The Singer

Years ago, I heard about a book called "The Singer" -- a poetic narrative that mirrors the events of the Gospels. While we were in Ireland, my new friend (and kindred spirit), Karen, had this book and its two sequels (which I didn't know existed) on her shelf. She lent them to me, and I've just completed the first. Oh, is it good! It's the kind of book you can read over and over again and gain new insights every time -- there's just no way you can "get" all the metaphors, symbollism, imagery, etc. the first time -- or maybe ever.

Anyway, I want to share a couple of my favorite passages, but first I have to set-up the scenario for you. The book opens with the awakening of the troubadour -- the "Singer" -- who is told by the "Earthmaker"/"Father-Spirit" to "Sing My ancient Star-Song to the World." The Singer sings to many who hear -- his mother, a crippled child, a woman-for-hire, a madman. He sings, as well, to many who don't hear -- including the Keepers of the Ancient Ways (to them, God is just an old habit).

Well, I guess you get the idea. So here's a short excerpt, and a long one:

passage 1
"The self of every singer of the song must die to know its music?"

"They all must die, and ever does the self die hard. It screams and begs in pity not to go. Nor can it bear to let the Father-Spirit own the soul."

passage 2
"Listen to me," called the Madman to the crowd.

"I hung upon the wall until this very hour. When the moon was full I roamed in wild unholy grottoes of my mind. See these wrists," he said pulling back his sleeves.

The marks and scars of chafing steel were obvious to all.

"The manacles of iron did this. I could kill and would have many times except for the great chains which held me. I cried within the grove and wished to die. I tore at every band and tried to set my own brutality toward freedom, but never did the chains give way until today."

"Stop," cried a voice within the crowd. "You are still mad," the voice continued as the World Hater came out of the crowd. "Listen to me, Madman," he said pulling out the silver pipe.

Beads of perspiration appeared upon the Madman's brow. Fear tore at him -- could he stand the melody that formerly had driven him insane? The weird progression of shrieking notes began.

But the Madman's tension soon began to ease. In the frustration of his losing, the Hater played more loudly than before.

Soon the Madman was entirely at peace. He exulted in the confidence of total sanity. "It's no use Hater, the Troubadour has come."

The crowd has grown to several hundred people and the Madman called out over them. "This man's pipe wiped out all my sanity until today. I learned a new song from the Singer for whom the world so long has waited. Listen to the Song of Life."


I love these passages because they speak to the very real battle of flesh vs. Spirit. I want to die to self; I LONG to die to self. But the more I long for it, the more I'm aware of how self-focused I am. "Ever does the self die hard." And then my longing can so easily turn to frustration, or discouragement, or self-condemnation. "I [roam] in wild, unholy grottoes of my mind."

In times like these, I know I'm listening to the ugly, shrieking lie-song of the Hater. And for a while (like the madman), I believe him. But only for a while. Because just as the sweat of frustration, discouragement and self-condemnation begins to collect on my brow, the Singer breaks through. I'm His. I belong to Him. And the lie-song of the Hater can't survive against the Singer's Song of Life.