New Songs of Celebration

My son informs me that there is such a thing as good rap music. I like to think I’m pretty hip, current, and aware for a gray-haired, middle-aged mom. I have an mp3 player. I took my son to a concert by an aging former lead singer of a classic rock band. But I’ve never been a huge fan or rap, hip-hop, or any of the other music played at deafening levels in clothing stores at the local mall. I assume most of that music is designed to be played at those levels to camouflage lyrics which glorify violence, substance abuse and the degradation of women.

Last fall, when I visited my son at his college, he asked if he could play some music for me. He’d attended a concert on campus and bought some CDs recorded by a local indie band. He said that the band members had shared interesting personal stories, telling about the ways events in their lives had shaped them and their art. “You know, all that stuff you’re interested in and always talking about,” he said.

He popped a CD into the player of the rental car as I was trying to navigate my way through the city of Chicago without getting killed. I rolled my eyes as soon as the music began. It was rap. Or hip-hop; I’m not sure. I can’t really tell the difference.

“Just listen,” he said. And, because love is patient and love is kind, I resisted my impulse to drive the rental car into a concrete barrier and listened. This is what I heard,

I’m hard pressed on every side but I’m not crushed/
Perplexed yet I’m not in despair/
Purpose burning I can feel it when my heart pumps/
All I know it’s more than worth the wear and tear/
Oh giving in is simple/
“Give it in!” Oh giving in is simple/
“Give it in!” Oh giving in is simple/
“Give it in!” though giving in is simple, I am not that simple.*

The Word of God. Which is living and active. Life-transforming. And set to a rhythm and rhyme scheme which is foreign to my ears, but appeals to my musician son who drums on every surface that doesn’t move out of his way.

I’m not a musician. I’m not a poet. I’ll probably never be able to discern any qualitative difference between good and bad rap music. Old-timey gospel hymns speak my love language: Isaac Watts, the Wesley brothers; a little Augustus Toplady now and then.

Last night, in his truck on the way home from church, my husband was playing some music by The Zac Brown Band. Zac Brown, a country singer, strikes me as a good old boy; not exactly a poster child for the church-going crowd. He sings songs about living chicken-fried and sticking his toes in the sand. Just before my husband turned off the truck, I caught this lyric from Zac Brown’s song, Who Knows:

Sing until the darkness it is lifted.

The world is a dark place, in desperate need of songs that will drive away the darkness. I may never become a fan of my son’s kind of music. But I’m becoming more open to its value.

During his semester break from college, my son got together with some of his musician buddies. This is some of what they did:

Sing to the LORD a new song,
   his praise from the end of the earth,
you who go down to the sea, and all that fills it,
   the coastlands and their inhabitants.
   Let the desert and its cities lift up their voice,
   the villages that Kedar inhabits;
let the habitants of Sela sing for joy,
   let them shout from the top of the mountains.

Isaiah 42:10, 11 ESV

And yes, college students and indie rap and hip-hop bands in Chicago; by all means sing a new song. Sing until the darkness it is lifted.

(*Simple, lyrics by Tony Pozdol and Freddy Bustamante of St. Bagu)

Linking my musical playdate with Laura at The Wellspring:

 And with Jen and the sisterhood: