Inward Digestion

Yesterday a phrase was running through my head: "to read, mark, and inwardly digest". I recognized that it is a perfectly Cranmerian phrase, but knew not where I had last heard or read it. A cursory search reveals that it comes from the collect for Advent II:

BLESSED lord, which hast caused all holy Scriptures to bee written for our learnyng; graunte us that we maye in suche wise heare them, read, marke, learne, and inwardly digeste them; that by pacience, and coumfort of thy holy woorde, we may embrace, and ever holde fast the blessed hope of everlasting life, which thou hast geven us in our saviour Jesus Christe.

Now, that's all well and good, but, regrettably, I had not heard this collect in either of my churches this past Sunday. (Pity the poor ELCA, which has quite obviously given up any pretensions to beautiful language in its published liturgies. The Episcopalians should know better, I think.) The Revised Common Lectionary collect for Advent II is an insipid affair:

Merciful God, who sent your messengers the prophets to preach repentance and prepare the way for our salvation: Give us grace to heed their warnings and forsake our sins, that we may greet with joy the coming of Jesus Christ our Redeemer; who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.

There's no comparison: Cranmer's has an immediacy, not to mention a memorable quality, that the newer one utterly lacks.

The question does arise: why should a phrase from the Advent II collect come to mind, quite without my conscious awareness of its origin, the day after the second Sunday in Advent? I can only suggest that this is one of the most important justifications for being well-read: that we should have inwardly digested meaningful turns of phrase. How can a English-speaking man claim to partake in Western Civilization without a thorough knowledge of the Authorised Version, of the Book of Common Prayer, of Shakespeare? (One might continue this litany, but the further towards the present one goes, the more contentious the listing.)

On a related point, I stumbled across (or acrost, as some are wont to say) an article on epigraphs today. It quite rightly recognizes that, in the use of epigraphs, we place ourselves in a living tradition of thought, a conversation with the quick and the dead.

"Patron Saints of the Unnecessary"

For some time now, I have been interested in the Magi, among other New Testament characters (e.g. Pilate, the three women on Easter morning). And lo, I encountered an interesting observation about the Magi in an article (of uneven quality, but worth a look-see, I think) on Evelyn Waugh's Helena, which I have not read but hope to read someday. The Magi, "attended by what outlandish liveries, laden with such preposterous gifts" (except the gold, perhaps), represent, in some way, all of us artists who offer our gloriously useless gifts: of music, of art, of words. Helena, the title character, addresses the Magi: "For His sake who did not reject your curious gifts, pray always for all the learned, the oblique, and the delicate." That's not a bad prayer, I think. Certainly we learned, oblique, and delicate sorts need prayers as well.

(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.)

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.

Attention Anglophile Organists:

The other day an Orgelbauer friend of mine had an excellent idea that I feel compelled to disseminate. We were watching Midsomer Murders and he commented that its theme would make an interesting basis for a chorale prelude (or, rather, a television programme theme music prelude, as it were).

To wit: I humbly suggest that all interested Anglophile organists select theme music from a British television show and compose a chorale prelude upon it. I shall accept all entries, Finale-ize them, make a very pretty title page and table of contents, and send a pdf copy of the compleat collection to anyone who might want it. To any interested dear reader, I entreat you: please feel welcome to forward this prospectus to anyone you know to whom it might appeal. You might leave a comment on this-a-here web-log, if you wish to express interest. Rather than have duplicates, though, I suggest we each claim a particular show's theme. As for me, I have selected the theme from Blackadder.

(I suppose we might open the idea up to all television shows of any origin, not just British ones. But for some reason the prospect of limiting the project a bit appeals to me. You needn't pay me any heed, though.)

Since organists are, in general, busy folks, I therefore suggest this might be a long-term project, lasting, perhaps, years. Oh well. I offer it for your consideration.

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.