My mother was a logophile, a lover of words, who understood nuance even when she spoke directly. She taught her children to speak without the preparatory steps of babble and baby talk. It was a “sink or swim” technique. We developed burgeoning vocabularies and fluency, but I’m not sure that we learned to communicate beyond our rudimentary narcissistic needs.
During my high school years, long before the advent of word processors, computerized search engines, and iterative artificial intelligence, I joined the speech and debate teams where I could practice my communication skills. Armed with a metal file box filled with handwritten 4×6-inch index cards detailing the “evidence” that I had researched in musty library reading rooms filled with card catalogs, I approached the opposing team. I listened for breaks in their logic, for the absence of substantiating proof texts, and for opportunities to rebut with the “truth” pulled from my carefully curated research. I’m just not sure that it helped me to communicate. The scripted arguments were more soliloquy than conversation.
In graduate school, as a social work student, I learned listening techniques, including what is called “active listening.” Those techniques were imbued with professional values like “respect for the other” and “unconditional positive regard.” I used multiple senses to decode what the client was trying to communicate. I heard their words. I observed their hesitancies. I saw the unspoken pain in their faces. It may have taken me more than 50 years of professional practice, but the listening techniques have gotten me closer to real “communication” than simple verbal fluency ever did, and I’m still learning. “Active listening” moved me from vocabulary and debate to dialogue. I have long believed that words matter, but it is not a simple matter, only a part of the equation.
Music is the language of emotion. Sacred music, especially choral music, adds another dimension to my listening. It augments my understanding of interreligious communication. A single voice, no matter its power or its pleasantness, does not produce the rich fullness of four-part harmony. Those chords, whether major or minor or even in the noise of unresolved crunchy dissonance, are the sounds an interreligious community makes. Choral music has taught me to listen not only to the soloist’s melody, but to regard all those sopranos, altos, tenors, and basses who support the message of song with harmonies and counterpoint.
The ICJS Congregational Leaders Fellowship has provided each of us an opportunity to meet another in their sacred space. I’ve learned in the Masjid that song is a powerful mnemonic in Islam when Muslims commit their Holy Qur’an to memory, learning from the various reciters whose recitation plays musically. I’ve learned in an Episcopal congregation listening to the peaceful message of the choir’s Evensong. I’ve learned in a Presbyterian church from a community that sings together. I’ve learned in my own community in the grateful musical recitation of the Psalms of Hallel or in the quiet susurration of the silent Amidah. Music plays to shared human experience. A wordless niggun or a Gregorian chant can focus our own parochial spiritual intentions.
It has been a painful time in this world, and I don’t always have words to describe it. Music allows us to communicate more fully than words alone. When we sing together, we are together. The technique allows me to share message and meaning and help to find sanctuary in those sanctuaries.
Joanne Fritz Kraus is a member of Chizuk Amuno Congregation and was a member of the 2024 ICJS Congregational Leaders Fellowship. Learn more about the ICJS Congregational Leaders programs here.
Opinions expressed in blog posts by the ICJS Congregational Leader Fellows are solely the author’s. ICJS welcomes a diversity of opinions and perspectives.