The special music (what a strange term that is) for the 8:30 service yesterday was none other than Carl Storck, a member of Holy Communion Lutheran Church with Down Syndrome. Now in his fifties, Carl has been a part of the usher corps for as long as I’ve been at Holy Communion – but every so often Carl comes to me with the offer of singing a solo. I can still remember the sort of short circuit that went through my body the first time Carl approached me with such an offer- that was probably almost twenty years ago – but I said yes that first time and have said yes every time since. Carl always knows what he wants to sing – and it’s always one of the great classic hymns; something like Holy, Holy, Holy or What a Friend we have in Jesus or Amazing Grace, but given Carl’s inimitable treatment. By that, I mean that Carl has no sense of pitch or rhythm whatsoever – and I mean none whatsoever – but he sings out with admirable gusto and with a very clear sense of doing something very very important – and I do my very best to keep with him as I play the piano accompaniment- and I think for most of the people listening, they equally enjoy Carl’s singing and my attempts to keep up with him. And when you look out at the congregation, you will maybe see two or three furrowed brows and looks of bewilderment. . . but every one else has looks of tenderness and appreciation on their face. Which is as it should be in a gathering like this. And by coincidence or more likely divine providence, Carl was singing on a Sunday when the sermon by Pastor Steve was an utterly masterful address on the topic of inclusiveness. And so even though a much-loved former pastor of Holy Communion / now-Bishop Dale Skogmun, was visiting – the sort of occasion for which one might want to trot out the most splendid music possible – this could not have been more right. Or more special.
The song Carl chose to sing yesterday was “Shall we gather at the River,” and not one single note of it would have been the least bit recognizable to you . . . that is, except for the end of the second phrase: “. . . where bright angels feet have trod.” That last word is on two notes, and for some reason Carl knew where that second note of “trod” was – and hit that one pretty much on the bull’s eye. The rest, musically speaking, was complete gibberish – the vocal equivalent of a three-year-old banging random keys on a piano with no sense whatsoever of making music. But then there would be this one brief moment that would sound like music. Of course, it was all music in Carl’s head – and that made it music for us as well.
I’m reminded of an incredible moment many many many years ago when my family was attending Okoboji Bible Camp for a week – and there was a group of developmentally disabled adults who were part of the same family camp. They made the week even more memorable, and each in their own way. (Perhaps the most severely disabled of the group was a young man who hardly seemed to connect to anything or anyone at all – but that young man LOVED our dog Muffin, whom we had brought with us, and in my mind’s eye I can still see those two playing with each other.) There was a woman in that group who was actually quite involved in various discussions through the week and had a completely ingratiating personality. One of the last nights there was what amounted to a talent show in which any interested campers could participate. . . and this woman offered to sing something. She was obviously a rather high-functioning person in this group so I think most of us were expecting nothing out of the ordinary from her. We were wrong. When it was her turn, she sat herself down at the piano (she wanted to accompany herself) and she proceeded to sing and play some fairly well known song or hymn (I’ve since forgotten just what) . . . but she was essentially making it up as she went. Her hands came down on the keys in random clumps, and likewise the melody she was singing was no melody at all. But somehow it was a melody to her- and what I will never forget is how carefully she was looking at the music in front of her and occasionally glancing down at her hands. . . as though she were reading the music and playing and singing the notes on the page. She wasn’t- at least not by what we were hearing. But it is not at all an exaggeration to say that her performance in that talent show was the most beautiful thing we heard on that whole program.
Excruciating? Or exquisite? I suppose it’s how you look at it — and how you listen to it.
pictured above: Carl Storck singing “Shall we gather at the River.”