The Crooked Straight, and the Rough Places Plain

Everyone enjoys Christmas music. In every church, the members look forward to hearing the evidence of the yearly special efforts of their friends and neighbors who are part of the choir. In no other season are the same songs presented year after year, and loved all over again by both the singers and the listeners. Frequently, the words and musical phrases of Handel's Messiah bring us the joy we have awaited. A tenor announces that "Every valley shall be exalted, the crooked straight, and the rough places plain." And the chorus joins to exclaim, "And the glory of the Lord shall be revealed." At other times the familiar carols invite us to celebrate, and in spite of all the efforts during the rest of the year to convince us that the church's music should strive for "of-the-moment" relevance, we resort to our rudimentary latin, singing, "Gloria, in excelsis Deo!"

In my career of 35 years directing choirs, there haven't been many years that my parents missed hearing whatever music I presented at Christmas. They didn't try to travel from Dothan, Alabama to Ridgewood, New Jersey and hear the holiday concerts of the New Jersey Choral Society. But I can remember them driving to churches or schools as many as 200 miles away to hear our Christmas music in all the other places in which I've directed.

Many of my years of Christmas concerts were spent in a church where my parents were members. During those years, I met a group of musicians who would become the unsung heroes of all the concerts I conduct. They are the instrumentalists who make up the orchestra. Now they drive around 600 miles for each concert we present together, traveling from Tallahassee, Florida to Birmingham, Alabama. For the last sixteen years we have performed together, and I can't imagine a concert without them.

The ingredient that transforms these musicians from typical "gig" players into the unsung heroes of our concerts is their heart. They are professional players, professors and graduate students at Florida State University, and they possess the skill level of the finest players on each of their given instruments. But in addition to their high level of skill, they have amazing hearts. They play as if they love to play. They honor the efforts of the volunteers in the church choir by contributing their best professional playing, and they have become honored musical leaders of worship, rather than anonymous hired players.

Two weeks ago we gave our annual Christmas concert. After rehearsal I had dinner with Betsy, a brilliant violinist who spent her college days rehearsing and playing chamber music with Yo-Yo Ma, and Melanie, a double bass player who plays in the Orchestra of Saint Lukes in New York. Missing from our dinner due to illness was Melissa, who brilliantly manages the contracting of all the players, and plays viola herself. As we laughed and ate and visited, I related how my parents would miss our concert, due to my father's prolonged battle with lung cancer. These lovely people offered to contribute their hearts and musical skills to visit my parents' home in Dothan, and surprise my father with a Christmas concert of his own.

So yesterday they drove early in the morning, after a rehearsal the night before, to the First United Methodist Church of Dothan, and rehearsed for that church's Christmas program. They returned to Tallahassee and played for a two-hour concert of the Tallahassee Symphony Orchestra. Then today they drove even earlier, and played for the two services of the church in Dothan. And after that exhausting schedule, Betsy, Melissa and Melanie came with me to my parents' home, sneaked in with their instruments, and surprised my father with his own concert.

As they began to play, my mother brought him into the living room, where we all listened, cried, and sang along. These brilliant, accomplished players, who had given their all in several concerts and rehearsals this weekend, still brought unfathomable joy to someone who couldn't attend.

The musicians of Christmas never really know whose lives they touch, or to what degree. And in the busy schedule of rehearsals and performances, they can easily forget that their listeners have waited through an uncertain year, hoping to hear those familiar strains again. Today, in a small town in Alabama, world-class musicians made a valley of shadows feel exalted, a crooked, suffering body feel straight, and a rough place seem plain for a little while, and the glory of the Lord was revealed.

My Song in the Night

My Song in the Night (click to hear the Birmingham Chamber Chorus)

Recently, the Birmingham Chamber Chorus performed the beautiful hymn, "My Song in the Night," as arranged by Paul Christiansen. It is a favorite piece for many conductors and singers. One of my fondest memories recalls performing the same piece in the Sistine Chapel several years ago. Its text refers to the metaphor presented in the Psalms and the Book of Isaiah, calling God our "Song in the Night."

All of scripture represents the attempts of poorly equipped people to describe the indescribable. One marvels that all of those writers through so many centuries were capable of summoning such meaningful metaphors to help themselves and their neighbors understand more fully the "Other" that was impacting their lives.

I find the metaphor presented in "My Song in the Night" to be among the more confounding and beautiful. It is sensible to think that a person whose circumstances include darkness might describe God as being "light in the darkness," and certainly that is the description we find in many references: "God is my light and my salvation, whom shall I fear?" "I am the light of the world." But why, I always wondered, would other writers refer to God as "song" in the night?

I began to understand a few years ago, when my life unexpectedly and suddenly was impacted by great personal trauma. As time passed, and I continuously and painfully processed what was happening, I was aided by the hymns I had recited through forty years of worship. It was interesting that when I attended worship every week I couldn't sing, the darkness seeming to live in my throat. But when I was alone the songs in the recesses of my mind softly approached, presenting a comforting message.

