The Episcopalian sanctorale, to the extent that it is observed at all, is a higgledy-piggledy affair. But it is gratifying, nonetheless, to note that three very good composers — J.S. Bach, G.F. Handel, and Henry Purcell — have their very own commemoration on July 28th. (That this day happens to coïncide with my birthday is merely gravy.) I am not prepared to argue for any particular sanctity of these three men; indeed, sources suggest their moral failings were as plentiful as anyone's. But theirs is some of the best music the Christian tradition has produced. In thanksgiving for this, and for sacred music in general, we at St. Luke's, Dixon put on a nice little Evensong this past Sunday, the musical selections of which I share here.
Organ voluntary: Dieterich Buxtehude - Praeludium in D Major, BuxWV 139
Hymn 432 "O praise ye the Lord!" Laudate Dominum
Preces (by William Smith)
Psalm 150 (Tone VIII, by Basil Kazan)
Magnificat (by Thomas Tallis, from the Dorian Service)
Nunc dimittis (ibid.)
Responses (by William Smith)
Pater noster (by Robert Stone)
Anthem: Henry Purcell - An Evening Hymn, Z.193
Hymn 24 "The day thou gavest, Lord, is ended" St. Clement
Organ voluntary: Herbert Brewer - Carillon
Showing posts with label Religion. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Religion. Show all posts
26 July 2016
27 March 2013
Spy Wednesday
There is a tradition for calling the Wednesday in Holy Week "Spy Wednesday", though I am not certain how widespread this usage is. At first I thought it might be exclusive to certain Romans (among whom, indeed, I first heard it), though I am informed that Anglicans also use the term. In any case, I like it: it is certainly more evocative than "Holy Wednesday", just like "Maundy Thursday" is better than "Holy Thursday". (Though I have found multitudes of people who pronounce Maundy as "Maun-day", as if it were some sort of bastardization of "Monday". The name probably comes from the Latin mandatum, referring to the new commandment Christ spoke of, shortly after washing the disciples' feet. This is the sort of thing people should know.) The name "Spy Wednesday" presumably comes from the trouble Judas Iscariot was getting up to, agreeing to betray Jesus to the chief priests. (So Judas was a spy, I guess? Expect to see my screenplay, Judas Iscariot: International Man of Mystery, any day now. I'm sure there's a clever tagline for that to be written. A Bond pun, perhaps? Or something about thirty shekels?)
It is no surprise that the character of Judas should be a matter of some fascination for modern man. What could drive someone to betray Jesus? Doubt? Disillusionment? Mere greed? No single reason really seems sufficient.
Borges addresses the idea of Judas in a pseudo-scholarly article (or, perhaps more accurately, a scholarly pseudo-article), Tres versiones de Judas. The work is short enough that I recommend you go ahead and read it presently. If you are accustomed to Borges, it is a deliciously characteristic article.
(An aside: Borges writes that
Anyway, Borges presents an altogether not-unsympathetic view of Judas, though, as always, it is difficult to determine how sincere he (Borges) is. It is all absurd heresy, anyway. I suppose Borges delighted in the thought.
Dante, of course, places Judas in what is presumably the very worst part of hell, being eternally eaten by the most unpleasant of the three mouths of the devil. In other literature, however, Judas is afforded some small mercies. In the Navigatio Sancti Brendani, St. Brendan and his explorers find Judas sitting on a miserable rock in the middle of a storm-tossed sea. Yet this is in fact a respite compared to the torment he suffers in hell: Ego sum infelicissimus Judas atque negociator pessimus, he says; non pro meo merito habeo istum locum sed pro misericortia ineffabili Jhesu Christi. (In an oddly specific listing, Judas is spared on Sundays, between Christmas and Epiphany, from Easter to Pentecost, and on the feasts of the Purification and the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary.) Even for the worst sinner, the "ineffable mercy of Jesus Christ" applies. We might take some comfort in this.
It is no surprise that the character of Judas should be a matter of some fascination for modern man. What could drive someone to betray Jesus? Doubt? Disillusionment? Mere greed? No single reason really seems sufficient.
Borges addresses the idea of Judas in a pseudo-scholarly article (or, perhaps more accurately, a scholarly pseudo-article), Tres versiones de Judas. The work is short enough that I recommend you go ahead and read it presently. If you are accustomed to Borges, it is a deliciously characteristic article.
(An aside: Borges writes that
Judas buscó el Infierno, porque la dicha del Señor le bastaba. Pensó que la felicidad, como el bien, es un atributo divino y que no deben usurparlo los hombres.This resonates curiously with something else I have been pondering, the idea of Christian happiness. I sent a spoof comparing horrible prosperity theology to Schopenhauer to a correspondent, who wrote back with some salient points about the nature of Christian suffering. Apparently, in her essay collection The Sovereignty of Good — which I must needs pick up sometime — Iris Murdoch writes that the idea of Christianity's emphasis on suffering as the chief end of human life is a misconception, brought about by Enlightenment thought. Borges had read his Schopenhauer, to be certain.)
Anyway, Borges presents an altogether not-unsympathetic view of Judas, though, as always, it is difficult to determine how sincere he (Borges) is. It is all absurd heresy, anyway. I suppose Borges delighted in the thought.
Dante, of course, places Judas in what is presumably the very worst part of hell, being eternally eaten by the most unpleasant of the three mouths of the devil. In other literature, however, Judas is afforded some small mercies. In the Navigatio Sancti Brendani, St. Brendan and his explorers find Judas sitting on a miserable rock in the middle of a storm-tossed sea. Yet this is in fact a respite compared to the torment he suffers in hell: Ego sum infelicissimus Judas atque negociator pessimus, he says; non pro meo merito habeo istum locum sed pro misericortia ineffabili Jhesu Christi. (In an oddly specific listing, Judas is spared on Sundays, between Christmas and Epiphany, from Easter to Pentecost, and on the feasts of the Purification and the Assumption of the Blessed Virgin Mary.) Even for the worst sinner, the "ineffable mercy of Jesus Christ" applies. We might take some comfort in this.
17 March 2013
Pure and Costly Nard
(Or "pure and costly nardus", as Coverdale puts it; "and the house was full of the savoure of the oyntment.")
As sometimes happens, I found today's Gospel reading to be interesting. John's account of the woman with the alabaster box — we presume it is the same story as that related by the synoptics (Matthew 26:6-13 and Mark 14:3-9; Luke has an account of a sinful woman anointing Jesus, but it takes place in a Pharisee's house, so I will leave discussion of that story for another time) — adds some notable details. John identifies the woman as Mary, whom we take from the context to be the sister of Martha and Lazarus. Rather than merely pour the ointment on Jesus' head, the woman in John's account anoints his feet, wiping them with her hair (a messy detail that always stuck in my mind; how does one get nard-and-foot-dust out of one's hair?). In all three accounts, disciples protest the extravagance of spending 300 denarii (nearly a year's wages) on perfume, but in John the complainer is none other than Judas (who is said to be embezzling from the apostolic purse). Now, on the face of it, this seems a rather reasonable objection, given Scripture's emphasis on providing for the poor (and orphans and widows and whatnot). But Jesus dismisses the idea: leave her alone, as she anointing me for my burial. In Matthew and Mark he foretells that the (here unnamed) woman will be known the world over for her act. In all three versions the scene ends rather abruptly. In the synoptics it is followed by Judas going to the chief priests to agree to hand over Jesus. (And yet Judas, in relation to the ointment-incident, is only mentioned in John. But it is tempting to connect his rebuke and his decision to betray Jesus, isn't it?) In John it is immediately followed by the Palm Sunday account.
