In a dark church, a dozen disciples gather in the upper room of the choir loft. We warm up our voices. We practice our hymns. Although we are not silent, in many ways, we are the disciples on the eve of Pentecost: waiting for the Spirit to descend.
I’m a lifelong choir member. I caught the bug in high school, joined a liturgical choir in college because the boy I had a crush on told me to, and I was briefly a member of St. Patrick’s Cathedral Choir in New York City. I keep finding my way up to the choir loft, even when other priorities crowd out my life. And as much as I enjoy cantoring, leading the congregation in song from the ambo, or singing from my pew with full heart and voice, sitting up in the choir loft among a chorus of voices is where I’ve always felt most at home in church.
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