Am I Born To Die?
‘Idumea’ in shape note singing
The first time I heard shape note singing, it was raining giant buckets from the sky, water cascading like sheets of fury that washed the gravel road beside the Church of the Brethren into a muddy mess. Inside on hard backed pews sat men and women, girls and boys in their Sunday best — which wasn’t saying much, in worldly terms at least. The best that most in these hills could afford was a pressed pair of khakis and starched white shirt, or a patched floral dress with white stockings. But it was enough, they thought, to make God pleased in his sacred house.
I sat that day as I had so many others with our family friend, a dear old woman who loved her Jesus. Even though my family were Old Testament, she insisted I go with her, and my parents obliged, to my disdain.
I had been to this church on many occasion, never so much for the religion, more to just keep the old lady company. But this day, as I sat there, I could tell something was different.
What struck me first was the way in which the pews were arranged. Instead of their normal forward looking position, they were grouped into four small sections all facing the middle, so as to make a square where everyone could see each other. In the middle stood a man with a long blue tie, white pressed shirt, and a sorry old suit that looked like it was given to him in yesteryear.
It was hot that rainy summer day, so the women took their little fans and waved them back and forth, brushing stale mountain air around to cool their weathered skin. As the service started, the man in the middle belt out one long note.
La —
He held the note for some time, and the voices from each section of the square surrounding him — alto, soprano, tenor and bass — each in their turn matched his key.
Throughout the note, the leader held his hand high, and everyone watched, until at once he lowered it. As if on cue, the singer’s voices cracked through the sticky air, little claps of thunder from outside punctuating their tune.
La so la so da fa so…
I watch in hymnal pages as little shapes — circles and squares and triangles — rise and fall on musical staff, a language unbeknownst to me. Here they tapped their foot and raised their hands and let them fall in tune with the solfege. Their high pitches gave me little goosebumps, and I could feel the sacredness of the moment. At once, the voices grew silent, then suddenly — and seemingly from angelic heights — they rang a tune with words which I could understand.
And am I born to die
To lay this body down
And must my trembling spirit fly
Into a world unknown
It was music like I had never heard. A thousand voices — if only from twenty souls — rose high into the heavens, each note echoing off the white walls. Every shape, and voice, would rise and fall in unison, the commencing sounds in perfect harmony, as if this choir of humans were angels in disguise. As they sang, little drops of rain shined through the red glass roses in the windows. Each belted note seemed to echo voices from the past, as if raising them to life once again to sing the heavenly song.
The leader’s hand raised up, down, up, down, and the congregation’s voices in accordance. They kept time as each word was shouted high, as though they were trying to reach through the heavens to God himself. The music moved through my body and I could feel it in my bones. For a moment, I closed my eyes, listened to the acapella in concert. When I opened my eyes again, I saw mouths wide open, tears streaming down old ladies faces. With conviction the congregants sung each word, as though this might be the last time the tune was heard.
A land of deepest shade
Unpierced by human thought
The dreary regions of the dead
Where all things are forgot
Many years later, I would sit on the couch, the T.V. idly playing in the background, on for nothing more than a little noise. This day would be dreary, but no rain, just gray clouds covering the sky since morning.
I sat there with no sense of purpose, just fidgeting with a pocket knife in my hand. Into a long stick I carved little zigzag patterns, not so much for any intent, more for lack of anything else to do. Suddenly, the voices — tiny angelic murmurs from years gone by — began their mournful song on T.V.
Immediately I recognized the rise and fall, those sad notes echoing through time. I reached for the remote, quickly pound the volume button louder and louder, until the singing sounds bounced from the walls.
Soon as from earth I go
What will become of me?
Eternal happiness or woe
Must then my portion be!
Outside, tiny drops of rain began to bounce off the window sill, as if the heavens were caught up in the emotion of the tune. I sat there, listening as each note filled my mountain home. I closed my eyes, breathed in the smell of wet dirt wafting through the screen door, and let the shape note singing move me once again.
Waked by the trumpet sound
I from my grave shall rise
And see the Judge with glory crowned
And see the flaming skies
Note: The above video contains only stanzas one and four of the hymn “Idumea” found in bold italics of this writing. To hear the entire song, visit this link.
