Or Perhaps It's The Doxology

The praise itself. The song of praise. Praise God from whom all blessings flow. Praise him all creatures here below. Praise him above you heavenly host. Praise Father, Son, and Holy Ghost.

And its variants. All its variants. Its possible thousands of surrogate variations.

I’m thinking of the days. The creaking wood-floor, wood-paneled ancient chapel days. When as a tenor I stood in choir robes. The little bespectacled Woody-Allen-wannabe atheist agnostic commie pinko pseudo-rich boy. Singing the Doxology. Turning to the cross on the altar three feet away and belting out this song for all he’s worth. Six hundred boys and masters and their families belting out the same words, the organ trumpeting and crashing. The back of my neck and the back of my head and the back of my back down to my butt all tingling and electric and warm. Like a lion maybe. A lion as tall as me. Were rubbing itself up against the back of my head and my naked neck and back. And then maybe breathing on me there. Its breath warm as a fire and welcome on a cool day. Like this is bliss. This is. Well. A great pleasure. But. Well also. Loony. I must be getting loony. And then. What in the heck is going on, I’m wanting to know. As this is happening. As the lion is rubbing. His soft hair tickling. Exciting a warmth that penetrates through the skin and down into my solar plexus.

And it happens every time. Sunday after Sunday. Year after year. Three years in all. When we come to that song. That one in particular. That hymn.

Acoustic weight. Acoustic weight is how I explained it to myself. The acoustic weight of 600 boys and masters and their families singing. The force of their voices all bearing down upon my head and neck and back as I turned my back to them and faced the altar and the cross. But otherwise kept quiet. Otherwise made this a secret because. Well. You know why. Candidate for the Funny Farm.

And then several years ago. As I became a Christian again. Attended church again. Began singing again the praise songs and hymns and occasionally the Doxology as well. It began again and generalized. The feeling came on with various. Not just the Doxology. Not all, but many. Many of the songs we sing.
Sometimes it’s the full body rub. The full rubup treatment. The full embarrassment. And others. It’s just a breath. Just a warm quick breath to remind me. Here I am. I’m right here, Buddy. I’m with you. I like your singing. Keep it up there, Fella. Let yourself go there. Give it everything you’ve got.

And it doesn’t matter where I stand. In front. In back, with the rest of the sinners. To the side. No more acoustic weight theories. No more pretending this is anything else.

And if I’m loony, well then. I’m loony. A loon for Christ. Warble, warble, warble, warble, warble. I could do this all day. All night. I could. Yes. Yes, certainly. Indeed. Indeed. Indeed. Indeed. Warble, warble, warble.