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Monthly column on hymns and songs

Chris Idle describes some friends who represent the great multitude of musical saints

Some who read this column must wonder about the young lady with the 'cello. Who is she - why is she here? So do I! I think she is playing a hymn . . .

But first: in August I briefly commended church musicians and encouraged you to do the same. The Bible does, and those glimpses in Chronicles and Nehemiah have been lovingly expounded in more than one recent book about 'worship'. Let me follow Hebrews 11 in naming a few friends who represent the faith of the great multitude of musical saints.

Thank you, Charlie, for many years of service at the organ: you were almost completely deaf, but your smile and greeting were weekly delights. There wasn't much wrong with your music either, even when you lost your place in an Anglican chant and had to whisper: 'Where are we?'.

Phyllis, still going strong, your church is remotely rural as Charlie's was totally urban. You find it hard to climb those steps to the organ seat; in winter your hands were blue and your knees seized up; but for you it is a service for the Lord, and that was where you loved to be. We taught each other a hymn or two, and found many more in common.

Norah makes up a trio of octogenarians who would play anything they were asked; they also shared the call to take on the job temporarily 'until we find a permanent organist'. 10, 15, 20 years on, there you all still were. You did not call yourselves trained musicians. Unlike Michael, who died without making old bones, and usually worshipped elsewhere.

'Lobe den Herren'

But Michael, your expert organ-knowledge served us well in East London. In what was so nearly the great fire of 1978, you clambered through our smoke-filled church on the heels of the fire-brigade, straight up to the gallery, feet on the pedals, and from ground level among the pews I heard you thundering out 'Lobe den Herren': 'Praise to the Lord, the Almighty, the King of creation.' That was our song that night, as we had lost much, but might have lost so much more.

Alan, you live at a furious pace among choirs and instruments alike: you never turn down a plea for help, and we did not question your speed through Suffolk lanes as you dashed from service to service. Sometimes the hymns were like that, too. Lyn, faithful and prayerful in the city; Agnes, composing lovely tunes which will one day be worthily heard; and Lydia, playing in your sari for David and Helen's wedding. It helps to be married to Marjorie, the only one I ever asked to change a hymn in the middle of a service, to follow the bishop's sermon. He was impressed.

And so to Ruth. It is not really you in the picture, Ruth, but the thought that it might be has prompted these reflections. You sang; you played guitar or organ; you brought your 'cello to Diss Baptist Church, and with your son Tom on French horn, and Bob the minister doubling on euphonium, what an accompaniment you provided for our summer evening of Cowper and Newton; we simply had to call it 'Amazing Grace'!

And time would fail me to tell of Mervyn the aged peer with twinkling fingers; Miriam the OMF missionary who gave up so much; frail Mr P. who turned over two pages in the middle of 'Jerusalem' at a wedding . . . but your rewards are in heaven, for they are scanty on earth. You would not have it otherwise; thank you all, and to God be the glory! A wedding in Jerusalem awaits you.

Christopher Idle