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"I just think people loving each other is a kind of miracle. And I think it's against all odds and I think everything in the world conspires against that." -- Bono, 2000 |
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"I just think people loving each other is a kind of miracle. And I think it's against all odds and I think everything in the world conspires against that." -- Bono, 2000 |
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Like a Song: Yahweh
@U2,
December 20, 2008
[Ed. note: This is the 29th in a series of personal essays by the @U2 staff about songs and/or albums that have had great meaning or impact in our lives.]
 "Take this soul and make it sing, sing."Those words are engraved on the back of my iPod. Because that one lyric from "Yahweh" expresses everything U2 has etched on my heart and spirit. U2's "Yahweh" is a prayer unlike any I grew up with as a Catholic. I've hailed Mary and talked to that hallowed father named "Art" in heaven endless times. Usually, I was just reciting words I'd memorized but didn't understand. The first prayer or "verse" that spoke to my heart and made sense came from music -- contemporary Christian songs, not ancient hymns full of "thee," "thy" and lines like, "We are His folk, He doth us feed." One of my favorite songs was "You Are Near" by Dan Schutte, a beautiful melody that starts out, "Yahweh, I know you are near, standing always at my side." Wow, you mean God (aka Yahweh) wasn't hovering up in heaven, "doth"-ing, Old English-style? "Yahweh" is the Hebrew name for God. In Hebrew, the name is spelled with four consonants that in English look like "YHWH"; throw in some vowels and you get the more pronounceable "Yahweh." But the Hebrews' reverence for God was so strong, they didn't say the word out loud. Bono addressed this "he who must not be named" conundrum in a 2004 article in Q magazine about songs from How to Dismantle an Atomic Bomb, including "Yahweh": "I had the idea that no one can own Jerusalem, but everybody wants to put flags on it. The title's an ancient name that's not meant to be spoken. I got around it by singing it. I hope I don't offend anyone." I hope I don't offend anyone either, because whatever your religious leanings (or lack thereof), the following lyrics are not dogma, just simple guidelines for goodness: Take these hands Teach them how to carry Take these hands, don't make a fist, no Take this mouth So quick to criticize Take this mouth, give it a kiss Elevate and uplift. Live in peace. Speak kindly. But the lines I listen to over and over again are the following plea/prayer, which in my mind I'm singing to U2 as well as to Yahweh/God, whoever she or he might be: Take this soul Stranded in some skin and bones Take this soul and make it sing. I take these lines literally. For the past 20 years, I have suffered from anorexia. I've recovered and relapsed countless times, including six long stays in eating-disorder treatment centers, so I truly have been stranded in skin and bones, without much of a soul, flesh or anything that was a sign of life. Anorexia, like alcoholism, drug abuse, overeating or any addiction, is a way to numb out and not feel anything, whether it's pain, joy or something in between. But you can't listen to U2's music and not feel. During some of my most hopeless, achingly emaciated times, U2's inspiring music and Bono's words not only kept my heart beating, but made it sing and want to stay alive. A few months after attending my first U2 concert in 2005 (I'm a latecomer to fandom), I wrote the following in a journal about the experience: "It was just a concert, but I felt like my life had changed. I'd surrendered, awakened, felt. I wanted to be comfortably full instead of achingly empty. So I began to fill my life with U2, because they made room for all sorts of other wonderful feelings." That probably sounds sappy and gushy, giving U2 too much credit. Of course, therapy, doctors, support groups and all sorts of people and techniques have helped me recover, but U2 delivered the first glimmer of hope. Especially this time of year, when I hear "Yahweh," I can't help but think of Christmas, and the hope the holiday brings. Yahweh, Yahweh Always pain before a child is born Yahweh, Yahweh Still I'm waiting for the dawn You don't have to be a mom, and I'm not, to know that a birth of a being, whether in a grimy manger with sheep and a trembling father-to-be nearby, or in the sterile recesses of the mind with demons determined to keep you cold, is -- in the biggest understatement ever made -- painful. But as one who has lived in the dark, whether enduring fitful, hungry sleep or my agitated mind, I know that dawn awaits, even if it's a tiny sliver of light. Take this heart and make it break. Surrender, to anything or anyone besides numbness. Make my heart break so I can hurt, which means I can heal. (c) @U2/Lindell, 2009.
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