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I may be attributing a religious transcendence to what might merely be “the sublime.” It may be a psychological state of artistic “flow”; a full immersion.  Madeline Kahn told Alan Arkin that she realized her childhood dream was not to be a great artist. “I wanted to be the music,” she said. Whatever the experience is, I see glimmers of it on artists’ faces sometimes, when art and artist come together. I may be misreading what are just inside jokes. It looks something like joy, though, and it coincides with key moments in the music:

Marty Robbins here (at 0:45):

Suzanne Santo of honeyhoney here (after 3:10):

Or Aretha Franklin here (take your pick, but just after 2:00 works):

“Art is the highest form of hope”

Artist Gerhard Richter said that “Art is the highest form of hope.” He added elsewhere, “Art is not a substitute religion: it is a religion (in the true sense of the word: ‘binding back’, ‘binding’ to the unknowable, transcending reason, transcendent being). But the church is no longer adequate as a means of affording experience of the transcendental, and of making religion real – and so art has been transformed from a means into the sole provider of religion: which means religion itself.” I am not endorsing his dim forecast for religion, but his perspective on art is illuminating. Art does open up the transcendent. Singing is the most readily accessible art form with which to do it for most people.

One of the reasons that “Won’t You Come and Sing for Me?” touches people across a broad range of faiths is that it taps into that artistic transcendence, as well as into hope in the face of death. That recovering Catholics, Secular Humanists, Hillbilly Buddhists, destination-less Presbyterians, and ex-Primitive Baptists can all find a core of meaning in the song is a sign of Dickens’s success as a songwriter. It’s also a sign of just how meaningful the confrontation of music and mortality can be for many people.

The full quote from St. Augustine behind the aphorism cited above, “the person who sings, prays twice,” goes as follows:

“Qui enim cantat laudem, non solum laudat, sed etiam hilariter laudat; qui cantat laudem, non solum cantat, sed et amat eum quem cantat. In laude confitentis est praedicatio, in cantico amantis affectio.” [Translated: “For he who sings praise, does not only praise, but also praises joyfully; he who sings praise, not only sings, but also loves Him whom he is singing about/to/for. There is a praise-filled public proclamation (praedicatio) in the praise of someone who is confessing/acknowledging (God), in the song of the lover (there is) love”*

Whether one lives in the Christian tradition or outside of it, whether one is formally religious or not, some kind of “ultimate concern” or “source of meaning” provides an anchor of truth and value. God represents that for Augustine. Although Hazel Dickens didn’t see herself as religious, she saw goodness and truth in the humility, love, and kindness of common people. Everyone who sings can find meaning and renew purpose in that kind of broad tent. That commitment, whatever it is, is in our heads, and comes out through our bodies. “In the song of the lover there is love.” When the end comes, we can confront that source of meaning. Not a few of us want to do it with hope; and, if we’re lucky, with our sisters and brothers by our side, singing.

Coda

Alice Gerrard continues passing this song along to new generations, so artists like Molly Tuttle and Anna & Elizabeth are surely not the last to give it voice. Here is Gerrard with a group of young women musicians in Saxpahaw, North Carolina in March of 2016. It also shows the beauty that emerges simply from singing together.

*Thanks to Kevin Hughes for the translation, from the first part of Augustine’s Exposition of Psalm 72.