It is strange how close and far Egypt can be, and the two at the same time. Last night, I celebrated Theophany (Baptism of our Lord) with Coptic Christians. The liturgy is older than written music, inhabiting time and space but dependent upon neither; the ancient melodies reach one’s soul before they reach one’s voice. As I stood in the worship, watching and witnessing, there was almost the sense that the liturgy was someplace deep within me. The melodies of my heart inhabit time and space differently. I believe God is the impetus, source, and form of music; however, the melodies of my tradition exist more self-consciously. The music of my soul, of my Creator, is not bound by this distinction: is both ordered and timeless, with form and freedom.

The soul needs many languages in which to sing; perhaps we understand the language of the soul because it exists deeper than the language of Babel. I think of Miriam and Moses, singing in the desert, with many miles to walk, many years to suffer, many friends to bury, in joy of having escaped Pharaoh. I wonder if they found themselves humming those ancient melodies as they trudged through the desert, assuring themselves that God had pierced their spirits, breathed life into their souls, and given them music as a remembrance of grace and liberation. These Coptic Christians - the oldest Christian tradition, their society absorbing Christianity as though all its life had been in preparation for the coming of the Christ child, from the earliest beliefs in the afterlives of the deceased, and the belief that gods governed, protected, and provided for them - attended worship at great risk to their earthly lives. Bombarded by threats of violence and unrest, hundreds gathered; strictly ordered to leave directly after communion, many stayed until the priest dismissed the saints (and the people) to leave.

My sense of the liturgy is that the words and melodies are a promise remembered forward and back. God has given us music that we may remember God’s promises and sing them to ourselves as the night becomes dark, and we seem so frail we have no other power on which to depend. I cherish the piercing melodies, that reach in and grab one’s soul; for me, this must be sufficient communion, for 1,700 years of threats, violence, and theological debate exist between us. It is a chasm which cannot be crossed, though many have tried. I was blessed to be the one standing, watching at the altar, not to taste or touch, to know that God has created us good but not perfect, to affirm my belief that - in the end - God will transcend even this division. The deep-throated liturgy resounds within me, and I carry it as a promise - given long ago, fulfilled only in the end - that in God there is neither Jew nor Greek, neither slave nor free, neither male nor female. I long for the day when the promise is fulfilled. Until then, I have only music to remind me.