In this time, 34 people have written Friday Fixes – all of them have provoked thought and many of them have introduced us to a new artist or group. We are so thankful for all of you who have sent us a Friday Fix, especially the little band of regular writers who enable us to release a Friday Fix every week. You are all amazing!
To keep us going for another 5 years, it would be fantastic if we could increase the number of contributors. Might that be you? Might you have a song that makes you think about faith, spirituality and/or being human? If you do, we’d love to receive your thoughts at fridayfixmail@gmail.com. Go on – you know you want to really…
This is one of my favourite songs at the moment. If you know The K’s (they’re from the same neck of the woods as Rick Astley), you’ll know that much of their music is a little more energetic and indie than this track, which is probably why it stands out so much to me.
It’s these words that I home in on:
And I was hoping maybe You might know how to save me And I know we’ve never met but tell me where you’ve been just lately ‘Cause I’ve missed you all my life I just never realised it till tonight
These lyrics capture, so well, the seeking for more; the yearning to be seen; the realisation that they are looking for someone to save them; the wanting to be free and the needing to be themselves. And underpinning it is this recognition that they’ve been missing something that might have been there all along if only they’d looked harder.
It probably hasn’t passed you by that Russell Brand was baptised recently. You may have your own thoughts about his behaviour over the years, I know that I do. But then I think about all those people over the centuries whose lifestyle has been damaging to themselves and others, who persecuted and violated the lives of others and then plummeted to hit rock bottom. I think about how these people then found love, who were saved and turned their lives around quite drastically. I think about how some of them went on to be big witnesses for Jesus (looking at you St Paul).
Christians are meant to be driven by love and grace. They know that God loves and seeks the lost. Loving each other, no matter how hard that can be, is what they’re supposed to be about. Showing the face of God to others can be all it takes for another human to see.
This last week has seen the fifth anniversary of the untimely death of Rachel Held Evans. She was someone who knew about, wrote about and spoke about the sort of searching that this song conjures up for me. She sought a church community where she felt truly loved and embraced for who she was – something she struggled to find as you’ll discover in her book ‘Searching for Sunday’. I was moved by how hard she searched for that community and how she captured her thoughts in the following words:
“This is what God’s kingdom is like: a bunch of outcasts and oddballs gathered at a table, not because they are rich or worthy or good, but because they are hungry, because they said yes. And there’s always room for more.”
I’m hoping maybe that we seek and continue to create such communities like this. I wonder who I might meet today who is searching and whether I can help them.
Songs are poetry set to music. I don’t know if this is a precise quote, but it’s certainly the way I’ve known many people describe the nature of the things we sing and listen to others sing. While I’m not entirely sure the concept always stands – there are many songs, including some by bona fide geniuses, that I think work brilliantly when heard in the context of the accompanying music that would never stand alone if released as text alone – I do acknowledge that there are certain songs that do stand alone just in terms of their text, and certain artists who produce more such songs than others.
I’d argue one of those artists who could stand alone as a poet even if they weren’t also a brilliant musician is Paul Simon. His poetic skills are certainly to be seen in “Wristband”, the lead single from his 2016 album, Stranger to Stranger. It’s a wonderful lyrical track, full of both the mundane and the imaginative as it begins by telling the story of a rehearsal that goes awry as he steps outside only to hear the door close and lock behind him. As the story continues, it becomes clear that the wristband of the title is that piece of plastic, nylon, or cloth familiar to gig and festival goers the world over – the clothing accessory that points to the fact that you are entitled to be in a place that the majority are not.
As the story continues, Simon eloquently and evocatively describes his own fears, despite being a global star who is recognisable to anyone working a music venue, as he approaches the bouncer on the main venue door – who is insistent entry is based on the ownership of a wristband and is behaving like “St Peter at the pearly gates”. Even Simon’s descent into wordless scat as he attempts to persuade the doorman that he is the star of the show is somehow more poetic than many songs I’ve heard.
Yet his true poetic lyricism comes as the song progresses on. The song shifts in the light of that wordlessness from the simple narrative of an artist locked out of his own gig to something much larger and more significant. It becomes clear that all of that is just setting up the larger metaphor and truer meaning of the song:
The riots started slowly, with the homeless and the lowly, then they spread into the heartland: towns that never get a wristband, kids that can’t afford the cool brand, whose anger is a short-hand for you’ll never get a wristband, and if you don’t have a wristband then you can’t get through the door. No, you can’t get through the door…
So it turns out that a catchy little ditty about a musician and his unfortunate need for a cigarette is actually a prophetic pronouncement on the ways in which so many in our communities, our nations, and our global village are denied access to so many things – including the very basics of life. That, it seems to me, is genuine poetry that just happens to be set to music. It’s also poetry, and music, worth listening to – you may not find them on subway walls, or tenement halls, and they’re certainly not silent, but they are prophetic.
