The Temple of My Familiar

A captivating video clip popped up on my Facebook feed this week. The caption indicated that a popular Christian author prophesized the demise of the pipe organ, suggesting it be broken down for firewood. Ouch! I’ve not been able to locate the actual quote so the author will remain unnamed, but his words deserve to be challenged. That’s where the video comes in, as Baltimore’s Dr. Patrick Alston disputes his prediction without uttering a word. Instead, the master organist Alston sits at the keyboard and allows the music to swell through his hands and feet.

The church has not escaped the winds of change blowing across our world throughout the last few decades. Blame it on the Beatles or the devil if you want, but the pipe organ has often fallen victim to those who clamor for a more contemporary sound to speak to our itching ears. But still, there is nothing in this world like the sound of a magnificent pipe organ as its notes echo from the rafters of a cathedral or sanctuary.

The day after my mother’s death, I attended the church where I grew up. On that sorrowful morning, I longed for the comfort of the traditional liturgy of my childhood, the familiarity of the stained glass windows, and the resonance of the organ. However, once a month, the keyboard, guitar and drums take the place of the organ, and guess what Sunday it was. No pipe organ for me that day.

I was so disappointed that morning, curious about the intensity of my reaction. In that tender time of early grief, I believe I was seeking what novelist Alice Walker called “the temple of my familiar.” I don’t remember her story line, but the sentiment of the title fits. While there is always room for the new, sometimes we simply want to return to the temple of our familiar, the sacred words, the remembered tunes, the ancient paths, and even the familiar scents and tastes.

As a young woman, I dreamed of being the organist in that Presbyterian Church on Broad Street in Tonawanda. At fourteen, I stepped toward that dream by starting organ lessons to supplement my piano skills. I often rode my bike to the silent church, where I would ascend the steps to the choir loft and allow the music to envelop me in its fumbling glory. I’d discovered an arrangement of The Lost Chord, and Adelaide Procter’s words challenged me: “My fingers wandered idly over the noisy keys. I know not what I was playing, or what I was dreaming then; but I struck one chord of music like the sound of a great Amen.”

However, in what can only be described as the comical will of God, I never did get to discover that lost chord on the organ. Instead, my young organ instructor was moving on from his church job, and asked if I’d be interested in taking his place. Where? The local Salvation Army, where I traded the pipe organ for an upright piano, the strains of Bach and Handel for gospel hymns and Sunday school choruses. And the rest is history. All for $4.65 a week.

In these days following the death of my mother and the birth of our new granddaughter, the delightful Elizabeth Holiday, 

I’ve thought a lot about the past, the temple of my familiar, but also of the role that hopes and dreams play along the path to our future. In the unique search for our own lost chord, just one casual conversation or one seemingly insignificant decision can change the direction of a hoped-for path or a long-held dream. And yet when we least expect it, the abandoned dream whispers to us one more time, beckoning us to return.

Perhaps some quiet morning, if a church door is left ajar, I’ll wander into a silent choir loft to see if my fingers and feet can still touch the longings of a fifteen year old girl. The notes may be a bit rusty, but I’m hoping my own lost chord is still waiting to welcome me home before the predicted campfire burns away the glory.