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!’.
We’ve been dropping a weekly reflection on the Friday Fix for nearly 5 years now. 5 years! Where does the time go? In that time, there have been Fixes about more than one song from some artists, and there are still hundreds, well probably thousands actually, of really popular artists and musicians whose songs have not yet made it as a Friday Fix.
It occurs to me that the Eurythmics is one of those popular groups that has not graced the Friday Fix thus far, so today I felt it was time to home in on one of their tracks. To be fair, I could have opted for a few of theirs – ‘Don’t Ask Me Why’, ‘Thorn In My Side’ and ‘You Have Placed a Chill In My Heart’ often sum up my mood about the state of the world lately – so instead I’ve veered towards ‘When Tomorrow Comes’ with its glimmer of hope and, in my humble opinion, its banging tune.
Just as I wrote that last paragraph, the weekly missive on Helen Russell’s Substack (Living Danishly with Helen Russell) dropped in my inbox. The first part of the title grabbed me (those who know me well won’t be surprised) ‘Why optimism isn’t frivolous…’ and so I’ve diverted off down that rabbit-hole because it seems a little related to what this song says to me. Helen is talking about tillid this week, a Danish word that encompasses both ‘faith’ and ‘trust’.
That’s what this song is about. Tillid.
The narrative is about someone watching over the person they love as they sleep, promising to always be there for them. You can face tomorrow because I will be there for you to depend upon. The song suggests it’s a partner we are hearing about, but it could just as easily be a child, or even (as I glance to my left at the snuggled and snoring bundle of fur of Brontë Dog ) a sleeping pet. It captures that vulnerable space where sleep takes us to – that other world where our worries and cares trouble us less.
And I was wondering where you were You know you looked just like a baby Fast asleep in this dangerous world. Every star was shining brightly Just like a million years before.
We trust that we will awake tomorrow. And we trust that those who care for us will be there watching over us, propping us up and giving us the support we need.
Faith and trust. Tillid.
This doesn’t have to be contained to just our ‘family’ unit. This can encompass a much wider encouragement to be present for others, especially those who are marginalized or facing adversity.
And you know that I’m gonna be the one Who’ll be there When you need someone to depend upon When tomorrow comes When tomorrow comes
It’s a reminder that each new day is an opportunity to make a difference in the lives of others and to contribute to the collective journey towards a more just and compassionate world.
It’s not an easy world to be living in these days. Maybe it has always been so. My Pollyanna-ish tendencies have been challenged relentlessly lately but I still maintain that there is always hope. Even when something feels too tough to get past, it’s the hope that there is another side that drives us on. And we aren’t alone. There is someone we can depend upon, even if we don’t know them yet. Tillid. Faith and trust rolled into one.
I am known for my using contemporary popular music in worship, but to be honest, it’s usually done in the context of worship in which the only music is secular – occasions like “Outro” (the playlist for which once appeared as the Good Friday Fix), occasional contemplative Communion services in Cornwall, and the Covid-defeated series, Ink-R-n8, in Essex. The number of occasions I’ve used contemporary music in ordinary Sunday services is actually relatively small. “Shooting Stars”, by Rival Sons, is one of those songs I have used.
It’s one of those songs that I first heard while in the shadow of Black Dog, and which had the power to draw me out from that beast’s shadow, if even for a short while. It left its mark, and I have returned to it many, many times – including, on one occasion, using at least the lyrics in a Sunday morning service.
To me, it’s verses seem to speak strongly to the call of Jesus to creative resistance against the powers of the world. The way of Jesus is a way that does not turn the ways of the world back on it, but finds creative ways to offer something better – love that is stronger than hate, faith that is deeper than doubt (I’d probably prefer the term cynicism here, because I don’t think doubt is a bad thing, but that’s not the lyrics!), laughter that is louder than shouting, dancing (even my terrible dad dancing) that is better than marching will ever, ever be.
Meanwhile, the chorus seems to speak of the way in which light, even a brief shooting star, shines bright against the darkness and illuminates our lives in ways that bring hope and new possibilities. All of this seems to me to speak to the heart of the Christian faith – that true justice, true peace, true light, true love, is not found through adding to world’s already significant levels of injustice, violence, darkness and hatred, but is found only through offering an alternative story, an alternative method, an alternative way forward. That is our calling – not to be bound up in the ways of the world, but to offer the alternative, to reflect light in the midst of darkness and to offer love in the face of hate.
