Thanksgiving and Broken Hallelujahs

A couple weeks ago, I introduced two different methods of poetry analysis to my students. After teaching the methods, I played the Leonard Cohen song Hallelujah and asked them to analyze the lyrics using one of the approaches. My kids were excited when I told them what we were going to analyze. Most people seem to be familiar with the song (it became more widely known after the first Shrek movie, but the last verse is often left off. It speaks of standing before the Lord of song with nothing to say but a hallelujah).

After playing the version of the song which the Canadian Tenors sing (which includes this final verse), I gave my students a few minutes to jot down their analysis, and then we talked about the song.

One of the delightful parts about teaching is learning from my kids. They always seem to pick up on elements that I miss. Granted, some of their ideas are ridiculous, but sometimes I’m surprised at their depth of insight.

During this lesson, one of my young grasshoppers excitedly shared something he noticed about a correlation between the melody and the meaning in each verse. He said that each verse starts at a lower note and ends at a higher note, and the verses themselves seem to begin with a melancholy idea and then, as it were, move upwards. The analysis doesn't hold true for every verse, but it does apply to some.

What I love about this song is what my student pointed out: it’s a mix of sorrow and beauty. It seems to me a reflection of life itself (and here I will withhold my usual lecture on the mimetic nature of good literature. But if you want to hear it, ask. I’ll oblige. But just remember that you asked). One of the aspects that often bother me about how Hollywood portrays the teaching profession is that the stories it tells are usually all triumph with very little sorrow. It paints a picture of teaching as a calling that is full of moments when students stand on their chairs and recite “Oh Captain, my Captain!” or when trophies are won or records set or auditoriums are filled with an applauding audience.  And yes, there are these moments. But they are not the majority, or even a large minority of what makes up teaching. Teaching isn't about winning: it’s about loving, and the song rings true: “love is not a victory march…it’s a cold and it’s a broken hallelujah.”

This week, we had parent-teacher conferences for the first time in the semester. I was incredibly nervous going into the meetings because I wasn't exactly sure what to expect. I was used to dealing with American parents. But the culture here is different and often much more direct. I expected things might get dicey.

What I experienced was—however—a little surprising to me. Parenting is parenting, be it in the U.S. or in Greece. These parents were relieved to hear me reassure them that they were doing a good job. They expressed their frustrations when their children were not putting forth an effort to do well or behave in class. I realized that they carry the same burden for their children that their American counterparts carry. It doesn't matter the culture—raising a teenager is not a victory march. It’s a journey full of broken hallelujahs.

For now, parent-teacher conferences are over, and today is Thanksgiving. My students are off enjoying themselves, and I am spending a relatively quiet holiday here in Athens. There’s no turkey on my table, and, frankly, that doesn't bother me. It occurred to me that I could celebrate by writing something of a “Thanksgiving List” and posting it on the fridge. I could fill it with the usual “I’m thankful for food, for warmth, for a job, etc.” But I decided not to make a list. What I’m thankful for today is a life full of broken hallelujahs.

Some people seem to think being a good Christian means perfection or an ability to look at every situation in a holy sort of light. I don’t think that’s it at all. The truth is sometimes I fail. Sometimes I do my best, and there are still no trophies, no records set, no applause. Life isn't perfect. Sometimes, as the song says, “it all goes wrong.” It does no good to deny that.

And yet—despite all this brokenness—we are still invited to the table, still invited to the feast, still invited to the family.  Despite all that is not perfect, I can still “stand before the Lord of Song with nothing on my tongue but hallelujah.”  

Hallelujah.