The Voice of God: Tuesday's Reflection

I remember sitting in the balcony of Salem Lutheran Church in Albert Lea, Minnesota. I was about four years old, I think, and I was tucked into the folds of my Grandma Jensen's round body. 

My father was the liturgist that Sunday morning. I didn't know what the word "liturgist" meant then, but I know now that he chanted the psalm and other part of the singing responses to the order of the service. 


I don't know where my mother was--perhaps home with my baby brother. Or maybe she was sitting on the other side of me. Nor do I remember my grandfather being there, but I am sure he was. 

In my mind the church was massive, but that's a four year old's vision. What's important about this memory, however, is not the size or appearance of the sanctuary. What's important is what I heard and what that meant for me. 

I heard the voice of God.

And that voice was my grandmother's voice.

I don't recall what hymn was sung. Let's say it was this:
              Holy, holy, holy, Lord God Almighty!
              Early in the morning our song shall rise to thee;
              Holy, holy, holy, merciful and mighty,
              God in three Persons, blessed Trinity!

This hymn is meant to be sung "joyfully, with dignity," according to the Service Book and Hymnal, which my parents gave to me on my birthday in 1964. My sixteenth birthday. An interesting present for one's "sweet sixteen" birthday, but back to the story. 

All around me I heard the voices of everyone singing the hymn, but my grandmother seemed to be singing something different. She sang the same words, but the sound she made was lower, deeper, and stood out from everyone else's. I know now she was singing the alto line of the hymn, and everyone else was singing the soprano or melody line of the hymn:
                Holy, holy, holy! all the saints adore thee,
                Casting down their golden crowns around the glassy sea,
                Cherubim and seraphim falling down before thee,
                Which wert, and art, and evermore shall be.  

I thought my grandmother's voice was the voice of God. 

And the voice of God was a woman's voice. 

Hearing God in the voice of my grandmother was my first spiritual experience, at least that I remember, and I am quite sure that experience was an early permission slip to notice God, to feel God's presence in whatever was around me. Like my grandmother's voice. 
(A side note: I think that experience led to my interest in a feminist theology of God--just browse my library!)

What I've noticed lately is how visible, how tangible, how audible God is. Yes, even in these days of crisis, of confinement, and of fear of the present and the unknown, God seems to be everywhere. 

I looked out my kitchen window one afternoon and saw cut outs of two hearts taped to a window in the house next door to ours. We are the only ones who can see that window. Clearly, that was a sign of love. God's love visible. Of course, I cut out a heart, too, and taped it so the children next door could see it. 







This is just one example of the many ways people are connecting with one another, although at a distance, making sure elderly people on the block are ok and that children continue to grow and thrive. With each connection, each sign of concern and love, one can hear the voice of God; one can see the movement of God. 

This is Holy Week in the Christian tradition and also the beginning of Passover, and my prayer for you, regardless of your faith tradition or background, is that these days may be holy ones for you. We each can be the voice of God. We each can be the movement of God. We each can be the presence of God. 

An Invitation
Where are you hearing and seeing the movement of God? I would love to know.