What are we to make of the woman with the alabaster box? She is, like the Magi, a saint whose offering to the Lord appears unnecessary. Such saints offer a measure of hope to those of us whose profession is, ultimately, quite useless. The world needs its Marthas, to be sure: they are the people who accomplish the real and quite necessary work that needs to be done. But it is also acceptable to God — apparently — that we should, from time to time, sit at his feet. The Benedictine ethos sums it up quite nicely: we are to work, yes, but also to pray. Devotion — expressed in its various useless guises of art, music, verse; the bow before the altar, the incense arising, the overpriced perfume anointing the Lord's feet — is no less necessary.
As sometimes happens, I found today's Gospel reading to be interesting. John's account of the woman with the alabaster box — we presume it is the same story as that related by the synoptics (Matthew 26:6-13 and Mark 14:3-9; Luke has an account of a sinful woman anointing Jesus, but it takes place in a Pharisee's house, so I will leave discussion of that story for another time) — adds some notable details. John identifies the woman as Mary, whom we take from the context to be the sister of Martha and Lazarus. Rather than merely pour the ointment on Jesus' head, the woman in John's account anoints his feet, wiping them with her hair (a messy detail that always stuck in my mind; how does one get nard-and-foot-dust out of one's hair?). In all three accounts, disciples protest the extravagance of spending 300 denarii (nearly a year's wages) on perfume, but in John the complainer is none other than Judas (who is said to be embezzling from the apostolic purse). Now, on the face of it, this seems a rather reasonable objection, given Scripture's emphasis on providing for the poor (and orphans and widows and whatnot). But Jesus dismisses the idea: leave her alone, as she anointing me for my burial. In Matthew and Mark he foretells that the (here unnamed) woman will be known the world over for her act. In all three versions the scene ends rather abruptly. In the synoptics it is followed by Judas going to the chief priests to agree to hand over Jesus. (And yet Judas, in relation to the ointment-incident, is only mentioned in John. But it is tempting to connect his rebuke and his decision to betray Jesus, isn't it?) In John it is immediately followed by the Palm Sunday account.
What are we to make of the woman with the alabaster box? She is, like the Magi, a saint whose offering to the Lord appears unnecessary. Such saints offer a measure of hope to those of us whose profession is, ultimately, quite useless. The world needs its Marthas, to be sure: they are the people who accomplish the real and quite necessary work that needs to be done. But it is also acceptable to God — apparently — that we should, from time to time, sit at his feet. The Benedictine ethos sums it up quite nicely: we are to work, yes, but also to pray. Devotion — expressed in its various useless guises of art, music, verse; the bow before the altar, the incense arising, the overpriced perfume anointing the Lord's feet — is no less necessary.
20 February 2013
Lenten Impatience
Lent, for all its inconveniences, is quickly becoming one of my favorite seasons. (Ah, well, the idea of a "favorite season" is less than useful. Advent and Christmas and Easter are also some of my favorite seasons. One might observe, I suppose, that the tempus per annum is less interesting, except for its various feast days, many of which are regrettably overlooked.) I appreciate Lent because it is a time in which we are encouraged to change.
Change, though perhaps uncomfortable, is preferable to stasis. I grow most melancholy when I feel myself trapped in the same patterns — of incuriosity, of inefficiency, of sin — and unable to change them. Not for nothing is Dante's hell a place of eternal immutableness: its denizens are forever trapped in the state they have chosen. We may, therefore, be eager — indeed, impatient — to better ourselves, to improve our situation. And yet the higher power that orders our personal change is not beholden to our impatience. In the great majority of cases, we only notice personal changes after a length of time, if at all. I suppose we must learn to wait for such things.
The other day an acquaintance posted a germane poem (on, sigh, Facebook). I'll let the Jesuït speak for himself.
Patient Trust, by Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, SJ
Above all, trust in the slow work of God.
We are quite naturally impatient in everything
to reach the end without delay.
We should like to skip the intermediate stages.
We are impatient of being on the way to something
unknown, something new.
And yet it is the law of all progress
that it is made by passing through
some stages of instability—
and that it may take a very long time.
And so I think it is with you;
your ideas mature gradually—let them grow,
let them shape themselves, without undue haste.
Don’t try to force them on,
as though you could be today what time
(that is to say, grace and circumstances
acting on your own good will)
will make of you tomorrow.
Only God could say what this new spirit
gradually forming within you will be.
Give Our Lord the benefit of believing
that his hand is leading you,
and accept the anxiety of feeling yourself
in suspense and incomplete.
Change, though perhaps uncomfortable, is preferable to stasis. I grow most melancholy when I feel myself trapped in the same patterns — of incuriosity, of inefficiency, of sin — and unable to change them. Not for nothing is Dante's hell a place of eternal immutableness: its denizens are forever trapped in the state they have chosen. We may, therefore, be eager — indeed, impatient — to better ourselves, to improve our situation. And yet the higher power that orders our personal change is not beholden to our impatience. In the great majority of cases, we only notice personal changes after a length of time, if at all. I suppose we must learn to wait for such things.
The other day an acquaintance posted a germane poem (on, sigh, Facebook). I'll let the Jesuït speak for himself.
Patient Trust, by Pierre Teilhard de Chardin, SJ
Above all, trust in the slow work of God.
We are quite naturally impatient in everything
to reach the end without delay.
We should like to skip the intermediate stages.
We are impatient of being on the way to something
unknown, something new.
And yet it is the law of all progress
that it is made by passing through
some stages of instability—
and that it may take a very long time.
And so I think it is with you;
your ideas mature gradually—let them grow,
let them shape themselves, without undue haste.
Don’t try to force them on,
as though you could be today what time
(that is to say, grace and circumstances
acting on your own good will)
will make of you tomorrow.
Only God could say what this new spirit
gradually forming within you will be.
Give Our Lord the benefit of believing
that his hand is leading you,
and accept the anxiety of feeling yourself
in suspense and incomplete.
10 February 2013
Transfiguration, Observed?
This evening St. Luke's observed the Feast of the Transfiguration with a chant evensong. I am pleased to report that it went well. (And anyway, I appreciate any excuse to use incense and vest properly for evensong — it is one of the few occasions when I am permitted to wear my academic hood over my cassock and surplice.) I adapted the order of worship myself, drawing on both the vespers office from the Liber — which has a lovely series of antiphons drawn from Matthew's account of the Transfiguration — and the BCP (Rite I, of course).
There are, however, several questions about the observance of this particular feast. The Transfiguration was observed in the East by the 4th or 5th century, but is not mentioned in Western sources until around 850. As, of course, different dioceses had their particular calendars, the date of the feast was not consistent. Many observed it on August 6th, but it was also celebrated on July 27th (England and Gaul), March 17th (Meissen), and September 3rd (Halberstadt), among other dates. The feast was not universally authorized until 1456, when Callixtus III instituted it in commemoration of the defeat of the Turks at Belgrade. The date of the feast was established then as August 6th, the day the news of the Christian victory reached Rome. But the siege of Belgrade was lifted on July 22nd, which is of course the feast of Mary Magdalene. And why, one wonders, did Rome not already observe August 6th as the feast of St. Dominic, who died on that date in 1221 (and was canonized only thirteen years later)? There is no satisfying answer. Many early Reformers, being by nature a suspicious breed, viewed the feast as a too-recent innovation, and removed it from the calendar. (It has gradually crept back in.) Add to this confusion the modern custom of observing the Transfiguration on the last Sunday before Lent (the Sunday formerly known as Quinquagesima), for reasons that are not entirely clear. The Revised Common Lectionary has transfiguration readings for that Sunday every year in the three-year cycle, while the current BCP has transfiguration readings for that Sunday in Years B and C. (It was thus fortuitous for our purposes at St. Luke's that this is Year C.) The Romans have placed transfiguration readings on the second Sunday of Lent, but are, apparently, still keeping the feast on its (somewhat) original August date. Those Lutherans lucky enough to be using the historic one-year lectionary — oh, to be able to hear Bach's cantatas in their proper context! — observe the Transfiguration during the Epiphany season, on the Sunday before Septuagesima. (This year, for example, the feast was January 20th.)
