You probably don’t know his name, but I know you’ve heard his songs. He was the one who first asked us as children, “Can You Tell Me How to Get, How to Get to Sesame Street.” He taught us, “It’s Not Easy Being Green” and that “C is for Cookie”. Joe Raposo was the official composer for Sesame Street.
He wrote his most famous composition in 1971, a song simply entitled “Sing”. It began in the mouth of Muppets and traveled the world, thanks to the Carpenters who decided to sing, “Sing”. They took it to a top-ten and Grammy Nomination. Since then, it’s been recorded over 50 times and sung by such a diverse group as Lena Horne, Gloria Estefan, Garth Brooks, and even Ben Stiller and Conan O’Brien.
The song brings joy. The words are simple, but I challenge you to hear it sung without smiling, just a little:
Sing, sing a song, Sing out loud, Sing out strong,
Sing of good things not bad, Sing of happy not sad
Sing, sing a song, Make it simple to last, Your whole life long
Don’t worry that it’s not, Good enough for anyone Else to hear
Just sing, sing a song.
The song changed Joe Raposo’s life, propelled him from Sesame Street to international fame. But in 1988, he just wanted to get away from it all. Joe was 51 and he was just diagnosed with Non-Hodgkin’s Lymphoma. His diagnosis was terminal, and he didn’t want to tell anyone.
So Joe left everyone he knew, flew across the world, and checked into a inn on an isolated Island off Scotland’s coast, fleeing his life; pretending that he was not dying.
“[At the isolated inn],” Joe later told a friend, “There was nothing…to remind me of what’s past or of any fears I might imagine.” No one there knew of him. He could avoid his life. But one day, he was walking around, and stopped. He listened. In the distance, he heard the 80-year-old, Scottish innkeeper humming a tune…“Sing, Sing a song.”
Joe said, “I laughed.” And in that moment his life came back to him. He could finally face the truth.
The song he heard was his, but it was really only a variation of “that glorious song of old.” Hope. Hope. Today, we sing of Hope. But I wonder if it’s Hope that really does the singing. Hope is a song, a song that comes to us when we least expect it. When we are fleeing from the world, in the midst of grief, loss, and frustration at the brokeness around us, Hope shows up, and hums her song.
La, la, la, la, la…
We misunderstand Hope. For Hope to be present, we believe she must be loud and boisterous, like Mannheim Steamroller or angels in the night sky singing to shepherds.
Sometimes, Hope sings out loud and strong. But sometimes, Hope hums. But a hum maybe all the song we need to hear.
We’ve done things a little different this Advent. Because this is the 200th Anniversary of the carol Silent Night, our themes each Sunday have come from the verses of that Carol, and we’ve changed the order of our Advent candles to better match the verses.
Please don’t tell the worship-police. Usually we begin Advent with the candle of Hope, but this year, we started with peace. It’s probably the first time this church has ever intentionally lit the candles out of order. There’s no rule that says what we should do, and there are no Advent Wreaths in scripture. But, well, that’s what we’ve always done. We light hope first.
It’s felt weird leaving hope unlit. But when does hope ever come when we expect her to?
Of course, Hope is nothing new. Hope’s been singing her song for sometime. The prophet spoke of Hope long ago. Actually, the prophet’s words are poetry, so it’s fair to say Isaiah sung. And the song started off slow and quiet.
“There will be no gloom for those who were in anguish,” the prophet hums, slowly. The orchestra begins to come in, slow and quiet, mezzo piano. “The people who walked in Darkness have seen a great light. Those who lived in a land of deep darkness, on them light has shined.”
The song builds: “You have multiplied the nation, you have increased its joy.” Some brass comes in. A trumpet plays louder than the rest.
“For the yoke of their burden…the rod of their oppressor, you have broken.”
