We need to hear ourselves sing

The author, far left, singing
among birch walls in Iowa in the 1950s.

We all have one thing in common in congregational singing: we need to hear ourselves sing. This is something we experience when we take a morning shower. A person doesn’t need a great voice to appreciate that little worship service. Other members of the family often want to turn down the volume or switch it off altogether, but if they would join in and get the whole house rockin', they’d understand how fulfilling such a song service can be.

My own experience in congregational singing began not in a shower stall but in a corrugated, un-insulated steel airplane hanger in Iowa. Pews were made of cross-legged wooden benches—no backs. Dad was pastor, was musical, loved to sing and loved hearing the congregation sing. That building was built both for a single-engine Piper Cub and unwittingly for congregational singing. No matter whether it was the roar of a pre-WWII opposed-piston radial engine or the singing of “Holy, Holy, Holy,” the room resonated. It was fun to sing there, and we loved to hear the hymns we sang together.

Later that same congregation built a Quonset sanctuary made of rough-cut river birch, which lined the interior walls. As the birch aged it turned beautiful to the eye, beautiful to the ear, and hard—hard enough so that you couldn’t hammer a spike into it. The ceiling was acoustical tile. Pulpit furniture, the communion table and pews were constructed of white oak. It had warmth, like that of a violin or cello. Because the room was built like a stringed instrument (made of wood but having no padding on the inside), singing there was nearly perfect, and it was fun. The birch walls sang with us.

Many years later my family moved to St. Louis. The church we joined met in a sanctuary with hard floors, a hard ceiling, hard walls and hard pews. Even the extra seats in the back were steel folding chairs. For sure, there was no trouble hearing ourselves sing, but whispers turned to voices, voices to shouts, and the piano squeaked like a poorly aimed electric speaker. A little bit good, but not exactly what we were looking for.

Because the church was growing, we needed a new building and veered to the other extreme. The session hired an architect who apparently had little or no experience in congregational singing. He proposed giving us cushioned pews, sound-absorbing walls, an acoustical tile ceiling, and piled carpets. Our congregation heard of his plans, voted on it and suggested otherwise. But the session overruled us. I’m all for sessional church government, but in this instance they were flat wrong. Singing (or attempting to sing) in this sanctuary turned out to be, not surprisingly, pretty bad. We sang to ourselves. There was no resonance at all because the room was designed for performance. Electric guitars, mikes for the worship team, and the little padded cage for percussion did OK, but the single most important component of music in worship—congregational singing—was a disaster.

A good theology of music should be incorporated into the architect’s blueprints. It should include a plan that assists the congregant to hear himself, herself, and everyone else, sing. That would be enjoyable, encouraging and edifying.

I’m not suggesting a rock canyon, echo chamber or band box. But there oughta be a law. The law would mandate that every sanctuary be made of rough-cut river birch. Then we could hear ourselves sing.

This is a contribution from my brother, Mark Belz, who lives in St. Louis, Mo.