Your faith was strong but you needed proof
You saw her bathing on the roof
Her beauty and the moonlight overthrew you
She tied you to her kitchen chair
She broke your throne and she cut your hair
And from your lips she drew the Hallelujah
Hallelujah. Hallelujah. Hallelujah. Hallelujah.
Baby I’ve been here before
I’ve seen this room and I’ve walked this floor (you know)
I used to live alone before I knew you
And I’ve seen your flag on the marble arch
And love is not a victory march
It’s a cold and it’s a broken Hallelujah
Hallelujah. Hallelujah. Hallelujah. Hallelujah.
Hallelujah. Praise God.
As cancer wages war on my wife’s body, it seems a funny thing to be occurring in my mind right now. Yet as we prayed together tonight, the song appeared in my thoughts, and I can’t shake it.
Hallelujah. Hallelujah. Hallelujah. Hallelujah.
I was reminded of Leonard Cohen’s prophetic words and Jeff Buckley’s beautiful singing earlier this year at a concert, and I downloaded the song the next day. I listened to it over and over on my way to and from work for a week, just turning the lyrics and haunting melody over in my mind, letting it mingle with what already lived there, creating new connections and rhythms.
I’m not going to pretend that I have some great insight into what the song means, but it occurs to me that it has to do with spirituality, human flesh, and the one certain thing that seems to unite the two: Love.
So often we tend to think of hallelujah as an exultation, a shout of joy, yet as Cohen’s words explained long before it occurred to me, love and praise don’t always come beautifully wrapped in achievement, celebration, or joy. They often show up through pain, tears, and confusion.
Our humans bodies and brains distort reality so that we see from a personal perspective. This illusion is easy to give into, and it seems especially easy when the human body is attacking itself. Yet at times, we are able to transcend that illusion, and find our light in the darkness. In those times, we are able to sing hallelujah from down on our knees, head in our hands, supplicated to a greater order of the universe. And when we begin to dance rhythmically with the order of the universe rather than trying to control it, we begin to gain more power than we ever believed possible.
Do we think we should only sing praise when we are on top? No, the true test of the strength of our spirit comes when we are on the bottom. It seems paradoxical, but we gain our greatest power when we give up control and give in to a greater order of the universe, an order we can never truly understand. We are capable of realizing our true power and love even when we feel weakest, for we do not gain this power through achievement. We gain it through a cold and broken hallelujah.
Hallelujah. Hallelujah. Hallelujah. Hallelujah.
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