The Annual Messiah

It is the season in which musical organizations give annual performances of portions of Handel's Messiah. I sing in the Birmingham Concert Chorale, conducted by Philip Copeland, and we are the chorus for the Alabama Symphony Orchestra. We sing some part of Messiah every year, always with a different guest conductor. We gain from new understanding and insight each year, as a new conductor brings a new approach.

I was thinking back over some of these performances last weekend, as we engaged in this year's effort. I remember one year that the soloists who were performing with us were enjoying a lot of good-natured and humorous fun at one another's expense during rehearsals. I particularly remember the mezzo-soprano giving her recitative in which she quotes from Isaiah 35:5-6, "Then shall the eyes of the blind be opened, and the ears of the deaf unstopped; then shall the lame man leap as an hart, and the tongue of the dumb shall sing." The funny part came on the last line, when she turned and glared directly at the tenor while pointedly singing, "and the tongue of the DUMB shall sing." We all enjoyed a good laugh at the tenor's expense.

Our ability to speed quickly over this passage of the musical work, as well as the scriptural utterance, demonstrates how easily the most radical of statements can become quite vernacular to us. I have been thinking about this passage in relation to people I know, and its truth seems nearer to me.

The choir I direct benefits from the loyal membership of a singer who is blind. She is a brilliant musician who has studied deeply, and learns faster by ear than others do by reading the music. Last summer she joined the entourage to Vienna, where we performed the Mozart Requiem. It was a great pleasure to see her spend hours touring museums and historical sites, frequently commenting on their beauty, which, like the music she "reads", is vivid in her mind's eye. I feel encouraged to know that it is only through her participation in the choir that such an opportunity would come to her. In a long concert like the Christmas music we presented a few days ago, almost everyone has a mental lapse or two, including the conductor. But this singer is absolutely reliable, because she sings music that is firmly and visibly planted in her mind, rather than on the pieces of paper in the other singers' folders.

Another singer I direct has been working hard to care for a spouse who has lost his hearing. Over many years he has continued to be an active participant in their busy lives by becoming an efficient lip-reader. With only a small percentage of hearing remaining in one ear, they chose to pursue a cochlear implant, even though the procedure presented a risk of losing the remaining hearing. On the first Sunday after the new apparatus was activated, he attended church to hear a solo by his beloved granddaughter. In the context of the church's Christmas music his miracle of hearing happened with little notice, but great joy.

At the same concert there was a player in the orchestra who is quite famous among those who play her instrument. She lives about 300 miles away, but honors us by traveling to play for our concerts every year. A few years ago she had a terrible accident, and suffered a debilitating loss of the use of one of her legs. At the urging of a mutual friend, I placed her name on our church's prayer list. After a great deal of pain and inconvenience, she has recovered, and is back to her normal hectic schedule. In a conversation after the concert, she told one of our members that she attributed our church's prayers for her regained health, and wouldn't miss an opportunity to come and play for us.

And finally, I've been thinking about one of the choir members who never misses a rehearsal or Sunday service. He affirms and enjoys those around him, and is integral to both the spirit and musical success of the choir. During the aforementioned Christmas concert, his wife was using sign language to "sing-along" on the congregational carols. Her voice is fine, but her memory is diminishing as she courageously journeys into the darkness of Alzheimer's Disease. She has told me that she learned sign language as a means of helping interpret for the hearing-impaired years ago, and that now she remembers the words of hymns and carols more accurately using that language. Her disease couldn't prevent her singing along because she had taken the time to learn to express herself in more than one language as a means of helping others understand.

These experiences surrounding the music of Christmas have reminded me that Isaiah's prophecy might not have been meant to describe a certain episode or person, but that there is always the possibility of the blind seeing vividly, the deaf hearing beautifully, the lame leaping unrestrained, and the person whose tongue is locked by an unseen jailer finding a way to sing for joy. I rejoice to think of the possibilities that might be presented were we to consider these radical predictions more often than once a year, and sing about them as if they were modern descriptions, rather than ancient mysteries.

The Rings of the Tree

Church musicians have two sets of memories in their minds at this time of year, radiating outward from the earliest to the latest. In the first are found their memories of Christmases with their families. Like everyone else, their minds turn toward the memories of their childhood Christmases, then the Christmases they have shared with their own children. This trove of treasured memories is the magnet that draws us back to those we love at this time of year.

In the second set of memories are the annual Christmas musical events that have shaped our celebrations. I remember little details from the first cantata I directed, to the first "Messiah" I attempted, to the special singers who have helped carry out the annual traditions in the congregations I've served.

I celebrated this treasure trove of memories last week, as our choir and orchestra helped me recognize the fifteenth anniversary of my work with Melissa Brewer, the gifted contractor who has ensured the high quality and preparation of the orchestra players with whom I've worked each year.

I celebrated another important memory as Mary Kathryn Borland sang the soprano solo in the Spanish carol, "Carol of the Birds." Mary Kathryn grew up in the church I formerly served, and first sang a solo for me on Christmas Eve of her fifth-grade year. Now she is the academic counselor for the football team at the University of Alabama at Birmingham, and is a member of the church choir I direct. Her voice provides the sound track for some of my most poignant Christmas memories. And as a former baby-sitter for my children and close family friend, she has a special place in both sets of my Christmas memories.

