Sabbath Devotional: Let it Shine

In a flurry of anxiety over how to introduce “This Little Light of Mine” to our congregation in a non-offensive/appropriating way, I recently did a deep dive into the history of the song. One the pages of Google and Wikipedia, I met Rutha Mae Harris.

Rutha Mae was a member of The Freedom Singers, a quartet formed by the Student Nonviolent Coordinating Committee tasked with using music to educate, organize, and raise funds for the Civil Rights Movement across the U.S. Rutha Mae was the soprano.

The high point of the group’s performance was always a rallying rendition of “This Little Light of Mine,” a song with enormous unifying power. They would sing it at rallies and protests, too, where, Harris reports, the song helped steady protestors' nerves as abusive police officers threatened to beat them or worse. “Music is an anchor,” she said. “It kept us from being afraid. You start singing a song, and somehow, those billy clubs would not hit you.”

Little wonder that in so many autocratic regimes, music, dancing, art, and other forms of full-bodied expression were restricted or banned entirely. Because Rutha Mae’s assessment appears to be right. There are multiple accounts of “This Little Light of Mine” deescalating tensions and reducing instances of violence during Civil Rights marches. It quickly became a hallmark of the movement, protesters responding to assaults on human dignity with an exuberant and unified declaration of their inherent worth. And the joy of that communication would often totally disarm (in a rhetorical sense) thoroughly armed (in a literal sense) opponents.

I love and am astonished by the image.

I think joy, like music, is an anchor. It’s a positive and propulsive force that simultaneously energizes and deescalates. It is a creative and peaceful antidote to fatigue and despair. It is an open space for connection and communication. It is an army playing soccer together during a Christmas day truce. It’s a determined effort to embody the world we hope to create, a world where justice, and peace, and joy abound. It’s a light that can’t be hid, that won’t be blown out, that shines through setback, disappointment, grief, and deep, deep worry.

In a segment attempting to trace origins of “This Little Light of Mine,” NPR comes up with multiple potential authors, and then concludes “The song seems to belong to everyone.” And that seems right. It belongs to Rutha Mae. It belongs to Doris McMurray, an inmate at a Texas prison who holds the distinction of providing the earliest known recording of the song from her cell as she testified into the scratched and static-y vinyl the reality of her divine identity. It belongs to my child, singing the lyrics with painfully out of tune panache as he bounces cushion to cushion in the living room. It belongs to our church and our people, laughing nervously in the pews as the organist swings the introduction, striving imperfectly to stretch our arms, our voices, our stakes, our hymnals wider and broader.

So, sing your hearts out. Dance and clap and be joyful. Because joy is a kind of faith that the world we have is still good enough to love. Faith that there is still enough space in it for me, and you, and her, and us. And faith that together, we can make it better. Let your light so shine.

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Sarah Perkins is the peaceful root director at Mormon Women for Ethical Government.