I love the song “Oh come, oh come Emmanuel.” I appreciate the ebullient songs like "Joy to the World" too, but an important part of Christmas for me is the sense of longing captured so well by that song. When I saw that the choir would perform it during the Christmas program, I waited excitedly, expecting to hear a baritone resonate the haunting melody I love so much. As I watched the soloist step forward, I could tell he was nervous--he took deep calming breaths that were all too obvious, and awkwardly stood alone as the piano finished the introduction. As the accompanist held the last note, waiting for him to enter, he visibly drew back and then hurriedly began to sing. He came in a bit off-key and sang with an unsteady tempo, making it difficult for the accompanist to follow him. My first reaction was disappointment as he sang the words, “Oh come, oh come Emmanuel”--this soloist was not doing justice to the music--“and ransom captive...” And then he forgot the last word of the phrase. “Israel,” I thought, “and ransom captive Israel!” Without finishing the solo, he covered his face in his hands. Mortification replaced my initial disappointment. And I didn’t simply feel sorry for the soloist; the choir, conductor and accompanist were all in an awkward situation (I could see them trying to figure out what to do--sing along with him? Start over?--and the audience was too. I couldn’t passively sit back and wait for the performers to work it all out--something connected me to the soloist and made me share in his shame.
He did come out from behind his hands and eventually finished the solo, with the help and encouragement of the conductor and a very flexible accompanist. Knowing that they all felt uncomfortable, I tried to look as supportive as possible and, personally, I tried to be as non-judgmental as possible. After what seemed like a very long time, the song concluded and the soloist rejoined the rest of the choir.
As the Christmas program continued, I kept thinking back to that song. Why did they choose that soloist? Even if he hadn’t messed up so blatantly, his voice wasn’t particularly nice or appropriate for that song. I kept thinking about it and, by the end of the meeting, I had decided that solo was the most poignant part of the program. (I later learned that the soloist has some kind of mental handicap, but that the conductor had wanted him to have a solo anyways.) While I respect and admire that decision, I doubt that his motivation for doing so was very similar to the conclusion I drew of why that particular soloist was so appropriate for that song.
We, like the soloist, have an important responsibility to fulfill in life. We are meant to stay in tune with the music of faith (as Elder Cook suggested) and live in harmony with the gospel teachings. However, we all ultimately fail. Our pride dissonantly sounds against the humble accompaniment of the Spirit, our egocentrism clashes with song of Zion, and our efforts to be perfectly obedient are laughably off-tempo. That is why St. Francis prayed, “Lord, make me an instrument of thy peace”--because he was not yet a competent instrument for the pure song of peace. And nor are we. But that is why Christ came to Earth--because we are not yet celestial musicians. However, He intends to make us such.
Thus, as I've already implicitly discussed, a musical performance can be viewed as a metaphor of life: The score dictates the key signature, tempo, melody, harmony, and accompaniment. The performer gives voice to the composer’s work, and tries to do so according to the composer’s direction. Performing the music perfectly would represent a flawless life, lived entirely in accordance with the demands of divine law. Listening to such music would, no doubt, be sublime. But symbolically for us, it would be inappropriate. None of our lives are lived as a perfectly performed piece of music. Rather, we struggle and strain and forget the lyrics and embarrass ourselves. That 's not to say that occasionally we don't “from life’s dissonance [strike] one clear chord to reach the ears of God.” But even so, our music is amateur and incomplete.
At Christmas time, we refer to the angels’ declaration of peace on Earth, goodwill to men, and imagine choirs of heavenly hosts singing Handelian choruses. And while we may have been there, we have forgotten the song, and now our life’s music is cacophonic. But that’s why we celebrate Christmas--on that day, was born the One who lived that perfectly-performed-piece-of-music life, the One who “can hear the songs [we] cannot sing,” the One who patiently walks with us as we learn, once again, to speak (and sing) with the tongue of angels, the One who will one day return--and on that day “the whole world [will] send back the song which now the angels sing.”
As one whose life is marred with mistakes and filled with failures as much as that soloist’s performance, I, with him, sing, “Oh come, oh come Emmanuel, and ransom...” and in that sometimes embarrassing silence, I no longer sing in proxy for captive Israel, but for myself.
Those who call for and await Emmanuel are those who recognize they need Him; they are those who struggle sometimes to sing and, perhaps, to hear the song of redeeming love. And although they may sometimes act out that awkward solo in life, their humility allows them to receive and appreciate the dulcet tones of amazing grace, which to them truly is a sweet sound.
So, while I will still appreciate a polished performance of "Oh Come, Oh Come Emmanuel," I won't forget how appropriate it was that, in celebration of the birth of our Savior, a handicapped and humble man sang so imperfectly that musical plea for deliverance.