The tempo picks up. Allegro. It crescendos. Full orchestra, full breath, full sound, the rafters shake: “For unto us a child has been born, unto us a son is given; authority rests upon his shoulders; and he is named Wonderful Counselor, <boom>Mighty God, <boom>Everlasting Father, <boom>Prince of Peace. <boom>. His authority shall grow continually. There shall be endless peace… He will establish it. He will uphold it. With justice…with righteousness…from this time onward and forevermore. The zeal of the Lord of hosts will do this.”
And the hum becomes a symphony. The prophet sings out. For unto us a child is born! And her name is Hope!
200 years ago, another song was born in Oberndorf, Austria. It’s a beautiful river town, rolling mountains, Austria on one side and Germany on the other. Snowy in the winter. And to that small town a simple priest named Josef Mohr was sent to serve the church of, and I’m not kidding, St. Nicholas.
It couldn’t be more Christmas.
But even though the town looked calm and bright for Christmas of 1818, it was a hard time. The Napoleonic Wars had left the area destroyed, and divided the area, creating that border in the river between–two countries–tearing apart a community that has for ages shared a history. On top of that, Oberndorf lived by the salt industry, but trade had slowed, oligarchs took the profit, and many in Mohr’s church were in poverty, longing for peace in troubled times.
On top of all of that, that year, the river flooded, as it was known to do. Water entered the Church of St. Nicholas, damaging the church organ, right before Christmas. All was not calm. All was not bright.
And there are various versions of this story, but as it goes, Christmas Eve neared, and the organ in the Church of St. Nicholas was still unusable. Josef Mohr wanted something a little special, so he handed a poem he had written 2 years prior, called “Stille Nache” – “Silent Night”, to the church organist, a schoolteacher named Franz Gruber, and asked Gruber to put it to music, for a guitar and two voices, that they could sing on Christmas Eve. And Gruber created the tune we sing.
Back then, the guitar wasn’t an approved church instrument, so right after the Christmas Eve mass officially ended, they played “Silent Night” publicly for the first time, Father Mohr on guitar and singing tenor with Gruber singing bass.
It was after the New Year when the organ repairman finally arrived. (Kim can tell you, they make their own schedule.) While Karl Mauracher repaired the organ, Gruber and Mohr performed their new carol. Karl loved it, took the sheet music, and shared it in his hometown with some traveling singing families, a lot like the Von Trapps. Soon, the Rainer Family sang it in shows across Europe. And then, across the Atlantic.
From a hum in a small town in Austria, during a time of darkness, a song was born, and from there it grew and grew.
The song goes by a lot of names, and the tune varies. But with all its variations, it’s the same glorious song of old. Hope. Hope. A new carol, sung at the end of mass on Christmas Eve. A hum on an isolated island off the coast of Scotland. A song still ringing from the prophet from long ago.
A song, singing. A light, shining in the darkness. A song. A child, unto us is born.
When we least expect it. Out of order. When we’ve run away. In the darkness of the night. When the organ is broke on Christmas Eve and the last thing we want to do is sing, Hope sings.
Sometimes the melody is muted; sometimes it’s boisterous. Sometimes the noise around us is too great and depends it out, or we’re just not listening closely enough.
But occasionally, when things begin to quiet down just enough, in the silence of the night, we can hear the song of old singing again.
When we do, it’s like the heavens open up. The wonderous star lends it’s light, illuminating the land of darkness. An angelic choir, bursts forth in the sky and, boy, can they sing. Gloria. They sing. In Excelsis Deo, they shout. Alleluia! Alleluia!
Hearing their song, we cannot help but join in the song of the angels. Maybe we hum. Maybe we sing out strong. But however you can, the best you can, join the choir and just sing, Sing, sing a song. Don’t worry that it’s not Good enough for anyone Else to hear, Let us sing, sing hope’s song. Alleluia.
For unto us a song is born. Hope is born. Alleluia! Christ the savior is born!
And the midnight clears, and all God’s singers sing out, that glorious song of old, best they can, Alleluia and Amen.
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