The Adoration of the Magi

We are defined by, more than anything else, our desires: both the fulfilled ones and the thwarted ones, I think. Once a man has it in his head that he wants something, this desire begins to shape him. Ambition, or lust, or greed, eventually become engraved on a man's face, as do the more admirable, less common, desires. One need only to consider the sorts of things people want nowadays to begin to understand why the world is an imperfect place (and getting worse, one will note).

This is all just a roundabout way of coming to the point I was going to make when I started writing. When I was in Prague, I visited — as all tourists to that city must — Prague Castle. The most impressive part of that very large complex is probably St. Vitus's Cathedral, which is as fine an example of Gothic architecture as you'll find anywhere in Mitteleuropa. My favorite memory of the castle, however, comes from the considerably smaller Basilica of St. George, which is basically Romanesque (albeit with some Gothic and, regrettably, Baroque elements. I cannot understand why anyone would deface the simple purity of a Romanesque interior with the gaudy showiness of a Baroque façade). In one of the side aisles (to the south of the nave, if my memory serves), there is a medieval carved (wooden?) relief depicting the adoration of the Magi: I say without hesitation that this was my favorite work of art that I saw in Prague. I did not take a picture of it — I find tourists taking pictures in church to be irritating enough that I did not dare do so myself — but here is the best picture of it that I could find on the internet:


Of the six figures, three are unexceptional: the two wise-men in the background, and St. Joseph (who always seems to get a rather raw deal in such depictions. Here he looks rather disinterested. It's not his son, anyway, after all). But the three central figures are remarkable. The Theotokos sits with the Christ-child on her lap, looking rather guarded: who is this foreigner come to gawk at her son? Most striking is the third wise-man, who has taken off his crown. (Why are the Magi supposed to've been kings? Oh well; no matter.) His expression — which you can't see so well in this particular photograph — is of undisguised wonder: here, here, offering his hands in a childlike gesture of blessing, is the desire of the man's heart. The carving has captured a moment of transcendence: the union of the soul with the soul's creator. What else is there to say about the Christian life, save that we ought to seek Christ with such fervor? Would that all sacred art served as such good catechesis...

St. Francis

Today is the feast of St. Francis of Assisi. By a happy coïncidence, it also happened that today there was a lecture given here at Notre Dame on G.K. Chesterton, which I attended. Here's a bit of what Chesterton has to say about Francis:

To most people ... there is a fascinating inconsistency in the position of Saint Francis. He expressed in loftier and bolder language than any earthly thinker the conception that laughter is as divine as tears. He called his monks the mountebanks of God. He never forgot to take pleasure in a bird as it flashed past him, or a drop of water as it fell from his finger: he was, perhaps, the happiest of the sons of men. Yet this man undoubtedly founded his whole polity on the negation of what we think the most imperious necessities; in his three vows of poverty, chastity, and obedience, he denied to himself and those he loved most, property, love, and liberty. Why was it that the most large-hearted and poetic spirits in that age found their most congenial atmosphere in these awful renunciations? Why did he who loved where all men were blind, seek to blind himself where all men loved? Why was he a monk and not a troubadour? These questions are far too large to be answered fully here, but in any life of Francis they ought at least to have been asked; we have a suspicion that if they were answered we should suddenly find that much of the enigma of this sullen time of ours was answered also.

I'll refer you also to Chesterton's biography of St. Francis.

The current Pope, when he was still Cardinal Ratzinger, noted that "[t]he only really effective apologia for Christianity comes down to two arguments, namely, the saints the Church has produced, and the art which has grown in her womb." St. Francis is one of those saints who represent Christianity rather well, if I do say so myself. Incidentally, I don't doubt that the Christian religion is still producing saints, though few of them have such good P.R. as Mother Teresa. The real question is whether there is any more Christian art being produced nowadays. (Let's save that topic for another day, shall we?)

What, another recital?

Dear reader (I would write "dear readers", but that would be presuming I have more than one): you are cordially invited to my organ recital tomorrow, to be held at Christ Church Cathedral, in Indianapolis, following the noon Eucharist. It will be an all-Buxtehude concert, played on the fine Taylor & Boody gallery organ there, with these works:

Praeludium in C Major, BuxWV 137
Nun bitten wir den heiligen Geist, BuxWV 208
Praeludium in G Minor, BuxWV 149
Wir danken dir, Herr Jesu Christ, BuxWV 224
Te Deum Laudamus, BuxWV 218

The recital ought to last between thirty-five and forty minutes. Bring all your friends!