One of those hymns was the funeral hymn "Come, Ye Disconsolate." To my knowledge, I had sung it only once, at the church I attended for a few months as a college student. It came to mind, and gently sang to me, "Earth has no sorrow that heaven cannot heal." Years later, I wrote a choral arrangement based upon the way the hymn played in my mind during that time of darkness, and dedicated it to the chorus of Enterprise High School in Alabama, after their school had been destroyed by a tornado and several students lost. They seemed to feel that their walk through darkness was helped by the piece. Afterward it was published, and I hear from directors and choristers about its impact on the dark times in which they sing it. This hymn, which is almost never sung in worship, has a life of travel, seeking out dark places and bringing comfort that eludes the more popular hymns of our modern church.

I also remember being comforted by other musical metaphors: "There is a balm in Gilead to make the wounded whole," and "Come, thou fount of every blessing, tune my heart to sing thy grace." Each musical blanket warmed me, and gave me strength to await the light.

These experiences have taught me that dark times can't always be immediately illuminated, but comfort can come amidst the darkness, making it bearable. I value the hymns of my childhood and youth, because I recited them often enough for them to return to my memory when I need them. I wonder about the experiences of those who don't have a trove of hymns to comfort their dark times. I hope there is still a song that comes. I wouldn't want to live through a night with no song. And while I appreciate new hymns and the writers who continuously refresh the church by providing them, I expect that generations will go by before they offer comfort in the dark.

Sharing the Ladle

I attended high school in southwest Georgia, in a small town whose racial tension had been so profound that Life Magazine had done a feature story on the subject. By the time I was in junior high school, the "separate but equal" lie had been exposed, and our population's 65% of black students and 35% of white students warily attended school together. My vague memories of that time include awareness of a great deal of fear on the part of the adults of the town as cultures were artificially conjoined. Of course, it wasn't long until the kids made friends and began to get along. Still, there was a great deal of tension throughout the town.

Like many places throughout our country, our town strongly supported our high school's football team. During those days in which the society at large was so divided, the Friday night football field was a place of unity and pride. And during the darkest days of suspicion and anger over racial integration, the students and coaches on the team provided a lasting metaphor that lowered the temperature of the hatred that had simmered since reconstruction. They shared a ladle. In those long-ago days, there weren't dozens of squeeze bottles of sports drinks on the sidelines, with students whose job it was to squirt the liquid through the faceguards of the athletes. There was just a water bucket on the bench, with a ladle in it. So thirsty students had to come to the bench, remove their helmet (revealing the color of their face), and drink from the ladle. As the athletes cooled down, so did the ridiculous fears of the people who thought contact with the people of the other race would result in some sort of contamination.

Racial integration dominated the needs of communities in my youth, but there is never a shortage of reasons for today's society to learn to share with one another, and reduce their level of suspicion and fear. If I watch too much political coverage on television, or fail to reach the "mute" button when the campaign ads interrupt a program, I can easily hear a message that says I should suspect all my neighbors, most of my friends, and even my own government. Nothing should be shared, I am on my own.

Just as the false premises that propped up racial discrimination were undone by the sharing of a water ladle, today's falsehoods regarding our shared lives in a time of financial uncertainty can be disproved by those of us whose work brings art to the community. The words our neighbors hear on "news" channels, chatrooms and around water coolers are bleak and ugly. We must bring them poetry of beauty and meaning. The sounds they hear are desperate and hyperbolic, with each headline accompanied by a sound effect to increase its impact, and drive-time radios tuned to shrill voices of dropouts who now have all the answers. We must bring them the sounds of compositions whose form and structure lead to serene understanding, and whose melody and harmony lead to aesthetic sensibility. And the people our neighbors see around them look like them. They have been taught to fear others from financial, social, political or religious groups different from their own. We must exhibit choirs and orchestras, libraries and museums, whose art and artists are different from one another, and whose beauty is enhanced by the diversity. We must unapologetically insist that if our neighbors will share our artistic ladle, their thirst will be satisfied.

As the artists of the community, we must show how important community can be. We are richer when we are sharing than when we are hoarding. We are safer when we are trusting than when we are suspecting. Our concerts can become the events in which the disparate parts of our society sit together, observe an act of unselfish beauty, and learn to live together. A poor person can observe the singing of a rich choir member and experience beauty rather than resentment. A rich person can hear the playing of a poor person and observe diligence and discipline, and stop blaming them for their poverty. Liberals and conservatives can see each other as multi-dimensional people, rather than as caricatures. And our rehearsals can be places of level ground, where "artist" is our label, and other criteria are not used to judge one another.

Financially difficult times have left us all thirsty. As artists, a fountain of beauty is ours to distribute. We should invite everyone to drink, and pass the ladle until all are satisfied.

