Come, let us sing for joy to the LORD; let us shout aloud to the Rock of our salvation. Let us come before him with thanksgiving and extol him with music and song. (Psalms 95:1, 2) (NIV)
We jammed into a circus tent with a hundred African Christians. They were gathered for a week of camping, worship, and instruction in Doma, Zimbabwe.
A soloist’s voice spread a mournful plea through the tent. Hearts opened to catch her tempo and ride its momentum toward God. Soon, five or six voices sustained the final note of each phrase. The parts of their harmony ranged from soprano-yellow down to baritone-purple. As more worshipers rose from the dirt floor, new voices cried out the intercessory theme.
Two or three verses into the song, some metered out the base rhythm with handclaps. Others took up counterparts to the percussion of hands. Deft palms grew into an orchestra of clapping that punctuated the flying vocal notes.
The next layer was whistles and shouts. Women spiked the praise with shrill yells as they patted their mouths like an American Indian war call. The whole congregation stomped and boogied until a holy dust cloud rose as an earthier version of the glory of God that pushed the Israelites out of Solomon’s temple.
God’s gift of music has been abducted by the evil one. In days past, African tribal music accompanied the hedonistic worship of ancestral spirits. My Christian friends reclaimed their music for God’s glory. They snatched the sacred prize from Satan’s camp, purified it with the blood of Christ, and reveled before their King with the gift held above their heads.