A Grief Deferred

This past weekend I visited home. The occasion, like most funerals and some weddings, was not a particularly happy one, but, like funerals and weddings, it provided a good opportunity to reunite with family. (The thing about having a large extended family — my mother is one of ten children — is that one rarely gets to see all of them together. It is genuinely pleasant to see all these people together, enjoying, for the most part, one another's company.) The most difficult thing about the whole affair, for me, was driving back to South Bend on Sunday: every time I return to South Bend I become more aware that I don't belong there. It was worst this time because the grief of this past occasion is still not fully computed and dealt with, and my absence from home isn't going to help. Lo and behold, Peters just wrote about the locality of grief:

We are going to travel some, all of us, and that, I suppose, is good. It is what I call a limited good. But we do the living no good, and the dead no honor, if we disregard our place. We should be home as much as possible. There are griefs to bear everywhere, and to some degree we can bear them anywhere — even distant griefs. But home is where most of them are — and where we bear them most fully, and best.

Home is unpleasant, in a few ways: certainly, I cannot deal with family all the time. (You are aware, no doubt, of the myriad specific ways in which family can be irritating.) But right now it looks like the minor irritations family can provoke are far preferable to the weight of guilt I feel for being away.

Quoth Bl. John Henry Newman:

May He support us all the day long, till the shades lengthen, and the evening comes, and the busy world is hushed, and the fever of life is over, and our work is done! Then in His mercy may He give us safe lodging, and a holy rest, and peace at the last.

— from Sermon #20, Wisdom and Innocence, preached 19 February 1843 at Littlemore

As it so happens, Arvo Pärt has set this to music, in his 2000 composition "Littlemore Tractus":

Reincken; Singers

There are worse ways to spend a mid-September afternoon than sitting out on the back porch, listening to Reincken's Hortus Musicus. Johann Adam Reincken is one of those composers you've probably never heard of, unless you're an organist, and that's a pity. I happen to be learning his chorale-fantasia on An Wasserflüssen Babylon, and it is very impressive writing. Reincken's known output is quite small, most likely because so much has been lost. Johann Mattheson attributed Reincken's low output to his proclivities for wine and women, which is certainly a more interesting explanation, but not entirely fair: it was probably just sour grapes, as Mattheson made an unsuccessful bid to replace Reincken at the Hamburg Katharinenkirche in 1705.
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You may not be aware that I now have a second job, namely, that of an accompanist at a Lutheran school over in Elkhart. While I've never especially enjoyed being around children, it is good to acquire experience working with them, I suppose. It being a private school, they are at least not so irritating as most children one sees in public. In any case, it is not my job to discipline them.

Whereas most adults are hesitant to sing in public — observe the national anthem at a game sometime, or simply attend Mass — a good eighty percent of children are quite robust singers. (It is a Lutheran school, which would suggest that these children are predisposed towards better singing than their Roman Catholic or Evangelical or agnostic counterparts, but I do not think that this is the case.) When exposed to music good and early in their lives, children are surprisingly quick to learn, and quite fearless. (It is interesting to note, though, that even as children some are unable to match pitch when surrounded by a sea of unisons. Perhaps a blighted few just aren't meant to sing, but these are to be pitied. I remain convinced that there are far more potential singers out there than actually avail themselves of the opportunity to do so, in church or elsewhere.) Oh, would that all children received adequate musical educations! Then perhaps we might all be able to sing four-part hymnody, as God and Bach intended.

On Cheap Language

Liturgy can, and ought to, be an uplifting experience. At its best it can free us, albeit temporarily, from the thousand natural shocks the flesh is heir to. At its worst it is not only inane, but maddening. I regret to tell you, dear reader, that the Mass I attended this evening was far closer to the latter than the former.

Chief among its problems was the priest. He was one of those who is fond of coming up with what he considers to be exemplary ritual improvisations; that is, he made stuff up. This wouldn't've been a problem, but for the fact that these improvisations only served to distract from the order of the Mass. (Just stick to the rubrics, Father.) Then there was the homily. As a Protestant, I place a far higher premium on competent preaching than Roman Catholics. But even by Papist standards, this priest had a tin ear for turns of phrase. This is, I suppose, the end result of decades of wrong ideas about what constitutes good language. What sort of prose is being fostered by the language of the 1970 Missal, by the New American Bible, and by the hymnody of Breaking Bread and Gather? Ugly language begets ugly language. The point I'm trying to make here is that what we read affects how we write and speak. (Compare the language of Abraham Lincoln, who grew up reading the noble and glorious Authorised Version, with that of most modern politicians, who have read... well, it's not quite certain whether they've read anything. Is Sarah Palin a voracious reader of Jonathan Swift?) If we're going to use the vernacular, we should take it upon ourselves to employ translations that are not, quite frankly, ugly.