All of this confusion probably stems, in part, from the difficulty in placing the Transfiguration in context in the life and ministry of Jesus. Just what, exactly, does this particular miracle mean? Is it the culmination of his early years, or just another event in his ministry? And, what's more, should that matter? To what extent should the liturgical year mirror the life of Christ? I would suggest that attempts to change the calendar to fit the order of events in the Gospels (like the moving of the regrettably under-observed Feast of the Visitation) are not particularly helpful. But then, I am terribly conservative, if not reäctionary, in my liturgical tastes.
For some more information (and a kindred spirit in matters liturgical), I'll refer you to Fr A, who muses on the (neat) custom of blessing grapes at Transfiguration and addresses the awkwardness of a second feast.
There are, however, several questions about the observance of this particular feast. The Transfiguration was observed in the East by the 4th or 5th century, but is not mentioned in Western sources until around 850. As, of course, different dioceses had their particular calendars, the date of the feast was not consistent. Many observed it on August 6th, but it was also celebrated on July 27th (England and Gaul), March 17th (Meissen), and September 3rd (Halberstadt), among other dates. The feast was not universally authorized until 1456, when Callixtus III instituted it in commemoration of the defeat of the Turks at Belgrade. The date of the feast was established then as August 6th, the day the news of the Christian victory reached Rome. But the siege of Belgrade was lifted on July 22nd, which is of course the feast of Mary Magdalene. And why, one wonders, did Rome not already observe August 6th as the feast of St. Dominic, who died on that date in 1221 (and was canonized only thirteen years later)? There is no satisfying answer. Many early Reformers, being by nature a suspicious breed, viewed the feast as a too-recent innovation, and removed it from the calendar. (It has gradually crept back in.) Add to this confusion the modern custom of observing the Transfiguration on the last Sunday before Lent (the Sunday formerly known as Quinquagesima), for reasons that are not entirely clear. The Revised Common Lectionary has transfiguration readings for that Sunday every year in the three-year cycle, while the current BCP has transfiguration readings for that Sunday in Years B and C. (It was thus fortuitous for our purposes at St. Luke's that this is Year C.) The Romans have placed transfiguration readings on the second Sunday of Lent, but are, apparently, still keeping the feast on its (somewhat) original August date. Those Lutherans lucky enough to be using the historic one-year lectionary — oh, to be able to hear Bach's cantatas in their proper context! — observe the Transfiguration during the Epiphany season, on the Sunday before Septuagesima. (This year, for example, the feast was January 20th.)
All of this confusion probably stems, in part, from the difficulty in placing the Transfiguration in context in the life and ministry of Jesus. Just what, exactly, does this particular miracle mean? Is it the culmination of his early years, or just another event in his ministry? And, what's more, should that matter? To what extent should the liturgical year mirror the life of Christ? I would suggest that attempts to change the calendar to fit the order of events in the Gospels (like the moving of the regrettably under-observed Feast of the Visitation) are not particularly helpful. But then, I am terribly conservative, if not reäctionary, in my liturgical tastes.
For some more information (and a kindred spirit in matters liturgical), I'll refer you to Fr A, who muses on the (neat) custom of blessing grapes at Transfiguration and addresses the awkwardness of a second feast.
30 November 2012
"Patron Saints of the Unnecessary"
(My dear reader will forgive this blog-post better suited to Epiphany, I hope, even though we are not yet even in Advent. The church musician is always planning ahead, anyway. I have music planned through the new year, and am feverishly envisioning an organ recital for Transfiguration Sunday.)
25 November 2012
Something Rich and Strange
I have succumbed and already begun listening to Christmas music. Well, not just any Christmas music. I had the great fortune of finding that recording of the Praetorius Mass for Christmas Day (by Paul McCreesh and the Gabrieli Consort, recorded in Roskilde Cathedral, which I can attest is a remarkable space) in a used records shop in Iowa City, and I simply had to buy it. It may be one of my ten favorite records. (I couldn't tell you the complete list, though I should say the Klemperer recording of the Brahms Requiem is always on it.) There's something about the music of that era (Praetorius's, that is) that is simultaneously quite familiar (we still sing some of the hymns — In dulci jubilo and Wie schön leuchtet, for example) and yet wonderfully strange. (McCreesh's recording accentuates the strangeness, in a way, by using period instruments. Shawms and krummhorns and sackbutts and all.) It is therefore an excellent fit for the Christmas season, I think.
It strikes me that we don't often recognize how strange the principal feasts of the Christian year are. Consider, for example, Christmas. How bizarre that God, this divine, omnipotent, sempiternal being, should take our flesh! How bizarre that a virgin should conceive and bear a son! This, this is the solution to the string of catastrophes that is human history: this profoundly strange plan that God should become incarnate in order to die. Christians, especially those raised in the faith from an early age, become desensitized to the very oddness of it all. (This is one reason why I am not altogether unhappy that we are rapidly losing any sense of being a Christian society: in a world permeated by Christian belief, one can discount Christian doctrine without the inconvenience of actually considering it. In a society that is materialist by default, Christianity may present a viable alternative.)
I think that the liturgical musician, in planning Advent and Christmas music, should take this into account. The hymns of the Christmas season are undoubtedly the most familiar in all the repertoire: even non-Christians are acquainted with them, thanks to that horrible custom of blasting Christmas music in public spaces from the day after Thanksgiving until December 25th. We church musicians must provide some measure of comfort, of course. I could not countenance a Christmas without Es ist ein Ros entsprungen or In the Bleak Midwinter. But I suggest that it may be beneficial to throw in, occasionally, a lesser-known hymn. Try Quem pastores, or the Huron Carol. (Perhaps the latter is quite common in Canada. But it isn't here.) We all need reminding that religion is not merely a source of thoughtless platitudes: it should discomfort and challenge us, at times, as well.
It strikes me that we don't often recognize how strange the principal feasts of the Christian year are. Consider, for example, Christmas. How bizarre that God, this divine, omnipotent, sempiternal being, should take our flesh! How bizarre that a virgin should conceive and bear a son! This, this is the solution to the string of catastrophes that is human history: this profoundly strange plan that God should become incarnate in order to die. Christians, especially those raised in the faith from an early age, become desensitized to the very oddness of it all. (This is one reason why I am not altogether unhappy that we are rapidly losing any sense of being a Christian society: in a world permeated by Christian belief, one can discount Christian doctrine without the inconvenience of actually considering it. In a society that is materialist by default, Christianity may present a viable alternative.)