The Bonfire of the Vanities

For the ninth time, September 11 has arrived with remembrances of the bright, clear morning in 2001 when the date became so much more than a number. Like most people who were in New York, I can remember a minute-by-minute account of that morning. Each year the nation spends a few hours speaking about the unspeakable horror of that day, and I think back to that frightening experience.

This year's observance has been disturbed in advance by twin controversies. In Florida, a person who leads a small congregation has dominated every newscast with promises of burning copies of the Koran on September 11. In New York, a businessman has purchased a building in the Lower Manhattan vicinity of the World Trade Center site, and seeks to build a community center which includes a prayer room for Muslims. Neither of these projected activities is particularly surprising.

I've lived in rural Florida, and have known people whose ideas about following Jesus are profoundly different from my own. I've also known that sort of person in every other place I've lived. In the early 1970's, I remember an usher in the church foyer with a handgun, watching in case a black person tried to worship there. In the 1980's, I remember an evangelist who convinced the teenagers to burn their record albums because he could hear evil messages when they were played backwards. (I suggested that they just refrain from playing their records backwards, but that didn't seem to suffice.) In the early 1990's, I remember some people who rallied at a school board meeting because the reading program they had adopted for that year included a cartoon dragon character, which they claimed was a satanic plot.

I've also lived in New York, and have seen how diverse each neighborhood is. I saw an interview with the businessman who was planning to build the commmunity center. He was born in a Methodist hospital in Queens, to a Polish Catholic mother and an Egyptian father. He belonged to the Jewish Community Center in his neighborhood, and hoped to create a similar facility in Lower Manhattan. And I remember that many Muslims were among the victims of September 11.

My reflection about God's God-ness includes a heavy dose of awe when considering God's creative power. Throughout history, we are at our best as a human race when we are creating, because we are honoring God through imitation. Just as those of us who wish to follow Jesus must imitate him by feeding the poor, healing the sick, visiting the imprisoned and caring for widows and orphans, so must those who worship God seek to express and admire creativity and beauty, for although we "see through a glass darkly," we can still hope to serve and experience God to some delightful degree through them.

Any reading of the Old Testament gives ample evidence of God's destructive ability. But it is only awe-inspiring as a matter of scale. We can all easily destroy, just not on the massive scale of a plague or flood. But (quoting Jesus), "consider the lilies," and see that scale is not part of the awe-someness of God's creative power. Whether creating a neutron or a planet, God's creativity is overwhelming to behold, and impossible to fully comprehend. By expressing our own creativity, we are serving God by trying to imitate God.

It seems to me that a fitting way to commemorate the destructiveness of humans on September 11 is through creative acts, not a destructive bonfire which is itself an exercise in vanity. We experience hope as we see the Freedom Tower emerge from the scarred ground whose address is now Zero. We watched expectantly as artists in architecture competed for the right to design the new structure. The most difficult early days were improved by the creativity evident in the plans to rebuild. And I think the creation of a Community Center is another positive expression of rebuilding by those who were affected by the tragedy. I understand the feelings of those who wish the community center were being planned for another neighborhood, but I also think that Muslim extremists can only be made more resolute by the actions of Christian extremists, with whom they have great solidarity, since they both defile the words of the Koran. They can actually be quieted by the sensible, creative actions of Muslim moderates. Every time a person who seeks God through Islam acts as a contributing, creative member of society, (as millions of American Muslims do every day,) it is a victory against the perpetrators of the September 11 atrocities, a victory that can never be won by warring Christians.

When the embers cooled after the most famous "Bonfire of the Vanities", the creativity of the Renaissance continued unabated. And if the reporters and their cameras ever leave the lawn of the church in Florida, God will continue to inspire those who are gifted with creativity, and those who seek to serve God through destruction will shortly be forgotten. Creativity, beauty and community are all fitting legacies for September 11, or for every day.

The Day You Find Out Why

It is 8:30 AM, and a few minutes ago I drove to work. On every street there were signs of the resumption of school. Buses picked up sleepy students, cars blocked intersections and traffic moved slowly. One doesn't have to drive in back-to-school traffic to know it's that time of year. Stores are filled with sales, and customers are picking over all the necessary items, so that backpacks can be filled with supplies that facilitate both learning and self-image. And other parts of the community that are closely related to the school calendar, like the church where I direct the music, are also gearing up for a new year.

Among my friends on "Facebook" are several music educators. Their recent posts have reflected their excitement over the new year. I have heard from many band directors whose days are being spent in the 100 degree heat preparing for football season. Without exception they comment on the hard work of their students, and their enjoyment of their job. The choral directors I know have been posting their similar feelings and enthusiasm. They have spent the summer hard at work; choosing new music, taking classes, attending workshops. Several have even resorted to actual conversation on the phone or in person, discussing a new idea or asking for input regarding their chorus.