If priests are incapable of minimally proficient sermonizing, they ought to deliver the homilies of the great preachers of the Church. Would you object to hearing the sermons of John Chrysostom, or Augustine, or John Henry Newman, instead of the underdeveloped ramblings of a man who thinks "Gather Us In" is excellent poetry? I certainly wouldn't.

Late August Miscellany

1. I've been listening to that Sufjan EP some more. It is baroque stuff, and by "baroque" I use the definition Borges gave us in his second preface to the Historia universal de la infamia:

Yo diría que barroco es aquel estilo que deliberadamente agota (o quiere agotar) sus posibilidades y que linda con su propia caricatura. ... [Y]o diría que es barroca la etapa final de todo arte, cuando éste exhibe y dilapida sus medios.

This overreach—and yes, I do consider it overreaching—cannot last forever. Once given resources are exhausted and the artist finally realizes it he must make drastic reductions or cease creating altogether. Either Sufjan will follow this EP (and the recently-announced new album, which sounds like similar stuff) with a pared-down release, or he will burn out by making increasingly busy and opaque music.

2. File under coincidences, ecclesiastic: just this evening I received an invitation to play a noontime concert at the Episcopal Cathedral in Indianapolis (following the Friday noon Eucharist, sometime in the next few months), where I attended this past July when I was in that city. They have two fine instruments (I can't speak for the third, the little one), but I'm leaning towards the Taylor & Boody, as I believe I'd like to do an all-Buxtehude concert...

3. Cantoring at Mass tomorrow; you may watch it on the internets, if you insist. I get to wear me a surplice! Will inform if it has lace.

Contra Academicos

I worry, as I am wont to do (despite certain advice to the contrary). Lately, I've been worrying about the MSM program at Notre Dame (among other things). Are we students wise to commit ourselves into the hands of a group of people—that is, professors—who have dedicated themselves to the life of the mind? How many of my professors know where their food comes from? (They need not know how to prune an apple tree, or plow a furrow, but ideally they'd know people who can.) More importantly, how many of them live within an hour's drive of their families? How many of them have a real sense of place? (I don't mean to besmirch any of my teachers, mind you. I respect and admire them a great deal. One must think about these things, is all.)

I wonder about the future of the program. I don't mean to say that churches don't need qualified musicians; indeed, I'd like to think that sacred music is a ministry of great importance, one that should have well-trained ministers. But I wonder whether we students are being trained for real jobs. The organists, I suppose, should be able to find some work: nearly all of us can sing and conduct, even if we're not very good at it. I worry, though, whether those students being trained in singing or conducting alone will be able to find churches that can support them if they cannot play organ (or even piano) well enough to lead a congregation. (And the program is being expanded to include more of them! Where are all these churches big enough to hire a full-time choral conductor? As for full-time cantors, well, I don't know if there is such a thing.) Perhaps I'm just being pessimistic. I just hope that the goals of the program are grounded in reality—as grounded, ideally, as the teachers should be.

Regarding New Acquaintances

Well, school is about to start again here at Notre Dame. The bevy of preparatory activities includes several events designed to help the sacred music students better get to know each other. (It being only a two-year program, we lose half the people we knew last year and must acquaint ourselves with the newbies. That is the technical term, "newbies", correct?)

I find meeting new people to be an intimidating prospect. People you know are at least used to your foibles; with established acquaintances there is the illusion of knowing each other. With new people there's no set of attributes you can comfortably attribute to them (easily, or fairly, anyway). I am, of course, pessimistic that any two people can really know each other in a deep sense, but it is disarming nonetheless to not have even the impression of knowing someone. There is some consolation in the fact that organists tend to be good-natured (if eccentric) types.

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In other news, it seems Sufjan Stevens has released a new EP in a sneaky manner: he hadn't announced he was working on it or anything. You may give it a listen (or even purchase it) here. I rather wish Mr Stevens would move away from all those artsy types in Brooklyn and move back to the Midwest. Need one live a bohemian lifestyle to produce art? I certainly hope not.