I think that the liturgical musician, in planning Advent and Christmas music, should take this into account. The hymns of the Christmas season are undoubtedly the most familiar in all the repertoire: even non-Christians are acquainted with them, thanks to that horrible custom of blasting Christmas music in public spaces from the day after Thanksgiving until December 25th. We church musicians must provide some measure of comfort, of course. I could not countenance a Christmas without Es ist ein Ros entsprungen or In the Bleak Midwinter. But I suggest that it may be beneficial to throw in, occasionally, a lesser-known hymn. Try Quem pastores, or the Huron Carol. (Perhaps the latter is quite common in Canada. But it isn't here.) We all need reminding that religion is not merely a source of thoughtless platitudes: it should discomfort and challenge us, at times, as well.
16 September 2012
Musical Glossolalia and Divine Play
Why Catholics Can't Sing is one of those books that's been on my radar for several years, during which time I've kept telling myself I should read it. Now, having been lent the book by our new Anglican priest (a good sign, I should think), I have finally begun to read it. It is quite instructive. Any Protestant who's ever been to a Roman Mass in the ordinary form of the rite has noticed the anemic singing and shoddy hymns. Why, not even Notre Dame is exempt from the let's-pretend-folk-music-is-church-music phenomenon. The insight of Thomas Day (the author, you see) is not just to recognize this, but to provide a plausible explanation for why it is so, and why it is so far removed from the true spirit of liturgy.
I can't review the compleat book yet, as I'm only fifty pages into it. But two points, especially, have caught my attention:
I can't review the compleat book yet, as I'm only fifty pages into it. But two points, especially, have caught my attention:
- Song, or chant, is our equivalent of speaking in tongues. This is a very attractive notion.
Anyone who has ever attended a Latin High Mass in an old-fashioned Benedictine monastery has really attended a charismatic event. This style of worship makes us realize that the early Christian church had taken the wild fires of charismatic zeal and compressed them into the intense flame of monastic chant. ... Through the medium of music, the monks become "filled with the Spirit". They are madmen, breaking out in a focused, unified, musical glossolalia.
Indeed! Chant is not some dry, dead thing that smothers the stirrings of the Holy Spirit; it is the authentic expression of that joy that comes from the Paraclete. Likewise, the great sacred music of the ages, from Josquin to Bach to Pärt, is glossolalia, given structured direction and form. It is no less spiritual because it is meant to be sung by professionals. Anyone who condemns professional music as antithetical to spiritual experience only reveals their own philistinism, their own impoverished view of spirituality and culture. (I probably need not reïterate here that many of my most profound experiences have been in listening to music.) - Ritual is play; liturgy is divine play. This, properly speaking, is not Thomas Day's idea, but that of Johan Huizinga, whose concept of Homo ludens is worth examining. This is not to denigrate ritual, nor is it to suggest that it is somehow less real than "reality" (or whatever the things that take place outside a church building can be called).
Ritual "is seriousness at its highest and holiest", and yet a form of play; play is fun; true ritual is supremely serious, solemn, earnest fun. In religious ritual the beautiful and the sacred can come together. Ritual (the medium) can become the divine game and from it people can become conscious of their role in the divine order of things (the message).
Ritual, of course, is not the sole province of High-Church Anglicans. No, every form of Christian worship has its own ritual, even down to the Krustians meeting in their warehouse "praise and worship center" in the suburbs. Performed well, ritual enhances our understanding of the world and God's designs for us therein. Performed poorly, it is merely so much padding.
06 September 2012
Good Christian Artists
Heretofore, chief among my failures as a church musician has been the failure to communicate why good church music is just so important. (I harp on such thoughts on this-a-here web-log perhaps because I find myself unable to express them effectively to the people whom I serve as organist and/or choir director.) My mind returns again and again to Ratzinger's notion of the best apologia for Christianity being its art and its saints. The best Christian art is that which is both unequivocally Christian and unequivocally art. There is much that is undoubtedly Christian but lacking artistic merit, and there is much that is artistically powerful but of questionable Christianity, and there is far too much posing as Christian art that is neither distinctly Christian nor of any artistic value. I shall leave these three unfortunate categories for my reader to populate, but I would laud artists like Bach, or Giotto, or Flannery O'Connor, who have produced works of the highest quality and theological truth.
Consider the Pange lingua of Thomas Aquinas, one of the greatest hymns of the Church: it not only clearly sets forth complicated theological claims, but also does so in quite excellent poetry (in Latin, anyway; I've never been satisfied with any metrical English translation). And these words are coupled with a chant melody both memorable and beautiful. That would be enough (and indeed, has been enough). But I'll refer you, finally, to an organ composition by Nicolas de Grigny (1672-1703). Non-organists may be forgiven for not knowing that, in French classical organ music, verses chanted by a choir were performed alternatim with verses played on the organ. (By this time, apparently, everyone knew the text so well that it made little difference whether the actual words were sung or not.)
Nicolas de Grigny: Pange lingua gloriosi
performed by Sven-Ingvart Mikkelsen (on the Isnard organ at Saint-Maximin)
and the Ensemble Vox Gregoriana
(I purchased this particular CD in Hillerød from Mr Mikkelsen himself; he's an excellent player, and seems a very nice fellow to boot. He was kind enough to let us play the 1610 Compenius, which I still dream about.)
Such art has sustained me many times when my soul was disquieted within me; it is sometimes my primary reminder of the mercy and goodness of God. It is to my great distress that the quality of such art is not self-evident to all Christians, for it is so closely bound to my faith. Indeed, my reader may not understand why on earth this music would inspire such feelings. Perhaps I must resort to Kierkegaard's notion of the subjectivity of faith. Some wag may rightly point out that Kierkegaard and Aquinas make strange bedfellows. The same wag may also note that I misconstrue Kierkegaard to claim, as I might like to, that aesthetic experience can be related to actual religious experience. Søren was quite clear — well, as clear as he gets — that the aesthetic and the religious are nowhere near each other. I shall let this thought trouble my sleep tonight.
Consider the Pange lingua of Thomas Aquinas, one of the greatest hymns of the Church: it not only clearly sets forth complicated theological claims, but also does so in quite excellent poetry (in Latin, anyway; I've never been satisfied with any metrical English translation). And these words are coupled with a chant melody both memorable and beautiful. That would be enough (and indeed, has been enough). But I'll refer you, finally, to an organ composition by Nicolas de Grigny (1672-1703). Non-organists may be forgiven for not knowing that, in French classical organ music, verses chanted by a choir were performed alternatim with verses played on the organ. (By this time, apparently, everyone knew the text so well that it made little difference whether the actual words were sung or not.)
Nicolas de Grigny: Pange lingua gloriosi
performed by Sven-Ingvart Mikkelsen (on the Isnard organ at Saint-Maximin)
and the Ensemble Vox Gregoriana
(I purchased this particular CD in Hillerød from Mr Mikkelsen himself; he's an excellent player, and seems a very nice fellow to boot. He was kind enough to let us play the 1610 Compenius, which I still dream about.)
Such art has sustained me many times when my soul was disquieted within me; it is sometimes my primary reminder of the mercy and goodness of God. It is to my great distress that the quality of such art is not self-evident to all Christians, for it is so closely bound to my faith. Indeed, my reader may not understand why on earth this music would inspire such feelings. Perhaps I must resort to Kierkegaard's notion of the subjectivity of faith. Some wag may rightly point out that Kierkegaard and Aquinas make strange bedfellows. The same wag may also note that I misconstrue Kierkegaard to claim, as I might like to, that aesthetic experience can be related to actual religious experience. Søren was quite clear — well, as clear as he gets — that the aesthetic and the religious are nowhere near each other. I shall let this thought trouble my sleep tonight.
