“Turn in your hymnals to page 410. As the congregation stands, let’s sing together, ’When peace like a river attendeth my way. . . .’” (Cue piano/organ interlude.)
This type of rubric was a part of my life from as early as I can remember. I grew up singing from a hymnal. Before overhead projectors, or PowerPoint, or ProPresenter; before fifty-thousand-dollar HD projectors, we sang from hymnals. They sat in groups of twos, huddled around a Bible on the back of church pews. Hymnals served the church well, providing textual and musical help for those gathered to worship in song. I learned much from musical notation, and from the richness of certain texts.
After the Word of God, the hymnal is my favorite book. Hymnals have always been a part of my life, and over the last decade they’ve played a significant role in my spiritual formation. Multiple times a day I read hymns. I keep hymnals in my church office, in my home library, on my nightstand, and on our family piano. From Gadbsy to Rippon, Watts to the Baptist Hymnal 1975, hymnals articulate doctrinal truths and lend vocabulary to stammering tongues. The words cause our hearts to burn, and the melodies cause them to soar. To paraphrase Luther, hymnals are the handmaiden of theology.
As technology has marched on, however, it has chased the hymnal into obscurity. The hymnal didn’t possess the strength of overhead projectors, or the flexibility of the computer. It was no match for the rapid-fire songbook of the local church. In defeat, the hymnal retreated to dusty boxes and hidden bookshelves in dark rooms of church buildings. What once served Christ’s bride so faithfully was dismissed in a charge of iconoclasm. Keep reading
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