Admirable Words, Vol. VI

1. Apothegm
   
2. Credenza
   
3. Esurient
   
4. Hokum
   
5. Mephitic
   
6. Murrey
   
7. Oleaginous
   
8. Pleurisy
   
9. Rhombus
   
10. Woad

Beards

...sicut facies barbam, quam non esse munimento, sed virili ornamento...

Augustine, De civitate Dei, XXII, §24

Due to a combination of laziness, climate, and sensitive skin, I have resolved to attempt growing facial hair (viz., the beard sometimes called the "Verdi"). This is, in fact, the second time I have tried such a thing; the first essay, conducted one Lent during my undergraduate years, was a resounding failure. I am beginning to wonder whether this attempt might be equally unsuccessful. Unexpected facial hair is a conversation starter, to be certain. People feel no compunction about commenting on it. But my experience has been that most people, rather that ask "Oh, you're growing a beard, eh?", will ask "Oh, you're trying to grow a beard, eh?" I have received donations put forth for to buy me a razor (jokingly, har har). Nevertheless, I hope to persevere, until I am either successful or so obviously misguided that shame compels me to shave.

Organ Preludes and Postludes through New Year's

11 November:
attr. J.S. Bach: Prelude and Fugue in C Major, BWV 553
J.S. Bach: Liebster Jesu, wir sind hier, BWV 730
18 November:
Louis Vierne: Lied, Op. 31, No. 17
Jacques Boyvin: Grand plein jeu continu
25 November (Christ the King):
Felix Mendelssohn: Prelude in G Major, Op. 37, No. 2a
Gordon Young: Prelude in Classic Style
2 December (Advent I):
Flor Peeters: Creator alme siderum, Op. 75, No. 1
Nicolas de Grigny: Verbum supernum prodiens: Plein jeu
9 December (Advent II):
Johann Pachelbel: Nun komm, der Heiden Heiland, P.386
Gerald Near: Jerusalem surge
16 December (Advent III, Gaudete):
Gottfried August Homilius: Nun komm, der Heiden Heiland
J.S. Bach: Herr Christ, der einge Gottes-Sohn, BWV 601
23 December (Advent IV):
Jeanne Demessieux: Rorate caeli, Op. 8, No. 1
J.S. Bach: Nun komm, der Heiden Heiland, BWV 599
24 December (Christmas Eve):
Samuel Barber: Chorale Prelude on "Silent Night"
Claude-Bénigne Balbastre: Tous les bourgeois de Châtres
25 December (Christmas Day):
Gerald Near: Puer nobis est natus
J.S. Bach: Der Tag, der ist so freudenreich, BWV 605
30 December (1st Sunday after Christmas):
Dieterich Buxtehude: In dulci jubilo, BuxWV 197
J.S. Bach: In dulci jubilo, BWV 729
1 January (New Year's Day):
J.S. Bach: Das alte Jahr vergangen ist, BWV 1091
J.S. Bach: In dir ist Freude, BWV 615

Elektra at the Lyric

I cannot understand people who consider opera to be boring. Well, no, that is not true at all: there are many examples of opera that can be boring, I readily admit. But this is not an inherent flaw of the genre; indeed, opera, when it approaches the ideal of Gesamtkunstwerk, is perhaps the most captivating of all things. (Several months ago I made an offhand remark to a fellow opera buff and church-musician that liturgy should be like opera. This is not to say that I esteem opera above liturgy, but rather that what is effective in one can and should be effective in t'other. But that is another discussion.) Yesterday's performance of Elektra at the Lyric, which I attended, instilled in me a fascination that straddled the line between rapture and disgust. One may therefore say that it succeeded unequivocally as art. I am getting dangerously close to pontificating about the nature of art; let me restrain myself.

Strauss's score for Elektra, though now more than a century old, still sounds fresh. (His dissonances are thrilling; perhaps this is because we'll never overcome a natural inclination for functional harmony? Certainly we won't, as a culture, if our popular music remains limited to four different chords.) The performances, instrumental and vocal, were uniformly excellent, though Christine Goerke, in the title rôle, deserves special praise. The costumes and set resonated with the ghastly splendor of the the plot and music; the Tribune review quite rightly notes the "beautiful ugliness" of the experience. Altogether it was like something out of a fever dream — unnerving, but riveting.

Letters from Flannery

Though real work, as I mentioned, is satisfactory, it leaves far less time for leisure. This is particularly true in this particular month, as I have three important Sundays in a row (St. Luke, transferred from today; Reformation; and All Saints) and that upcoming recital, as well as planning for Advent Lessons & Carols and a chamber music concert in December. And I am attending Lectures in Church Music, again, and helping to tune the instruments at my two churches. Why, it barely leaves time for my wonted hobby of late, preparing editions of Hassler motets for CPDL.

Books have begun to pile up. There are, of course, the dozen or so that I have already begun reading and have not finished. (Most of these, at least, are not novel-length fiction.) But people persist in recommending books unto me. I appreciate this very much, but feel I am being set up like a protagonist in a Greek tragedy, doomed to some miserable end. (It remains to be seen what my ἁμαρτία is. Perhaps it is a susceptibility to distraction.) Alas, but oh well. For the meantime, I am occupying myself with the letters of Flannery O'Connor, whose spelling is rather haphazard but whose observations are keenly informed and whose sense of humor is inimitable.
On suffering:

I believe that everybody, through suffering, takes part in the Redemption, and I believe they suffer most who live closest to all the possibilities of disbelief.