23 July 2012
Whither Mainline Protestantism? (Part I)
It is a truth universally acknowledged that mainline Protestantism in the United States is in no good health. Simply put, every mainline Protestant denomination is losing, if not hemorrhaging, members. (It is less acknowledged, though equally true, that Roman Catholicism's numbers would be no better were it not for the many Latino immigrants to this nation. Though the reasons, and perhaps some of the solutions, for this are much the same, it is beyond my purview at this time.)
Much of the decline is due to two factors that we can do very little about:
Realistically speaking, we must accept that the Church will be smaller. Never again will it have the cultural and moral influence on American society it has enjoyed for centuries. I am optimistic that this will be beneficial for the Christian faith, as it will at least reduce that dangerous tendency towards complacency, towards an imagined sense of security.
(Here it is worth remembering Rudolf Bultmann: "The world's resistance to God is based on its imagined security, which reaches its highest and most subversive form in religion." — Das Evangelium des Johannes, tr. G.R. Beasley-Murrary [Oxford: Blackwell, 1971], p. 267)
But there is a third reason for the precipitous drop in church membership, one that should concern us very much and which we can work to amend. Simply put, the mainline Protestant denominations have lost their justifications for existence. Why do we go to church? It is not for entertainment, for better entertainment can be found elsewhere. It is not to solve social problems, for there are far more efficient means of effecting social change. It is not to socialize, for there are surely other groups of people far more tolerable than any given parish. (I admit, of course, that people do in fact attend church for these reasons. Indeed, they are not bad reasons. But they are not sufficient reasons to justify the Church's existence.) We go to church because it is our bounden duty and our joy to praise and serve God; because we draw strength — indeed, our very reason for being — from the twin sources of Word and Sacrament. Any church, of any denomination, that has forgotten this has no business remaining a church.
I wish to examine this further, but I dare not exhaust my reader's patience. That is to say: to be continued.
Much of the decline is due to two factors that we can do very little about:
- Demographic changes, i.e., plummeting birth-rates in the white middle-class and the decline of the American small town. I have experienced the latter first-hand. (Incidentally, my birth-rate has been, and will remain, as steady as it ever was.) Real communities have been under assault by a mentality of hyper-mobility that seized us in the years after the Second World War and has only worsened. The great majority of both the congregations I serve in Dixon are members 55 years of age, or older, because their children have moved elsewhere, be it the suburbs, the Southwest, or somewhere else equally unpalatable. (Mr Wendell Berry speaks eloquently on the "boomers" and "stickers" of America.) Solving this particular problem requires more moral character than our society is capable of, at least at this time. We will, eventually, be forced to confront the problem of hypermobility, when we finally reap the consequences of an economy founded on improvidence. But that may be decades, perhaps generations, in the future.
- Unprecedented disillusionment with all social institutions, cultural and religious. Consider the numbers of unions, of bridge clubs, of the Knights of Columbus: every group with a notion of "membership" — an extraordinarily important and rich concept in Christianity that is almost never adequately emphasized — has seen its numbers decline. This is only exacerbated by advancements in technology, which have served to make each man bound in a nutshell (though, he might believe, king of infinite space). Society is atomized, a state from which it will not soon recover.
Realistically speaking, we must accept that the Church will be smaller. Never again will it have the cultural and moral influence on American society it has enjoyed for centuries. I am optimistic that this will be beneficial for the Christian faith, as it will at least reduce that dangerous tendency towards complacency, towards an imagined sense of security.
(Here it is worth remembering Rudolf Bultmann: "The world's resistance to God is based on its imagined security, which reaches its highest and most subversive form in religion." — Das Evangelium des Johannes, tr. G.R. Beasley-Murrary [Oxford: Blackwell, 1971], p. 267)
But there is a third reason for the precipitous drop in church membership, one that should concern us very much and which we can work to amend. Simply put, the mainline Protestant denominations have lost their justifications for existence. Why do we go to church? It is not for entertainment, for better entertainment can be found elsewhere. It is not to solve social problems, for there are far more efficient means of effecting social change. It is not to socialize, for there are surely other groups of people far more tolerable than any given parish. (I admit, of course, that people do in fact attend church for these reasons. Indeed, they are not bad reasons. But they are not sufficient reasons to justify the Church's existence.) We go to church because it is our bounden duty and our joy to praise and serve God; because we draw strength — indeed, our very reason for being — from the twin sources of Word and Sacrament. Any church, of any denomination, that has forgotten this has no business remaining a church.
I wish to examine this further, but I dare not exhaust my reader's patience. That is to say: to be continued.
09 June 2012
Into Relative Silence
I'll refer you to this article, about the lives of Trappist monks. The questions the author asks of the monks are not particularly good (and he erroneously describes Trappists as "the only Western-based monastic order that still actively practices the 'vow' of silence"; what about the Carthusians, next to whom Trappists are a bunch of chatty Cathies?), but he is wise enough to let them speak for themselves. When asked if silence is a sacrifice, one monk answers:
I would not speak of the “sacrifice of words” except in relatively rare instances when a passion moves me to speak and I struggle to hold my tongue. The silence which is my natural habitat is not created by forcibly sacrificing anything. When a man and woman meet and fall in love they begin to talk. They talk and talk and talk all day long and can't wait to meet again to talk some more. They talk for hours together, and never tire of talking and so talk late into the night, until they become intimate—and then they don't talk anymore. Neither would describe intimacy as “the sacrifice of words” and a monk is not inclined to speak about his intimacy with God in this way. Is silence beneficial for all people? I would say the cultivation of silence is indispensable to being human.
17 May 2012
W.H. Auden on Liturgical Reform
I have, of late, been feeling mighty contrary, especially in matters liturgical. This mood was prompted, in part, by reports that suggest I am not alone in my reactionary tastes. When complaining about artless, ugly, and unnecessary liturgical reforms one need not look far to find kindred cantankerous spirits, though few of them appear to be involved in the bodies that decide such things. (One can at least take some comfort in being right, I suppose.) I present here one such spirit, W.H. Auden, whose work I generally enjoy. This letter (dated November 26th, but without a year; it was written while Auden resided at St. Mark's Place in New York) was apparently prompted by alterations to the Episcopalian liturgy.
Dear Father Allen:
Have you gone stark raving mad? Aside from its introduction of a lesson and psalm from the O.T., which seems to me admirable since few people go any more to Mattins or Evensong, the new 'liturgy' is appalling.
Our Church has had the singular good-fortune of having its Prayer-Book composed and its Bible translated at exactly the right time, i.e., late enough for the language to be intelligible to any English-speaking person in this century (any child of six can be told what 'the quick and the dead' means) and early enough, i.e., when people still had an instinctive feeling for the formal and the ceremonious which is essential in liturgical language.
This feeling has been, alas, as we all know, almost totally lost. (To identify the ceremonious with 'the undemocratic' is sheer contemporary cant.) The poor Roman Catholics, obliged to start from scratch, have produced an English Mass which is a cacophonous monstrosity (the German version is quite good, but German has a certain natural sonority): But why should we imitate them?
I implore you by the bowels of Christ to stick to Cranmer and King James. Preaching, of course, is another matter: there the language must be contemporary. But one of the great functions of the liturgy is to keep us in touch with the past and the dead.
And what, by the way, has happened to the altar cloths? If they have been sold to give money to the poor, I will gladly accept their disappearance: I will not accept it on any liturgical or doctrinal grounds.