The church where I served for ten years, and where Mary Kathryn grew up, provides many of the Christmas memories I enjoy. One of the most meaningful incidents came to mind last Sunday, as I turned to invite the congregation to join us as we sang "The First Nowell."

Twenty years ago we moved to Dothan, Alabama, where I became the Minister of Music at the First Baptist Church and my wife became a music educator in the public school system. One of her colleagues was a woman named Judy, who taught elementary music. A couple of years later, Judy was diagnosed with cancer. She underwent excruciating treatments while continuing to teach except on the worst of days. Time after time her doctors informed her that the future was short and the outlook was bleak. Judy kept teaching little kids about music. Years went by and Judy defied the odds. The doctors were surprised, and kept up their best treatment as Judy continued to teach.

One year, as the late fall was turning to advent and our efforts were turning toward our annual Christmas concert, we heard the news that Judy's health had taken a downward turn, and that her doctors had suggested that she spend the holidays getting her affairs in order and spending time with her family.

Just like this year, our Christmas concert included a moment in which I turned to direct the congregation to join us in singing "The First Nowell." When that moment came, and the congregation started to sing along with the choirs and orchestra, I couldn't help but notice that the faces of the people in the balcony were all turning to look to their sides, and shared an expression of astonishment. It was as if something unexpected and awkward were happening. As I followed the direction of their eyes, I became astonished, too.

There in the balcony was Judy. There wouldn't be another Christmas concert, so she was participating in this one with gusto. Her head was back and her mouth was open, and she was singing her last "First Nowell." Propriety couldn't have mattered less as she sang with all her heart from the balcony of the church. The congregation surrounding her couldn't have known that, with a life that could be measured in hours and days, and with finality in sight, she set as her priority for that night the singing of Christmas carols. As a music educator, Judy knew that time spent singing is not wasted. As a terminally ill patient, Judy knew that time spent being creative and expressive flies in the face of a hopeless diagnosis. In her final act of defiance against her strong disease, Judy sang.

Musical Christmas memories, like the rings of an old tree, chronicle the passing years and the creative opportunities they bring. They teach us that every year is made unique by the fact that birthing, growing and dying are taking place, and that singing familiar songs together helps us to cope with the changes of our lives. In fact, there are times when singing Christmas carols seems like the only fruitful way to share a few precious moments, answering the dissonance surrounding us with the melody and harmony that permeate all our memories.

Then let us all with one accord

Sing praises to our heavenly Lord,

Who hath made heaven and earth of naught,

And with his blood mankind hath bought.

Nowell, Nowell, Nowell, Nowell.

Born is the King of Israel.

Weeping at the Grave

Last night our choir had its last regular rehearsal before the orchestra joins us this weekend for our annual Christmas concert. We are excited, and the congregation looks forward to an annual event that brings tradition and beauty together in celebration of the holy season of Advent.

I observed the faces of singers who sang through an hour's program with an aspect of concentration and intensity, all wanting to do their best as, once again, they express their faith through musical effort. For that hour they suspend the elements of their daily lives, and exist in a world of work and beauty and faith.

There is a member of our choir whose job it is to keep up with the personal and unique aspects of the lives of the choir's members, and express our love and care when a member faces difficulty. I think that most choral singers feel so connected to one another through their musical endeavor that most choirs elect a person for a similar task. In our choir a particularly gifted person has a constant finger on the pulse of her colleagues, and accurately senses when someone might need an extra touch of care.

Last night, after our rehearsal, she asked me how I felt a certain singer was coping with the upcoming Christmas season, since it is the first Christmas since the loss of her beloved spouse. She wanted to be sensitive to the difficulty most people conceal during this time of year. It can be an emotional and challenging time, and those of us who feel that difficulty often feel guilt, since the marketing world tells us it's a season of unrivaled joy.

As I thought about this choir member's sensitive expression of care toward another member, I was reminded of a sentence from the Orthodox Burial Service: "Weeping at the grave creates the song, Alleluia." It seems to me that the ecstatic Christmas joy we hear about in commercials and marketing ploys is best reflected in brief commercial jingles and sentimental songs about chestnuts and sleigh rides. But if we want to express the reality of the human condition, we need musical expressions that derive from real human situations. When we sing at Christmas, we sing with voices and minds that have lived another year, and have experienced more of the joy and sadness that life offers. When we sing this year's "Alleluia," we reflect that joy can emerge in the story of the Word becoming flesh, even though the flesh is weak. We look up from the grave and sing a more knowledgeable "Alleluia" than before.

It is incorrect and shortsighted to treat this season as if bells are ringing and store windows are shining and joy is all around. The Biblical story reflects that when the Christ child was born, infanticide was carried out, and many families stood around many graves, paying an ultimate price for the threat presented by the anticipated Messiah. We continue to see the death and tragedy in our modern lives as unjust, and we probe for answers to our existential questions.

And then our true friend, the liturgical calendar, calls us to remember that we are not alone. Weeping is not wrong, it is prelude. The sounds that are coming from our throats will evolve, and shortly they will be transformed from wail to "Alleluia." Once again, deliverance will have come in the form of a new baby, surrounded by unlikely stories, and promising hope.