Teaching is a pre-eminent calling, and that is true of school teachers as well as those who teach in other settings, like houses of worship, scouts, community athletics or public libraries. Music educators have eschewed the temporary thrill of performing in order to pass performance skills and understanding along to rooms full of eager aspirants. Their rewards are not financial, and they seldom receive the applause that bouys the spirits of other musicians. Their reward comes in the growing daily recognition of beauty in the minds of their students. It comes slowly, but is overwhelming when it finally arrives.


I knew a music teacher in a small private school whose headmaster came into the room where she was teaching, leading a small family. The mother and father were looking for a school for their first-born, a preschooler with newly discovered learning disabilities. Their most difficult decision so far involved placing their precious child in the hands of another adult. The headmaster didn't reveal any of these details to the teacher. He simply asked her to include the child in the class. So she placed the tiny child in her lap and continued singing with the children. As the child's face slowly lit, and sound started to emerge from the tiny voice, the mother cried and the father hugged her. Later, the headmaster told the teacher that the family had heard of her music teaching, and it had drawn them to the school. They thought communication and learning were beyond the reach of their child, and they were desperate to find it. In that music class their hopes were realized.


A few weeks ago our church hosted a reunion of the students of a retired choral teacher. He taught in several schools over a long career, and all his former students were invited to come for a day of singing, laughing and remembering. Among the attendees were several professional musicians, as well as a host of people from other professions, who attested to the difference made in their lives by music and this music educator. The current principal of the last school in the teacher's career was in the group, as well as local clergy, business people and other leaders. And there was a prominent opera singer and voice teacher, who attributed his early musical accomplishment and aspiration to this teacher. It was a grand celebration of the calling of this music educator.


Last Sunday a couple of local college students came into the choir room as we prepared for the service, and we quickly placed a robe on them and gave them a seat in the choir. One of them was on the verge of dropping out of high school when his school's choral teacher discovered his talent. Through her nurturing he became a self-described "choral geek," soaking up every singing experience he can find, and majoring in music education in college. That teacher's intervention changed a life that will change many other lives. The student was formerly a scholarship singer at our church, and is now a paid singer in another church. He had the day off from that job, and chose to come visit and sing with us rather than sleeping late.


Readers of this blog will all have similar stories of music educators they know. These teachers change lives by infusing them with beauty, and with the ability to create beauty. They teach because they can't stop teaching. And in a world where education statistics and test scores are most often used as weapons in a war of blame, music educators make schools better and students purposeful.


I have two college-aged daughters who are majoring in education, which makes me incredibly proud. As I helped one of them move back to school last week, I noticed a saying she had placed above her desk. It said: "The two greatest days in your life are the day you are born, and the day you find out why." As school is starting, I am grateful for the music educators I know, and for the day they realized their high calling.

Art Restoration

Among the activities of the human race, making music is surely among the oldest forms of artistic expression. I can imagine that some sort of singing accompanied the earliest recognition that words alone could not fully express human thought, along with cave drawings and banging sticks on logs. The aesthetic value of music remains its sole asset, and has remained a constant through ages of darkness and enlightenment.

Modern culture seems to have determined that music should be subject to competition. In our society, where people are valued according to their ability to out-run, out-earn, or out-spend others, there is a growing effort to make music another activity in which a score is kept. This is cheapening the musical efforts of amateurs and professionals, students and teachers, rejoicers and mourners.

In my profession of church music, some ministers and their congregations have concluded that the reliable sign of God's favor will be evident in the victory over other congregations in numerical competition. The drive to attract more parishioners has led to all sorts of decisions about the church's activities, and one of those decisions has been that music can be used to draw people into the church. Consequently, the church's music has grown to have greater and greater stylistic resemblance to popular secular music. Those of us who are committed to a more formal and classical approach inevitably engage in arguments about appropriate style, and are met with arguments about the church's desire to "reach out" to the community. I have concluded that the "style" argument is fruitless and misguided. I think the appropriate discussion should revolve around the possibilities presented by the musical art. For those who desire to express their profound longing for God, music offers an opportunity for deeper and more meaningful expression. To limit a church's music to being used as a competitive technique shortchanges its possibilities.

In the worlds of high school and college music, you can easily see how many schools are using their musical ensembles as they do their athletic teams. They learn repertoire that will give them a competitive advantage, and go to competitions seeking to defeat the ensembles of other schools, or perform at conventions where they can be judged to be among the "best" ensembles. While this strategy can have positive impacts on enrollment and recognition, it is a shame when students graduate without a grasp of the breadth of repertoire available, or without ever having spent enough time in discussion of form, historical context or textual significance. Performances that are all about dazzling technique, while neglecting deeper understandings would seem to have a closer resemblance to the oldest profession than to the oldest art.

