The journey begins

Friday was a day of travel to General Assembly. A couple of metaphors came to mind as I was flying from to Minneapolis after a stopover in St. Louis.

The Mississippi River, dark and muddy, stretches out across our flight path as we leave this gateway city to the West. Could this be a symbol of the unknown facing commissioners as we arrive in Minneapolis to begin the work of the denomination in our General Assembly? We know the issues we will face, we can even guess at some of the debates that will occur, but we don't know what the outcome will be. The way is still dark and muddy, like the river, this life-giving and life-spreading river that cuts through the middle of our country.

Then, as the plane climbs to 10,000 feet, I'm struck by the features of the landscape. Roadways, running at right angles, bisect the land, most of it farmland. The roads continue in straight lines for miles, but joined by offshoots, other roads, almost always at right angles, the progression orderly and planned. Every now and then there is a road, most look like major thoroughfares from the sky, that cuts diagonally across these right angles. In contrast, there are tendrils of greenery, treelines most likely, that spread out across the land, some in thin, long bands, others in wide swaths. They look like the twists and turns of small creeks, then larger streams all flowing together to form some great river of greenery. Does this describe our denomination? Are some of us like the roadways, moving in order, within some prescribed parameters, but confined in direction to specific turns? Are others like the treelines, moving randomly, finding our way where it's least expected or directed? If this describes us, are they mutually exclusive? Do each not have their purpose? Their own direction? Do we want one without the other?

This metaphor of divergent paths repeated itself again on Friday evening at Westminster Presbyterian in the heart of downtown Minneapolis, where several hundred Presbyterians (most connected with GA) came to hear a contrast in musical sounds in the church's 1897 landmark sanctuary. First there was Cantus, a nine-member group considered by critics to be the nation's top male a cappella ensemble. Cantus' sound was rich, deep and moving as it performed American folk tunes, spirituals, and hymns such as Bobby McFarrin's arrangement of the 23rd Psalm,  a haunting, stirring version of "Keep Your Lamps Trimmed and Burning," and "Amazing Grace."

Next came Monroe Crossing, which took its name in honor of bluegrass legend Bill Monroe and is one of the nation's premier bluegrass bands. Monroe Crossing's music was playful, energetic and surprising as it performed bluegrass classics along with its version of Etta James' classic "At Last." And its audience challenged the Presbyterian reputation as "the frozen chosen" by breaking into "the wave" at the instigation of the band's bass player.

As divergent as the two sounds were, they came together as the two ensembles performed together, singing first "Sing Hallelujah When I Come Home," then "Seven Bridges Road" made most famous by The Eagles but sung in the style, as one member of Cantus said, of Dolly Parton.

Two divergent styles of music. Two distinct voices. Yet music nonetheless. Is this a pattern for our denomination, with all of its distinct and sometimes discordant voices? Can we all be heard individually yet speak as one? If a bluegrass band and an a cappella ensemble can make harmonious music together, why can't we as a denomination find a voice of celebration and singleness of purpose?