Two weeks ago at the funeral of Jack Layton, a prominent Canadian politician I admired greatly, Stephen Page, formerly of the Barenaked Ladies, sang Leonard Cohen’s “Hallelujah.”  The song felt out of place in the formality of a state funeral with prime ministers and royal representatives and a flag-draped coffin, but ultimately there was nothing more Canadian than yet another Canadian covering this song.  I have been obsessively replaying it for two weeks now.  Perhaps Page’s version is not the best musically among the song’s countless iterations, but its friend-singing-at-a-friend’s-funeral raw emotion is incomparable.

Looking back on my compulsive replaying of the song, I noticed an odd emotional pattern.  I feel down, and rather than an upbeat song, I seek out music that reaffirms my current emotion.  I feel morose and alone, so I pick a sombre song and listen to it alone.  The technology of our culture has made listening to music, a once inherently communal act, an ever more intensely private, personal matter.  With the internet, I have nearly any song whatsover available to me, without previous constraints of culture and language and place.  With headphones, I have the advantage of listening in complete solitude.  Individual music listening can be therapeutic, but it is not particularly challenging.

Gathering in a church, however, is a rare case of communal song among nonmusicians.  So when I feel down, the church prods me into raising my voice, however quiet and lacking in confidence, in jubilant praise.  When I feel jubilant, the church prods me into pensive reflection.  And in each emotional challenge, I am challenged to stop listening alone and start making something in community.