorded us through some old favorites--"Blessed Assurance," "Leaning on Jesus," "I Will Sing of My Redeemer"--you name 'em.

Didn't hurt that we gathered in a juniper grove beside a hogan that sits way up above an enchanted New Mexico-only, red rock landscape that, no matter what season or time of day, snatches what little wind the high altitude allows you and leaves you staggeringly breathless.  Didn't hurt either that we'd just had something akin to the feeding of the five thousand with a multi-cultural mix--mutton stew, ribs, barbecued chicken, brats, and tube steaks--and a whole tub of fry bread.  And it certainly didn't hurt that the grace of our lovely hosts was perfectly saintly, or that the weather was plum perfect--just enough clouds to take the edge of a burning sun, no wind, temperatures straight from a dream.

It was, even when we weren't singing, the harmony that blessed us all, the tie that binds--harmony that rose from hymnal-less singing, because even when a few of us didn't remember the words of the second verse, others did, and led when they had to.  You can find your way through a whole museum of old songs if you sing like a relay team. When the lines fill in magically and the praise swells, you don't s'mores to taste perfect sweetness.

Ancients used to believe that somehow, some way, if you hit it right, the planets and the stars line up perfectly to create harmonic convergence they called "the music of the spheres."

Last night, the campfire popping, I swear I heard it--and I don't think I was the only witness.  The whole lot of us were making music.

There's isn't much to say about that, I guess, even though I have now tried and probably gone on too long.  Really, there isn't much to say, but thanks.