I believe that a strong case can be made for the instrinsic value of musical expression and understanding. It is worthwhile for the performers and audiences of our society to encounter music at its deepest levels. In our current habits of texting and channel-surfing, a great benefit could be derived from slow, rigorous, thorough and life-long pursuit of musical communication. Palestrina's "Sicut Cervus", Bach's "Dona nobis pacem", Mozart's "Et incarnatus est", Brahms' "Lass Dich Nur Nichts Nicht Dauren", and Thompson's "Alleluia" all have something beyond words to offer, but it cannot be attained while in the pursuit of beating other artists. It would improve our world if we insisted that art be restored to its appropriate aesthetic place, where children were nurtured in it, and adults embraced its depth of expression.

When each generation passes, the efforts of its artists remain for future generations. When we seek to enlarge our understanding by looking back at Mozart, Bach or Brahms, we don't ask about the trophies or prizes they won, or the other composers they bested in competition. We delve into their compositional hearts, and our own hearts are changed. We owe it to our own generation to forego the desire to compete, and let our own musical expression become the best communication of our true hearts.

Beyond Glee

It is interesting to see that our television schedule has been dominated for several years by a gigantic talent show called "American Idol." The program has launched several careers in various popular music genres, and has made the telephone an integral part of the viewing experience, since viewers are asked to vote for their favorite performers.

Drama and comedy have been added to the formula of young performers trying to sing their way to stardom in the new and wildly popular program "Glee". It masquerades as a show about the benefits of music education and choral singing, but in fact presents talented young soloists giving impossibly sophisticated, yet unrehearsed performances, between instances of being bullied by cheerleaders.

It is great that our nation is riveted by musical programming, and that everyone seems eager to recognize that giving young performers a shot at fame is a good thing. I hope that those millions of viewers remain riveted when they learn of hours of practice and out-of-tune performances that are the real equation leading to stardom.

Last week I had the pleasure of hearing the Spivey Hall Children's Choir. Spivey Hall is an artistic institution in a suburb south of Atlanta, on the campus of Clayton State University. It presents an enviable series of great performers from the world of music in its concert series. The mission of Spivey Hall includes a Music Education component, in which a Children's Choir has been developed. They are conducted by their founder, Martha Shaw, and performed last week for the convention of Chorus America, a professional organization for those who direct and administrate choirs.

The young singers entered the stage with smiles of confidence, and entered a concert program of sophisticated music that was impeccably prepared. Given the difficulty of the music, the audience would have been satisfied with an accurate performance. But what we received was far beyond simple accuracy. The students under Dr. Shaw's direction demonstrated consummate understanding of the craft of singing beautifully. They sang with musicianship and maturity. The crowd sprang to their feet once during the program, and again at the end. They experienced difficulty applauding because they were wiping their eyes.

When I see a program on television that seeks to promote music education by presenting fame as its logical outcome, I think about students like those in the Spivey Hall Children's Choir. They will lead the lives of typical teenagers, then college students, then adults. They will be teachers and house-husbands and bank tellers. And a few of them will undertake the rigors of training to become a music educator. It is doubtful that any of them will become famous by emulating the style of other famous singers, or become rich thanks to the whims of the voting public.

But thanks to Martha Shaw and her staff they are rich beyond measure. They have beauty and art in residence within them. They have musical accomplishment that few have achieved. They have maturity and self-confidence that is not dependent on a fickle audience. They have experienced the aesthetic beauty that is the true intended product of great art, and it can't be lost through voting or bullying.

Congratulations to this great chorus! Those of us who were in your audience are better for having been there.

The Comfort of the Familiar

Last fall my colleague, Beth McGinnis, and I announced plans to start the Birmingham Girls Chorus. We had no idea whether anyone would like to sing, but we felt that there was a need in our community for elementary and middle school aged girls to have a chorus. Two girls came to the first rehearsal, and over the next few weeks twelve girls eventually gave us a try. Nine stayed with us throughout the year, and ended our inaugural season by singing from Aaron Copland's "Old American Songs" with the Southeastern Chamber Orchestra on May 16.

While some people are natural-born risk-takers, most children are a little frightened by the unfamiliar. Each girl who came into our rehearsal room had a look of nervousness on her face, which gradually gave way to a look of comfort as our weekly singing became a familiar part of her busy schedule. Among the many parts of the choral rehearsals, the music we were learning came to be a familiar destination for each girl on Thursday afternoons. As the weeks went by, I would hear them enter the room, full of after-school snacks and pent-up energy, singing the music they were memorizing. That sound let me know that we were building a musical family, a room-full of familiar, and that the girls were internalizing the words, notes and techniques that were part of our weekly visit.

We learned several songs in those initial months, and we talked about the words we were singing, and the way they were treated by the composer. Among those songs was "And God Shall Wipe Away All Tears," by Canadian composer Eleanor Daley. Hear it here. Its words, from Revelation 21:4, have great meaning to a child, among whose crucial needs are a reliable tear-wiper. As familiarity grew, the girls in our chorus began to love the music and words, and feel at home in them.

