Something, somewhere, amid the lyrics and liturgy of Advent and Christmas need to catch all of us off guard with its beauty, its clarity, or the profound simplicity of its gospel message.
I was a grad student at Concordia College (now University) in River Forest, Illinois, when my faculty advisor, Carl Schalk, was composing the tune, and anthem settings, of Jaroslav Vajda’s iconic hymn “Before the Marvel of This Night” (performed by the St. Olaf Choral Ensembles). The first time I heard the text and tune together, I was enraptured (a word I may have used twice before in my life). I still am.
A Lyric and Liturgy of Advent
The words found their inspiration in Vajda’s experience as a choral singer and conductor. The hymn imagines the final directions that were given to the angelic choir (possibly the same ones who sang as creation itself was unfolding?) before they were deployed into the Judean skies to herald the birth of the world’s Messiah. Schalk’s tune, characteristically sensitive to the emotion, as well as the content of the text, creates a sense of holy awe, hyper-charged with anticipation. The fallen world wouldn’t know what hit it!
The “instructions” to the winged choristers are as simple as they are profound. Before you do anything else, worship—fold your wings and bow. Then, shock and awe! Proclaim God’s shalom:
Before the marvel of this night, adoring, fold your wings and bow,
Then tear the sky apart with light, and with your news the world endow.
Proclaim the birth of Christ and peace, that fear and death and sorrow cease:
Sing peace, sing peace, sing gift of peace, sing peace, sing gift of peace!
Don’t worry about the neighbors. Wake up the sleeping world! The shepherds need to hear this news (and the sheep will get over it). “This is the day the LORD has made!” Rejoice! Be Glad! Give that poor, benighted earth a “teasing taste” of the Kingdom this infant King will one day teach them to pray for—the Promise only the Christ can fulfill:
Awake the sleeping world with song, this is the day the Lord has made.
Assemble here, celestial throng, in royal splendor come arrayed.
Give earth a glimpse of heav’nly bliss, a teasing taste of what they miss:
Sing bliss, sing bliss, sing endless bliss, sing bliss, sing endless bliss!
Finally, this command—straight from the innermost heart of the Trinity:
The love that we have always known, our constant joy and endless light,
Now to the loveless world be shown, now break upon its deathly night.
Into one song compress the love that rules our universe above:
Sing love, sing love, sing God is love, sing love, sing God is love!
Let that text sink in for a moment…Three plus decades, six short blocks, and a lifetime away from my initial encounter with this anthem, the choir of First Presbyterian Church, River Forest, Ill., is rehearsing it for the opening of our 2017 Christmas Concert. I have taught or sung this anthem almost annually in different types of congregational settings across several different states. It is, for me, a long-treasured Christmas staple. But this year, for some reason, I find myself weeping whenever I sing these words—a catch forming in my throat even when I hear the unmistakable flow of the Schalk introduction. Why this? Why now?