Those of us who wear wristbands of many kinds need to be aware of our deep privileges and consider the consequences of a world in which so many are blocked from even getting in the door, let alone get to perform on the stage.
You can find out more about Paul Simon at paulsimon.com
If you like this week’s Friday Fix, you may like to follow/subscribe to Simon’s Substack where you’ll find Progressive Lectionary Reflections, Saturday Column and other musings – https://simonjcross.substack.com/
Simon writes:
I’m part of a research group – by which I don’t mean I’m being experimented on (not after last time), I mean I join up with other people involved in research and listen to them talk about what they’re working on. Don’t judge me. I’m a very boring man.
This week it was my turn to talk about something I’ve been working on, so true to form I took some bits of work I’ve done in the past, and did something new with them. That last clause almost perfectly sums up my career over the last decade or so.
My paper was called ‘(Don’t Fear) The Reaper(?)’ I like to use parentheses because I think it gives a title some gravitas. No brackets? No interest.
But as you might have picked up, the title was a play on the words of the title of the Blue Oyster Cult Classic – well, not so much a play as a steal. I love that song, and want it to be played at my funeral.
“Seasons don’t fear the reaper,
nor do the moon or the sun or the rain,
we can be like they are…”
When Buck Dharma (aka Donald Roesner) wrote those words, he intended it to be a song about enduring love, but it puts me in mind of the never-ending process of life.
According to “process” thought, what we perceive as life/reality is a constant stream of perishing and becoming. Or if you like, constant, iterative, death and birth. Each moment is a moment of perishing, just as it is a moment of becoming. This process never stops.
The necessity of death and new birth is also baked into the story of Christianity, I am contractually obliged to point out.
When you look at the world like that, I think it puts things into perspective – even things like the decline of the church.
There’s no doubt that the church is in decline in Western Europe and North America, the only question, really, is what to do about it. Lots of money and considerable effort has been spent on trying to arrest the decline, or to put it another way – to prevent the perishing. Everywhere you look, people are burning out as they do their best to shore up their declining congregations.
In my research paper I posed an alternative perspective: What if, instead of trying to stop the perishing, we accepted it as part of the natural order? What if we all stopped trying to stop the perishing, and instead looked for what is becoming? What if we stopped trying to hold up the building and instead looked among the rubble for whatever is growing in the ground?
From the perspective of Process thinking, perishing (The Reaper) is not something to be feared. That’s not to say perishing isn’t painful, sometimes it can be very painful. But it is necessary.
‘(Don’t Fear) The Reaper’ was, I think, heavily based on The Byrds’ version of ‘Turn, Turn, Turn’ by Pete Seeger – listen to the guitar and the vocals, reflect on the content – I think it’s quite obvious. That song was, itself, a reworking of a passage from the Bible. All things have their season, even songs.
I think the wisdom that all things have a time, and that time is limited, is a grand truth. And when seen through that lens perishing/death/The Reaper can be something very positive. It offers the promise of something new to come, because perishing leads to becoming.
After all the Fixes in Lent focussing on songs that were disliked, I felt it was some time for wholehearted positivity so I am moved to write about 2 small boys at my church who are passionate about the songs we have as part of the Sunday worship.
My grandson is 4 years old and is autistic and preverbal but, every Sunday morning, he trots happily into church and goes to the seat where he has decided he sits. He loves the singing but his favourite song is Ask, Seek, Knock by Hillsong Kids. He recognises the melody from the first few notes, and his little face lights up, and his huge smile is just a joy to see. He bounces along and even joins in with ‘Knock, knock, knock, knock’. It brings tears to my eyes to see his pure enjoyment. He has found the track on YouTube and will play it over and over.
The lyrics might be simple but the message is straight from scripture and after seeing my little boy dancing along, it means a whole lot more to me. I look forward to it as much as Fabian does.
On the other side of church sits our little friend George who is just as enthusiastic about the introduction to the service each week. We have a little video of welcome and as soon as he hears the backing music, George stands up on his seat and jumps up and down in excitement.
We should all be as keen to start worshipping as he is. But not everything is greeted with the same level of eagerness. If we have ‘This Little Light of Mine’ along with the video of a marching lightbulb, he will scream and cry and needs to be taken out.
I’m not sure if it’s the pictures in the animation that scares him but it’s the same every time. It just proves that the choice of songs in a service have such power to move members of the congregation from youngest to oldest.
Long may our littlest members be so moved by the songs that they are compelled to dance and smile as they worship God, and may their joy be infectious and spread to all around them. As they say on the telly ‘Keeeeeeeeep Dancing!’.
The Friday Fix 