With best wishes,
[signed]
W.H. Auden
08 April 2012
Surrexit Christus
The Bible characters I most relate to are those who have no idea what's going on, those who are more or less ignorant of their place in the narrative of salvation. Perhaps for this reason I prefer the three women — who go to the tomb early Sunday morning — as they are described in the reading from Mark: "they went out quickly, and fled from the sepulchre; for they trembled and were amazed: neither said they any thing to any man; for they were afraid." People, with the exception of certain saints and poets, are generally not very good at recognizing the work of God: we are more likely to be doubtful, or confused, or "affrighted" (as the Authorised Version puts it), than to observe God's workings with serenity and joy. We do, if we are fortunate, have moments in which the utter mystery of God is somehow tolerable. Well, "tolerable" is not really the word I mean. I don't mean we merely tolerate God; I mean that there are moments in which Grace — which by its nature is uncomfortable for us — is not only less uncomfortable but actually comforting. I hope, dear reader, if you celebrate Easter, that you may have such a moment during this season.
26 March 2012
Bach; Grief
My latest project is a transcription of BWV 12, "Weinen, Klagen, Sorgen, Zagen". Granted, there are already scans of it online, from both the Bach-Gesellschaft Ausgabe and Bach's original autograph, but neither of these is practical for performance. (Then again, if your singers and instrumentalists are used to the original clefs, then perhaps they don't mind reading from the full score either.)
The cantata is an early one, written while Bach was still at Weimar. (A second viola part would be unusual in later works; there's a joke to be made about violists here, but I figure they receive enough abuse as it is.) It is dispiriting, perhaps, to recall that he wrote it while still in his twenties. How is it that such a young man could produce a work of such perfection? The answer lies partly in Bach's immense genius, of course, but also in the culture that produced him. Musicians and theologians were cultivated then in the way we cultivate athletes today. We have an efficient system for recognizing athletic talent at a young age and encouraging it; Bach was the end result of generations of musicians teaching their children the art and livelihood of music. He grew up living and breathing harmony and counterpoint, Lutheran chorales, and instrumental technique, absorbing all musical styles he encountered. We will never produce another Bach, or Shakespeare, because our priorities as a culture as so different (read: much worse).
BWV 12 was first performed on April 22nd, 1714, which, as it happened that year, was the third Sunday after Easter, Jubilate. (I think these old names for Sundays in the church year are worth keeping.) The cantata, however, is not particularly jubilant. Consider its titular chorus:
It is not hyperbole to say that Bach's cantatas, taken as a group, represent the full range of human emotion. This is distinctly at odds with church music as it is commonly conceived nowadays. We have become unable to recognize grief and suffering as an integral part of the Christian life. Consider nearly every new piece of church music written in the last half-century: how many even attempt to deal with grief, let alone in a theologically and intellectually honest manner? (My complaint, here, is directed at the "new" "music" of Haugen, Haas, et al. that has wormed its way into Evangelical Lutheran Worship and other such hymnals. Let us not discuss the even-less-disciplined approach of "Praise" music.) We are afraid to recognize sadness because doing so would remind us that religion is about more than a constant endorphin high; seeking to stay on the heights at all times, we ignore the depths the psalmist was talking about. If the Christian religion is worth retaining, we must endeavor to regain the integrity of grief, honestly considered and addressed. An excellent way to begin this process is with our music.
The cantata is an early one, written while Bach was still at Weimar. (A second viola part would be unusual in later works; there's a joke to be made about violists here, but I figure they receive enough abuse as it is.) It is dispiriting, perhaps, to recall that he wrote it while still in his twenties. How is it that such a young man could produce a work of such perfection? The answer lies partly in Bach's immense genius, of course, but also in the culture that produced him. Musicians and theologians were cultivated then in the way we cultivate athletes today. We have an efficient system for recognizing athletic talent at a young age and encouraging it; Bach was the end result of generations of musicians teaching their children the art and livelihood of music. He grew up living and breathing harmony and counterpoint, Lutheran chorales, and instrumental technique, absorbing all musical styles he encountered. We will never produce another Bach, or Shakespeare, because our priorities as a culture as so different (read: much worse).
BWV 12 was first performed on April 22nd, 1714, which, as it happened that year, was the third Sunday after Easter, Jubilate. (I think these old names for Sundays in the church year are worth keeping.) The cantata, however, is not particularly jubilant. Consider its titular chorus:
| Weinen, Klagen, Sorgen, Zagen Angst und Not Sind der Christen Tränenbrot, Die das Zeichen Jesu tragen. | Weeping, lamentation, worry, apprehension, anxiety and distress are the bread of tears of Christians who bear the mark of Jesus. |
It is not hyperbole to say that Bach's cantatas, taken as a group, represent the full range of human emotion. This is distinctly at odds with church music as it is commonly conceived nowadays. We have become unable to recognize grief and suffering as an integral part of the Christian life. Consider nearly every new piece of church music written in the last half-century: how many even attempt to deal with grief, let alone in a theologically and intellectually honest manner? (My complaint, here, is directed at the "new" "music" of Haugen, Haas, et al. that has wormed its way into Evangelical Lutheran Worship and other such hymnals. Let us not discuss the even-less-disciplined approach of "Praise" music.) We are afraid to recognize sadness because doing so would remind us that religion is about more than a constant endorphin high; seeking to stay on the heights at all times, we ignore the depths the psalmist was talking about. If the Christian religion is worth retaining, we must endeavor to regain the integrity of grief, honestly considered and addressed. An excellent way to begin this process is with our music.
17 March 2012
Rowan Williams, Admired
Perhaps you've heard of the Archbishop of Canterbury's resignation; I wish him all the best. While reading up on the topic I happened upon an article over at The Atlantic from a few years ago; though its author's biases are obvious, it's worth reading, if only to better understand Dr Williams's motivations. A particular passage caught my attention:
However well or poorly you think Dr Williams has done in his post as Archbishop, it's pretty clear that he is indeed a man of integrity. More than any recent religious thinker I can name, he reminds us that Truth and ambiguïty are not always mutually exclusive. It takes a certain intellectual honesty to recognize this. It is unfortunate we do not expect such honesty from our religious and political leaders more often.
[Williams] came to the threshold to preach to two dozen of us on Paul's remarks in the First Epistle to the Corinthians "concerning the unmarried" — the passage in which the saint first advises people, married or unmarried, to hold to the state they are in, and then in the next breath tells them to disregard the bond of marriage after all, for the world is passing away.
I couldn't help but hear Williams's description of the saint as a description of himself, a man saved from his contradictoriness by his obvious integrity. "That's a hard text to preach on," he began. "Paul is thinking on his feet: 'Of course on the other hand,' he says, and 'Well, that is true, but however...' But Paul, for all his hemming and hawing, has a clear point to make. This is not it. Capital letters. I.T. Whatever you’re doing — your job, your passion — there is something more."
However well or poorly you think Dr Williams has done in his post as Archbishop, it's pretty clear that he is indeed a man of integrity. More than any recent religious thinker I can name, he reminds us that Truth and ambiguïty are not always mutually exclusive. It takes a certain intellectual honesty to recognize this. It is unfortunate we do not expect such honesty from our religious and political leaders more often.
06 February 2012
Book as Sacrament
I grow increasingly tired of incorporeal worship. Scripture and music are good, and all — of course they are; would I be a church musician if I didn't think church music was important? — but I don't get much out of a church service without sacrament. I almost added "and without ritual", there, but of course a sacrament is by its nature an act of ritual. The really sustaining thing about sacrament is the thrill of the tangible — and I use the word here according to its root: tangere, "to touch". It is remarkable that we should be made aware of God's mercies by means of things as simple as water, bread and wine. It helps remind us that we cannot dwell entirely within abstractions; that is to say, it goes some way towards rescuïng us from gnosticism.