Now that our first year has concluded, there is a lot to celebrate. The girls have given several successful performances, and have demonstrated great musical growth over the course of the year. Although there have been few disappointments, certainly the biggest was the fact that one of the initial two girls couldn't sing in our recent concert. She and her family were stationed at the bedside of her beloved grandmother, awaiting an end to a long battle with leukemia. Since no one can guess when such a battle will end, they had to stay in Georgia during the weekend of the concert.

This afternoon I drove to west Georgia and attended the funeral for this young singer's grandmother, and as I drove I thought about how strange and frightening a funeral can be for a child. It was the quintessential un-familiar experience. As the service proceeded, I heard the pastor and staff of the church lead the funeral with music and a preaching style that were different than those in our church, and I watched from my seat in the back of the congregation as my young friend sat between her parents, leaning on her father's familiar shoulder as she processed so many new experiences.

The pastor gave an impassioned sermon, indicating that the deceased was a deeply loved member of the congregation. He referred to numerous biblical texts as he spoke with love, sympathy and humor to the large gathering. As he neared the end he said, "I would like to offer one more scripture before I conclude," and you could see that he was turning to the final pages of his well-worn Bible. He looked directly down where the family was seated, and read to us all: "And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes, and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow nor crying. Neither shall there be any more pain, for the former things are passed away."

I was relieved and moved to see that even in this frightening and tragic circumstance, the comfort of the familiar came to this young singer at just the right moment. The familiar words were deep inside her heart, deeper than they would have been if she had only read them, because she had sung them week by week, and made them her home.

The season of Pentecost began last week, and we were reminded of strange wind and fire, and voices speaking in unfamiliar ways. I don't imagine that the people who witnessed the first Pentecost found it any more unfamiliar than my young friend found today's funeral experience. But I am certain that the Spirit came again today, offering to play the promised role of Comforter at just the right moment, and showing that the Spirit had actually been there all along in the song that lived in her heart.

Celebrating Grace

I hear a lot of arguments about hymn singing. I am grateful that those arguments are not happening in the church where I serve as Minister of Music. The arguments for and against the use of the traditional hymn in worship usually seem a little obsessive and ridiculous. I wouldn't question the strong feelings of those who argue, but I think the points of the argument are usually ill-conceived. They are the arguments of specialists, and singing in worship is a populist enterprise.

I serve a church where worship includes hymns from a wide swath of protestant tradition. We sing hymns from Martin Luther, John and Charles Wesley, Isaac Watts and many others from the Western European traditions. We also sing (less frequently) hymns from the American gospel traditions. They tend to be more bloody, and we're a little skittish. And we are open-minded about the wealth of modern hymnody that enters our awareness.

This Sunday's service will be completely devoted to the dedication of new hymnals. We decided a few months ago to purchase the new Celebrating Grace hymnal from Mercer University Press. It was an easy decision since one of our church members, Milburn Price, served on its Editorial Board, and others in our church were also involved in its creation. We have planned a service that celebrates the old and new things in the hymnal, and points out the connections our congregation has with its content.

As I have given some thought to the use of the hymnal in worship, I have found it uninspiring to consider the apologetics that are frequently offered for its use.

I often hear the argument that hymns offer theological instruction. Certainly that is true. But we already offer Sunday School classes with fine teachers. Hymn singing is an enjoyable but inefficient way to delve into theology. It offers no chance for discussion or dissension. The power of music is intrinsic. Beautiful music is worthwhile because it is beautiful, not because it teaches us a non-musical lesson.

I often hear a defense of hymn singing based on musical value. It is definitely true that hymn tunes that have outlasted their composers by several centuries have demonstrated a musical value that should be the envy of the composers of trendy pop tunes, whose shelf life can only hope to be measured in weeks. Nevertheless, music mysteriously appeals to different people differently. There is little future in trying to dictate taste. And the average worshiper is ill-equipped for an argument over voice-leading or syllable stress. It's not fair or helpful to engage a person who desires to worship God in an argument over music theory, because for the duration of the argument worship is not happening, and after the argument they will return to the music they like, only angrier.

I think our congregation worships meaningfully using hymnals and hymns for simpler reasons. In our church, hymnals reside in racks on the backs of the pews. There are usually three hymnals per rack, although there may be more people per pew. So the first thing that happens in worship, before a note of properly-composed music is sung, and before a word of appropriate theology is offered, is that the people of the congregation have to share with one another. The use of hymnals creates an atmosphere of community before the singing has even begun.

