I wish I could remember who told us about the song. But it was crazy that day. Montreat-planning-team-two-days-before-the-conference crazy. Twenty or so of us, laptops open, plotting and planning the last final details before 1200 people descended in the valley. It was a blur. A glorious blur.
But somewhere in the blur, someone said to Jerry and me, "Hey guys, you ought to check out this song by Damien Rice called, 'Trusty and True.' A little over halfway into the song to the end. It'd be the perfect call to communion."
I gotta admit, I totally forgot about it. In one ear and out the other. Leading music for Montreat is an exercise in remembering what happened just a few hours ago, let alone a few days ago.
But Jerry remembered. The day before our communion service, it's late morning when everyone has cleared out of Anderson Auditorium. And there he is on the front pew, bent over to hear his iPhone with guitar in hand. When I get there he tells me about the song. "Pretty sweet tune; I think this will work. Check it out."
I did. And he was right.
It is a simple song. There's honestly not much to it. Three chords, barely - variations of the first. The words, sung initially with one voice and then joined by a lower harmony, are mind-blowingly powerful. The two-word fulcrum around which the rest of the song is built: just come.
Come, come alone
Come with fear, come with love
Come however you are
Just come, come alone
Come with friends, come with foes
Come however you are
Just come, come alone
Come with me, then let go
Come however you are
Just come, come alone
Come so carefully closed
Come however you are
Just come…
Come, come along
Come with sorrows and songs
Come however you are
Just come, come along
Come, let yourself be wrong
Come however you are
Just come…
I love the constant balancing act: fears and love, friends and foes, sorrows and songs. The struggle with vulnerability: come so carefully closed (what an amazing line). The raw honesty: let yourself be wrong. All brought together in a single thought: come however you are. Just come.
Jerry and I played it through once on that front pew and pretty much had it. And that's saying very little about our musical ability and much more about how this song practically sings itself. We only sang it two times in the conference, right before each of the communion services. But each time it gave me chills.
And I think the reason is because, in the end, that's all we're trying to do. Create space for people to just come. An invitation, a gathering together. But so much can get in the way. Roadblocks, obstacles. Ourselves, others, the world around us. Our pride, our failings, the notion that we have to have it all together, or at least look that way. Or the belief that we're really not the one being invited. That the table is not for us.
No. No, just come.
The invitation repeats itself a dozen times or so; and in addition to being that fulcrum, I think the frequency is important because we need to hear it over and over again. Just come, just come, just come. At some point, perhaps it'll sink in.
Here's the recording of us singing it through the first time on that front pew. It's rough, very rough. You'll hear us talking, offering a pointer or direction as we're figuring our way through it. Part of me wishes I'd recorded one of the later versions, where things were more polished and presentable. But to be honest, I really dig this recording. It captures the moment of us discovering the raw beauty of a song and the invitation it lends voice to.
A special gift awaits the person who suggested it at our planning team meeting, if we ever find out who it was.
But somewhere in the blur, someone said to Jerry and me, "Hey guys, you ought to check out this song by Damien Rice called, 'Trusty and True.' A little over halfway into the song to the end. It'd be the perfect call to communion."
I gotta admit, I totally forgot about it. In one ear and out the other. Leading music for Montreat is an exercise in remembering what happened just a few hours ago, let alone a few days ago.
But Jerry remembered. The day before our communion service, it's late morning when everyone has cleared out of Anderson Auditorium. And there he is on the front pew, bent over to hear his iPhone with guitar in hand. When I get there he tells me about the song. "Pretty sweet tune; I think this will work. Check it out."
I did. And he was right.
It is a simple song. There's honestly not much to it. Three chords, barely - variations of the first. The words, sung initially with one voice and then joined by a lower harmony, are mind-blowingly powerful. The two-word fulcrum around which the rest of the song is built: just come.
Come, come alone
Come with fear, come with love
Come however you are
Just come, come alone
Come with friends, come with foes
Come however you are
Just come, come alone
Come with me, then let go
Come however you are
Just come, come alone
Come so carefully closed
Come however you are
Just come…
Come, come along
Come with sorrows and songs
Come however you are
Just come, come along
Come, let yourself be wrong
Come however you are
Just come…
I love the constant balancing act: fears and love, friends and foes, sorrows and songs. The struggle with vulnerability: come so carefully closed (what an amazing line). The raw honesty: let yourself be wrong. All brought together in a single thought: come however you are. Just come.
Jerry and I played it through once on that front pew and pretty much had it. And that's saying very little about our musical ability and much more about how this song practically sings itself. We only sang it two times in the conference, right before each of the communion services. But each time it gave me chills.
And I think the reason is because, in the end, that's all we're trying to do. Create space for people to just come. An invitation, a gathering together. But so much can get in the way. Roadblocks, obstacles. Ourselves, others, the world around us. Our pride, our failings, the notion that we have to have it all together, or at least look that way. Or the belief that we're really not the one being invited. That the table is not for us.
No. No, just come.
The invitation repeats itself a dozen times or so; and in addition to being that fulcrum, I think the frequency is important because we need to hear it over and over again. Just come, just come, just come. At some point, perhaps it'll sink in.
Here's the recording of us singing it through the first time on that front pew. It's rough, very rough. You'll hear us talking, offering a pointer or direction as we're figuring our way through it. Part of me wishes I'd recorded one of the later versions, where things were more polished and presentable. But to be honest, I really dig this recording. It captures the moment of us discovering the raw beauty of a song and the invitation it lends voice to.
A special gift awaits the person who suggested it at our planning team meeting, if we ever find out who it was.
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