On modern education:

I have what passes for an education in this day and time, but I am not deceived by it.

On librarians:

Librarians are the last people you can trust about the insides of books.

(I hesitate to add, in deference to any dear reader of mine who may be a librarian, that doubtless Miss O'Connor was referring to a very particular sort of small-town — possibly southern — librarian. Surely.) There's much to unpack in O'Connor's letters; one wishes for the other half of some correspondences. But at least they provide interesting background about her stories, which I find to be consistently good.

In other news, today I encountered a fine recording of the Bach B-flat Partita (BWV 825). Here it is. I have mixed feelings about playing harpsichord music on a modern piano — it seems as foolish as playing gamba repertoire on a cello — but while listening to such a recording I can suspend my objections.

A Reformation Sunday Recital

Much like having regular examinations in school, I find that regular recitals provide a certain measure of motivation. (Is this due to a certain lack of self-discipline on my part? Or is self-discipline merely knowing what sorts of tricks to play on one's own mind?) To that end, I will be performing a recital on October 28th in Dixon; it oughtn't be more than an hour, I hope. You are, dear reader, of course invited.

Recital on the Karstens organ at St. Paul Lutheran Church, Dixon
28 October 2012, at 3pm

J.S. Bach (1685-1750):
        Prelude and Fugue in C Major, BWV 547
Hymn: ELW #308 "O Morning Star, How Fair and Bright"
Dieterich Buxtehude (c.1637-1707):
        Wie schön leuchtet der Morgenstern, BuxWV 223
Hymn: ELW #839 "Now Thank We All Our God"
Sigfrid Karg-Elert (1877-1933):
        Nun danket alle Gott (Marche Triomphale), Op. 65, No. 59
Hymn: ELW #488 "Soul, Adorn Yourself with Gladness"
J.S. Bach:
        Schmücke dich, o liebe Seele, BWV 654
Hymn: ELW #504 "A Mighty Fortress Is Our God"
Cor Kee (1900-1997):
        Een vaste Burgt
Chant: "Te lucis ante terminum" (Mode VIII)
Jehan Alain (1911-1940):
        Postlude pour l’Office de Complies, JA 29
Louis Vierne (1870-1937):
        Symphony No. 1, Op. 14 – VI. Finale

The astute reader will notice that some of these pieces may look familiar. Indeed, I have played many of them over the past fifteen months in Dixon. But most of them warrant a more careful listening (as well as, I should admit, a more careful performance). I wouldn't close with the Vierne, but for the fact that I was deprived of my chance to play it for the Lutherans at Easter. Easter morning I turned the organ at St. Paul on, only to discover that the entire swell and choir divisions were out. If that happens again, I shall take it as a sign that I ought not to play Vierne for Lutherans.

Muppets, Ordered and Chaötic

Recently it was brought to my attention that every single person can be classified as either an order muppet or a chaös muppet. (This idea is several months old, but it was news enough to me.) Such a bold statement was apparently formulated on the basis of years of observation of supreme court justices, which seems as reasonable a way to glean profound insight into the human condition as any. Upon some reflection, I suggest that I am an order muppet, while many of the people I work with (especially at the newest job) are chaös muppets.

It should probably be emphasized that this dichotomy is not, really, based on the intent of the individual person (or, er, muppet): rather, it just seems that people are accompanied by order or chaös wherever they go. To be sure, certain behaviors conduce to certain outcomes. Perhaps we are not always the most aware of the consequences of our habits.

Honest Work

... et operam detis ut quieti sitis, et ut vestrum negotium agatis, et operemini manibus vestris, sicut praecepimus vobis.

I.Th 4:11

There's something immensely satisfying about having a real job, one where you work with your hands, build things, see tangible improvements. I realize this, now, because I recently obtained such a job (in addition to my church-organist duties): I have been hired to help install a 1904 Verney tracker organ in a local performance venue. Much of organ-buildery is carpentry, which, as my boss has noted, is not my métier. But there are also all sorts of fiddly-work (especially considering this is a tracker instrument), which I find surprisingly rewarding. And I appreciate very much the opportunity to learn how pipe organs actually work. (Perhaps organists can be forgiven some measure of ignorance about their instruments, as the things are just so deucedly complicated. But I think a deeper knowledge of the mechanism by which we produce our art can only improve our production.)

Shortly after beginning this new job (only three days ago), it became quite apparent that it fulfills a need of mine that I had not before recognized: the need to do actual work. Academe and the arts, the only fields in which I have real experience, leave me endlessly questioning whether I have, in fact, done my job well. That way lies madness. How does one know if one's scholarship or musicianship are actually good? One can only listen to the other inmates in the asylum. To build something of value, however, is to obtain concrete justification for one's endeavor.

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:

• 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.
  

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

1. Pange lingua; Nobis datus
   
2. In supremae nocte; Verbum caro
   
3. Tantum ergo; Genitori, genitoque; Amen

(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.