Last evening, I happened upon a program I had never before encountered. The set was cheesy, a tiny theater set up to look like the interior of a barn. The host looked as if he had just been picked up out of rural 1970 on his way to work at a bank. As a matter of fact, he resembled a former pastor I remember with thick glasses and televangelist hair.  I couldn’t understand half of what he was saying due to a heavy accent. We almost flipped to a different channel. My husband was seconds away from clicking the remote as he continued flipping through the endless lists of “nothing on TV”.

But then the host introduced a singer I’d never heard of.  At least I think he did. I’m not sure he was speaking English. The band (that I really hadn’t noticed due to a long closeup of the host’s hair) appeared on screen.  Two notes in and I am hooked.  Transfixed.  Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound indeed.  It is amazing how a simple melody can captivate and stir the inner being.  A beautiful alto voice climbing and falling, proclaiming her salvation. Simple piano chords chased by violins moved me to the edge of my seat.

Next up, a tenor that also was unknown to me.  He looked like he should be named Patrick Murphy and walk the streets as a New York beat cop in 1840.  I’ve always loved Irish tenors, so I smiled with anticipation.  I was not disappointed.  He sang of the “Holy City”.  I’d never heard the song, but with each chorus of Jerusalem his voice became stronger and higher until he was pushing out notes of which Pavarotti would have been jealous. Goose bumps and tingles on my skin.  Who are these people, singing in a small theater, in a corner of the world where music is valued and offered up like gold?

I was dismayed to see that the program was almost over. Only one more song.  The host began to sing.  He not only looked like an 80’s televangelist, he sang like one.  Passable, maybe even above average.  I was more than a little disappointed. He was flanked by superhuman musicians and he definitely was not in their league. The finale was underwhelming.  May be it was time to turn the channel after all. And then, two women’s voice soared in perfect harmony.  How Great Thou Art! My body broke out in goose flesh.  My mind struggled to take in the beauty of what I was hearing.  I was transported and transfixed.  One brief verse of perfection.  Like a scratched record, I came crashing back to Earth as the host took the lead on the song and closed the show.

I am left reflecting how simple melodies and harmonies have power. Just a few notes, sung with sincerity can strip away all my defenses and leave me raw. Old gospel songs whisper to me of grace and redemption. They remind me of my good fortune. That I am loved. That I am saved. They root me in the past and give hope for a future. So as I sit in a small room, on the edge of my seat, watching the credits of the bargain basement, Grand Ole Opry knockoff roll on the television screen. I give thanks for music, for talent in the most unexpected of places, and I give thanks for amazing grace.