It is for similar reasons that I cannot abide e-books (among other e- things; I grudgingly use e-mail, but that completes the list of e-nouns and e-verbs I employ. No doubt some wag will point out the irony that I am writing this on a web-log. My only response is to sigh). The experience of reading a book is a tangible pleasure. Bibliophiles will tell you how pleasant is the crispness of new pages, the smell of the ink, the heft of a weighty tome in one's hands. These things I could take or leave, but they are certainly preferable to the antiseptic experience of staring at a screen.
More important is the notion of book ownership, something that is only possible so long as books remain physical items and not a series of zeroes and ones in a hard drive. (Indeed, the notion of ownership is an ephemeral one on this series of tubes: when we are dead, who shall inherit the mp3 files that replaced our records? The Word documents that replaced our manuscripts? Those jpegs that have replaced our family albums?) I am a habitué of used-book shops, so perhaps I am more aware than some that a book ought to outlast its reader. Moreover, it is an gratifying experience to be lent a book, or, better (though indeed, worse), to inherit one. The book becomes more than an object: it is the signifier of a bond between us and those who have shared with us this collection of characters, locations, ideas. If the secondhand book has annotations in someone else's handwriting, so much the better. The tangible object that points us to a greater reality: that is what we are truly losing if we switch to e-readers.
It is for similar reasons that I cannot abide e-books (among other e- things; I grudgingly use e-mail, but that completes the list of e-nouns and e-verbs I employ. No doubt some wag will point out the irony that I am writing this on a web-log. My only response is to sigh). The experience of reading a book is a tangible pleasure. Bibliophiles will tell you how pleasant is the crispness of new pages, the smell of the ink, the heft of a weighty tome in one's hands. These things I could take or leave, but they are certainly preferable to the antiseptic experience of staring at a screen.
More important is the notion of book ownership, something that is only possible so long as books remain physical items and not a series of zeroes and ones in a hard drive. (Indeed, the notion of ownership is an ephemeral one on this series of tubes: when we are dead, who shall inherit the mp3 files that replaced our records? The Word documents that replaced our manuscripts? Those jpegs that have replaced our family albums?) I am a habitué of used-book shops, so perhaps I am more aware than some that a book ought to outlast its reader. Moreover, it is an gratifying experience to be lent a book, or, better (though indeed, worse), to inherit one. The book becomes more than an object: it is the signifier of a bond between us and those who have shared with us this collection of characters, locations, ideas. If the secondhand book has annotations in someone else's handwriting, so much the better. The tangible object that points us to a greater reality: that is what we are truly losing if we switch to e-readers.
04 December 2011
Rite, Meaning, Continuity
Mr Dreher has some good points about the power — and importance — of good ritual:
Yes. We must, of course, address the the danger of rite displacing God from the center of worship. But this is only a danger because ritual is so important; it does serve such a important function in our lives. To devalue meaningful ritual (which is, by its nature, something inherited, something that has been a part of a given community for a significant amount of time) is to deprive ourselves of a powerful means of communion.
Perhaps the most common argument at any church is "But we've always done it that way!" This is not, in and of itself, a good argument. (It is, however, far preferable to that other common argument: "We need to change x to get new members!" These words portend doom.) We shouldn't appeal to tradition simply because it is tradition. We appeal to tradition because we trust that our forebears did things for good reason, because tradition acquires richer meanings with time, because tradition connects us to believers dead and yet unborn.
There is something enchanting, in the literal sense of the word, about having the reality of the Divine encompass one through one's senses. It is possible, of course, to be present in such a place and to shut oneself off from the presence of the Holy Spirit. But for me, I find it much more difficult to resist entering into a state of openness when there are so many sensual reminders — the incense, the vivid icons, the ritual motions — of the unseen reality around us, and within us.
If you read Bellah's book, "Religion in Human Evolution," you understand why ritual is more important than theology. No doubt that ritual completely disconnected from theology is empty. But humans never outgrow the deep need for ritual. It's built into the biological fabric of our being. You mess with that, you're messing with things you ought not touch.
Yes. We must, of course, address the the danger of rite displacing God from the center of worship. But this is only a danger because ritual is so important; it does serve such a important function in our lives. To devalue meaningful ritual (which is, by its nature, something inherited, something that has been a part of a given community for a significant amount of time) is to deprive ourselves of a powerful means of communion.
Perhaps the most common argument at any church is "But we've always done it that way!" This is not, in and of itself, a good argument. (It is, however, far preferable to that other common argument: "We need to change x to get new members!" These words portend doom.) We shouldn't appeal to tradition simply because it is tradition. We appeal to tradition because we trust that our forebears did things for good reason, because tradition acquires richer meanings with time, because tradition connects us to believers dead and yet unborn.
20 November 2011
Dominus Regnavit
Days like today are cause for optimism: both of my church services went well, and there are so many good hymn tunes for Christ the King Sunday. (Diademata is a particular favorite; everybody likes "Crown Him with Many Crowns".) I am becoming more and more fond of this part of November, when the fields are cleared and nearly all the trees are bare, before it snows; it's not desolate but rather clean-looking. Perhaps it's just this year in the three-year lectionary cycle, but the readings — with their apocalyptic imagery — lead nicely into Advent. Comparing different hymnals, there is even overlap between end-of-the-church-year hymns and Advent hymns: Helmsley ("Lo, He Comes with Clouds Descending"), for example.
The notion, particularly relevant today, of the kingship of God is an interesting one. Perhaps the most common conception of God in the psalms is as awesome King; another, nearly as common, is as just Judge. Indeed, the two concepts seem closely linked in ancient Jewry. Other psalms (cf. esp. 45, 72, 89) describe God's covenant with mortal kings, who are expected to carry out God's justice. Some sections read as little more than monarchist propaganda; the Bible is not a book for republicans. In any case, it appears that legitimate, God-pleasing government has an obligation to the poor, a fact lost on a great many people nowadays.
There is one issue I've always wondered about: if earthly kings derive their legitimacy from God, what meaning does the title "King" have for God himself? There is — we presume! — no higher power to grant God the title. It seems that God is King simply by virtue of being God.
* * *
Next week is the start of Advent. I have resolved that I should start posting — here, if there is no more suitable place — music selections from the liturgies at my churches, like some do. So: here is some of the upcoming music at St. Paul Lutheran and St. Luke's Episcopal.
Organ preludes and postludes for Advent and Christmas, 2011:
27 November (Advent I):
J.S. Bach: Wachet auf, ruft uns die Stimme, BWV 645
W.F. Bach: Nun komm, der Heiden Heiland, F.38, No. 1
4 December (Advent II):
Jeanne Demessieux: Rorate caeli, Op. 8, No. 1
Michael Praetorius: Alvus tumescit virginis
11 December (Advent III, Gaudete):
Healey Willan: Prelude on Richmond
Gerald Near: Benedixisti, Domine, terram tuam
18 December (Advent IV):
J.S. Bach: Nun komm, der Heiden Heiland, BWV 659
Paul Manz: Toccata on Nun komm, der Heiden Heiland, Op. 5, No. 10
24 December (Christmas Eve):
Claude-Bénigne Balbastre: Quand Jésus naquit à Noël
Dieterich Buxtehude: In dulci jubilo, BuxWV 197
25 December (Christmas Day):
Louis-Claude Daquin: Noël X (Grand jeu et Duo)
Georg Böhm: Vom Himmel hoch da komm ich her
The notion, particularly relevant today, of the kingship of God is an interesting one. Perhaps the most common conception of God in the psalms is as awesome King; another, nearly as common, is as just Judge. Indeed, the two concepts seem closely linked in ancient Jewry. Other psalms (cf. esp. 45, 72, 89) describe God's covenant with mortal kings, who are expected to carry out God's justice. Some sections read as little more than monarchist propaganda; the Bible is not a book for republicans. In any case, it appears that legitimate, God-pleasing government has an obligation to the poor, a fact lost on a great many people nowadays.