Another circumstance that must always be part of our hymn singing is the posture of holding the hymnal. In order to sing while reading a hymnal that is shared with another person, the hymnal is held at elbow-level, adjusted to the height of the shorter person. It is a picture of bowing in worship. While it doesn't quite live up to the scriptural choreography of "every knee shall bow...", it is a good start toward a humble countenance. There are many proponents of singing while looking upward in worship, finding the words of the song projected above the heads of the congregation. There is a case to be made for singing strongly while looking upward. But I think our singing sounds just fine while humbly bowing as we sing.

About ten years ago I was planning a choir tour to Italy. We had a large choir traveling, and the travel company gave me an inspection tour a few months prior to the trip. I visited our hotels and restaurants, spending a week in Italy with a chauffeur and guide. Needless to say, it was an overwhelming experience for a Baptist from south Alabama. On my last night in Rome, the manager of the travel company came into the restaurant in which I was eating to give me a surprise. The travel company's owner was personally acquainted with the Holy Father, and had arranged a private visit for me in the Papal Apartments. We went into the diplomatic entrance and climbed the famous Bernini staircase. After seeing the "Sala Regia", where John Paul II would later lie in state, we entered the Pauline Chapel, where he had his private mass every morning. Then we entered a short hallway behind the altar, and I found myself in the Pope's private sacristy. The priest who was guiding us opened the closet doors, and I beheld the beautiful robes I had seen on television, a different robe of golden thread for each important day of the liturgical calendar. As I turned, he was handing me an object. It was the crucifix seen every time the Pope appears in public, that affixes to the top of his staff. I held it with both hands, aware that I was holding something quite holy, and that I was certainly unworthy of having it placed in my hands. As my visit concluded by standing alone in the Sistine Chapel, attempting to burn a memory of it into my brain and heart, I couldn't get the feel of that crucifix out of my hands.

I relate that story because I like the fact that worshipers in our church hold something holy in their hands while they sing their praise. To our children, the hymnal is special and holy, and being the one to hold it and share it with a neighbor is a great responsibility. To their parents, the hymnal is a beloved tradition, and passing the tradition of singing in worship along to the children is a holy responsibility, made easier and more meaningful because it is an object to be held, rather than a concept to be awkwardly described. To the wisened worshipers of our congregation the hymnal is a milestone. They remember with fondness the older hymnals, and the ones before those, and they know that the church is healthily progressing as they challenge the arthritis in their joints by holding the heavy book in their hands. It feels good to hold it.

I am grateful for those who passionately advocate for meaningful musical worship. And I embrace the worship leaders and congregations who sing their praise in other ways, using other resources. I have no doubt that God is pleased to receive the praise of God's children, and doesn't grade it according to its adherence to western music theory ideals. But I like that our congregation has chosen this path. I don't mind bowing my head to read the words and music, or hearing a weak voice as I share the book with my neighbor. I like being the one to hold it, and I don't mind sharing. I appreciate the theological basis of the hymns, but I am not hopeful that I will attain some complete understanding of God. I just appreciate the opportunity to sing. And holding this holy object in my hands reminds me that, although I am unworthy to offer my praise, God is gracious beyond measure, and is pleased to receive it. I am grateful for the opportunity to join others in Celebrating Grace. 

Molecular Music

Two weeks ago I was fortunate to be in the chorus for the Alabama Symphony Orchestra's presentation of Bach's extraordinary St. Matthew Passion. The effort was intense and satisfying. I had studied the piece in graduate school, and always wanted to experience it for myself.

Bach's genius includes the ability to express the appropriate emotion or mood with minimal musical resources. Frequently the orchestra or singers in the work have the opportunity to tell the story of the Last Supper, the betrayal, the trial, and the crucifixion of Christ using melody, harmony or rhythm that give the listener a picture so vivid that the familiar story comes to life in a new way. The structure of the piece includes the telling of the story from the scripture and the commentary on the story from other texts. In both cases Bach is singularly masterful.

One of the most interesting tools applied to the task by Bach is the distance between two notes. The interval between pitches is the molecular level of a musical organism. When sound begins to move through time, it must be determined whether the composer wishes to sustain a pitch, or change to a different one. It is this decision that determines whether tone becomes melody, and as other musical cells are joined, whether melody is joined by harmony.

The St. Matthew Passion gives a graduate level course in the use of intervals as the molecules from which the musical elements are created. It is an artistic "Periodic Table," guiding the artist to the tools from which the material of the story is realized.

Part One of the passion describes the period of the story from just before the Last Supper to the betrayal in the Garden of Gethsemane. The chorus concludes the drama with Bach's quintessential form of choral music, a chorale tune from the Lutheran Hymn canon, elaborated with choral and orchestral embroidery. And when the final verse foreshadows the cross that is coming in Act Two, the basses of the chorus leap an octave, and are answered by the tenors and altos, who move by a short interval. It is a vivid picture of the cross, with the basses' long leap representing the upright part, and the short leap of the other singers representing the cross-beam.