As the Rev Dr Martin Luther King Jr. once said, “Darkness cannot drive out darkness: only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate: only love can do that.”
My love is stronger than… your hate will ever be. My faith is deeper than… your doubt will ever be. My laughter is louder than… your shouting will ever be. My dancing is better than… your marching will ever be. We move through the world like shooting stars across the sky. Splitting through the darkness, putting the light into their eyes.
I should probably warn you that if you are having a reflective, intentionally quiet Good Friday then it might be worth playing this song when you are ready for a bit of noise. Maybe you might even want to leave it until tomorrow.
When I first heard this song just over a month ago, it took me straight to what I think the first Good Friday might have felt and sounded like. I wasn’t sure whether this would be a helpful Good Friday Fix – we generally opt for tracks that might sit in that quiet, thoughtful space better. But I had a couple of nudges including Red Rum Club opening with this song at their gig at Trinity Centre, Bristol (a former church) when I saw them live a couple of weeks ago, so I thought let’s go for it.
I’ve been thinking about that first Good Friday and how it must have been for the followers, friends and family of Jesus that day. Jesus followers today have a day of contemplation, lament and sorrow; Jesus followers then would have had an emotionally-charged day that was frenetic and full of incredulity. Some will have seen parts of it; others will have heard about it rather than been there. Some will have been alongside and ‘in it’ all (as much as they could be), others might not have heard until it was all over.
The common thing that would have bound them all together would have been the feelings about this complete and utter injustice; the sense of disbelief, anger, uncertainty, helplessness, shame, guilt and the desire for revenge. These are the feelings that barrel around our bodies when we are confronted with injustice. The time for contemplation and lament comes later.
I’ve lost my way, misunderstood Should I pray for explanation? I wait all day for something good But nothin’ good ever comes from waitin’
Each one would have replayed moments of that day and week, alongside the times that they had spent with Jesus over the years. Trying to make sense of it all. Asking questions of themselves. Could they have done anything differently? Could they have found some way of intervening? Why did God let this happen? God? Is there even a God?
Give me a God to believe in I fear the Heavens have left us now The one I believed in let me down
From the late-night arrest in Gethsemene to the tortuous (probably literally) trial in the early hours at the High Priest’s house to the early morning sentencing by Pontius Pilate to the carrying of the cross to Golgotha and the crucifixion around 9am (the commonly believed time), we can sense the chaotic scramble of the Romans to process and sentence this seditious Jesus once and for all.
And there he is hanging on a tree with others beside him. Being mocked. Being laughed at. Being helplessly watched by his mother and a couple of friends. Even Jesus at one point asks why he’s been forsaken by God – even Jesus had a moment of feeling let down.
Give me a God to believe in I fear the Heavens have left us now The one I believed in let me down
And after it was over, the chaos continued as the body of Jesus was taken down and carried to the tomb – maybe with a sense of needing to get him buried and sealed in a tomb as quickly as possible, just in case the authorities wanted the body for some reason. Who knows what might happen when an occupying and brutal force is ruling your country. Let’s get Jesus safe and buried.
The fallen sun Has been and gone, now darkness Falls apart, you and me The fallen sun Has been and gone, now darkness Falls apart, you and me
So I nominate Chaos AD by Brazilian death metallers and groove metal pioneers Sepultura. This song is a rage against corrupt and unjust systems so links to liberation theology given the band’s Latin American roots. The lyrics talk about the fear and the need to take a stand.
As we journey through Holy Week I also wonder to what extent it describes the worst-case scenario of the ruling elite at the time of Jesus…
Chaos A.D. Tanks on the streets Confronting police Bleeding the plebs Raging crowd Burning cars Bloodshed starts Who’ll be alive?
Chaos A.D. Army in siege Total alarm I’m sick of this Inside the state War is created No man’s land What is this shit?
Refuse Resist Refuse
Chaos A.D. Disorder unleashed Starting to burn Starting to lynch Silence means death Stand on your feet Inner fear Your worst enemy
The Friday Fix 