There is one issue I've always wondered about: if earthly kings derive their legitimacy from God, what meaning does the title "King" have for God himself? There is — we presume! — no higher power to grant God the title. It seems that God is King simply by virtue of being God.
Next week is the start of Advent. I have resolved that I should start posting — here, if there is no more suitable place — music selections from the liturgies at my churches, like some do. So: here is some of the upcoming music at St. Paul Lutheran and St. Luke's Episcopal.
Organ preludes and postludes for Advent and Christmas, 2011:
27 November (Advent I):
J.S. Bach: Wachet auf, ruft uns die Stimme, BWV 645
W.F. Bach: Nun komm, der Heiden Heiland, F.38, No. 1
4 December (Advent II):
Jeanne Demessieux: Rorate caeli, Op. 8, No. 1
Michael Praetorius: Alvus tumescit virginis
11 December (Advent III, Gaudete):
Healey Willan: Prelude on Richmond
Gerald Near: Benedixisti, Domine, terram tuam
18 December (Advent IV):
J.S. Bach: Nun komm, der Heiden Heiland, BWV 659
Paul Manz: Toccata on Nun komm, der Heiden Heiland, Op. 5, No. 10
24 December (Christmas Eve):
Claude-Bénigne Balbastre: Quand Jésus naquit à Noël
Dieterich Buxtehude: In dulci jubilo, BuxWV 197
25 December (Christmas Day):
Louis-Claude Daquin: Noël X (Grand jeu et Duo)
Georg Böhm: Vom Himmel hoch da komm ich her
18 October 2011
Thoughts from Concordia
Thoughts that have occurred to me whilst attending the 2011 Lectures in Church Music Conference (at Concordia University, Chicago):
- Good music is, inevitably, about addressing issues, solving problems. The issue/problem may be one about musical form, or color (e.g. instrumentation, texture), or compositional process (canons, fugues), or, in vocal music, text, or other things. Bad music, when it refuses to acknowledge a problem, is saccharine; when it fails to adequately address a problem, it is unsatisfying.
- Most defects of musicianship can be fixed, but I suspect that a poor interior sense of rhythm is irremediable. How can you learn something that ought to be inborn? (Well, technically, a sense of rhythm is acquired, but this takes place so early in childhood that it's like original sin: probably not inborn, but as good as.)
- Fr Anthony Ruff, whom I admire more and more, gave a presentation on the implementation of the new translation of the Roman Missal, with special emphasis on ecumenism (since this is, after all, a mostly-Lutheran conference). It is hard not to be disgusted with how Rome has bungled the new translation. It's not only that it is fundamentally flawed — after all, the current translation is deeply flawed, albeit in a different way — but far worse is the autocratic way Rome has handled things. From time to time, when utterly frustrated with the follies of Protestants, I find solace in the fact that at least we don't have to put up with the Roman Catholic hierarchy. If "by their fruits shall ye know them", then I fear we know the hierarchy all too well.
- Last night we had a concert of seventeenth-century Lutheran music (mostly Schütz, Schein, and Scheidt; no Praetorius, unfortunately). I've said it before: it's too bad that we hear this repertoire so rarely nowadays. One of these days, when I've got an early music consort at my disposal, I shall endeavor to do some of it.
21 August 2011
Eucharistic Distraction
The first thing anybody must come to terms with, regarding any sort of understanding of the Eucharist that is not strictly memorialist, is that it doesn't make any sense. Whether you're for transubstantiation, consubstantiation, or the sacramental union, there remains that moment — that crucial moment — when the Body and Blood of Christ becomes present where once was only bread and wine. Ultimately the only justification for such a belief is Scriptural: if the Eucharistic narratives in three of the Gospels and Paul's first letter to the Corinthians are to be taken as true — and indeed, what is Christianity if they are not? — then we have some license to believe that Christ is truly present in the Eucharist. (The question, then, is whether Jesus was speaking literally. This is another topic of debate that is better discussed elsewhere.)
This is all to say that there is justification for a belief in the Real Presence, if one is willing to accept a number of things as a matter of faith. What I'm actually wondering about, today, is whether the Eucharist should ever feel different. What faith I have in the Real Presence is, apparently, quite fragile, for I find that the feeling of receiving Communion varies drastically, depending on the situation. We know, if Augustine is to be trusted, that the worthiness (or, as the case usually is, unworthiness) of the priest does not effect the efficacy of the Sacrament: ex opere operato, and all that. This I can believe, readily enough. The problem is that I find it difficult to take the Eucharist as seriously as I should when I am the only one attempting to do so. My experience of the Real Presence depends very much upon external factors: is the Host treated in a manner befitting the very Body of Christ? Do my fellow congregants approach it as the Body of Christ? Do the non-essentials — the aesthetic considerations, from the music to the architecture to the altar-cloth — serve to enhance or distract from the experience of partaking in the Body of Christ? None of these things, so far as I can tell, should change the efficacy of the Sacrament, and yet they all affect me an awful lot. I find this troubling. I must ask myself the question all those of a high-church persuasion must ask themselves: am I merely a shallow aesthete? Why am I so distracted by those things that are, after all, of little importance when compared to the awesome (and I use the word in its older, better sense) mystery of the Sacrament?
I don't know. If, dear reader, such questions do not interest you, I apologize for all this, which must seem like so much theological wankery. Here is something that everyone ought to appreciate, whatever their view of the Sacrament:
Thomas Tallis: Verily, Verily I Say Unto You (John 6:53-56)
This is all to say that there is justification for a belief in the Real Presence, if one is willing to accept a number of things as a matter of faith. What I'm actually wondering about, today, is whether the Eucharist should ever feel different. What faith I have in the Real Presence is, apparently, quite fragile, for I find that the feeling of receiving Communion varies drastically, depending on the situation. We know, if Augustine is to be trusted, that the worthiness (or, as the case usually is, unworthiness) of the priest does not effect the efficacy of the Sacrament: ex opere operato, and all that. This I can believe, readily enough. The problem is that I find it difficult to take the Eucharist as seriously as I should when I am the only one attempting to do so. My experience of the Real Presence depends very much upon external factors: is the Host treated in a manner befitting the very Body of Christ? Do my fellow congregants approach it as the Body of Christ? Do the non-essentials — the aesthetic considerations, from the music to the architecture to the altar-cloth — serve to enhance or distract from the experience of partaking in the Body of Christ? None of these things, so far as I can tell, should change the efficacy of the Sacrament, and yet they all affect me an awful lot. I find this troubling. I must ask myself the question all those of a high-church persuasion must ask themselves: am I merely a shallow aesthete? Why am I so distracted by those things that are, after all, of little importance when compared to the awesome (and I use the word in its older, better sense) mystery of the Sacrament?
I don't know. If, dear reader, such questions do not interest you, I apologize for all this, which must seem like so much theological wankery. Here is something that everyone ought to appreciate, whatever their view of the Sacrament:
Thomas Tallis: Verily, Verily I Say Unto You (John 6:53-56)
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