A similar example comes in Act Two, when the chorus becomes the angry mob who has demanded that Barrabas be freed, and that Jesus be crucified. When Bach depicts their cry of rage, demanding his crucifixion, each part of the chorus sings an impossibly difficult melody built entirely of augmented fourth intervals. This is the interval that is most dissonant, and was even considered demonic in the Dark Ages. It is another vivid portrayal.

My favorite examples of this molecular composition come when the molecule is made up of the fewest particles. In some cases Bach gives us a vivid picture by using an interval of a half-step, in the rhythm of an ornament, or grace-note. In these cases his genius is breath-taking. For example, between the cries of the chorus for Jesus' crucifixion stands one of the most beautiful of solos, the soprano aria "Aus liebe will mein Heiland sterben," or "Out of love is my Savior dying." It is stark and desperate, accompanied only by flute and a pair of oboes. For me, it is Bach's Pieta. And occasionally the solo flute's phrases end with a grace-note, a descending half-step, a sigh that paints darkness and hopelessness over the entire proceeding. It is a dropper-full of color, changing an ocean of liquid. It is Bach's molecular genius.

When the crucifixion is over, and only the women remain to endure the horror of taking care of the body, a wealthy man enters, offering his own new grave as a final rest for the slaughtered Savior. Things could not appear to be more hopeless. And Bach offers another aria, sung by a bass, in which the singer implores, "Make my heart pure, that Jesus might be buried there." It is a heart-stopping sentiment, and a theological enigma. And Bach infuses the melody with an ascending half-step, reversing the hopeless downward direction of the flute's earlier grace-note, and offering a tiny, molecular foreshadowing of hopeful ascent. In the use of the upward motion, Bach renders the crucifixion purposeful.

Shortly, the 135 minutes of Bach's piece come to an end. And the chorus sings the final notes, just as they ended Act One. They sing "We stand at your grave weeping, calling you in our grief: sleep sweetly." The chorus is written in C Minor, and offers one final expression of the darkness of the story. But when it ends, with the entire chorus and orchestra presenting a C Minor chord, Bach offers a final chemical reaction, with a slow grace-note offered by the mournful oboe, an ascending half-step that says (to me), "Good Friday has been excruciating, but return to see how things end after a couple of sunrises."

I can think of other examples of composers with such genius that they can create entire worlds using simple musical structures within monumental compositions. Stravinsky's Symphony of Psalms, for example, offers an entire opening choral phrase with a range of a half-step. The Lacrimosa movement of Mozart's Requiem, which he began, then died after fourteen measures, offers a study in the use of a similar "sighing" motive. But surely Bach's passion stands alone as an opportunity to probe the depths of the story using a molecular musical/chemical recipe, rendering a result that offers the dual opportunities of being a better musician and a better person.

The Sneeze at the End of the Song

It is Good Friday. Christians all over the world are returning to reflect upon the part of their faith that is hardest to take. When a news report makes us aware that modern DNA testing proves the innocence of a person whose recent years have been spent on death row, or, even worse, a person who has been executed, it is sad. And then we keep moving through our day, relatively unaffected by the tragedy. We have a hair appointment or a soccer game. We can't stop to watch the news.

Good Friday asks us to be still and contemplate the death of the Innocent. Executed under a kind of capital punishment that makes modern methods seem antiseptic and perversely humane, the Innocent is not just put to death. He is put to OUR death. It is a lot to contemplate, so most of the time we make the same decision. We keep moving through our day.

The church offers services during Holy Week that are designed to call us to contemplation. The church lovingly says to us, "Stop moving. The day will wait." In the words of the mystic, George Herbert, "You must sit down, says Love..." Those of us who make the music of worship have the opportunity to participate in the reminder service the church offers. Hopefully we are more artful than the little pop-up window on the computer, reminding us that in fifteen minutes we have an appointment. Hopefully the singers' reminder calls the worshiper to realize, "You have an appointment. Watch to see once again why this is important and true.
This is the day to re-visit why you are grateful. You must sit down, says Love."

Last night, at the Maundy Thursday service, the volunteers of the choir came in large numbers to offer their best singing, reminding their sisters and brothers of their appointment at the Lord's Table. We waited until just before the re-enactment of the supper, and sang one of our favorite pieces for the occasion. Each voice sang with commitment and passion, and the understated beauty pointed the way. I was deeply moved as I conducted, and I exercised the prerogative of holding the last note for several beats, wanting to give the invitation to the Table an extra moment to reach every recipient.

As the final note ended with my "cut-off" gesture, a loud interrupting sneeze came from the congregation. It was the kind of sneeze that comes in the spring, allergic to the pollen that is keeping the freeze-threatened plants alive. As we laughed about it later, we shared the frustration that our beautiful rendition was a little spoiled by the explosive sneeze. It was a common musician's frustration, because we take our work seriously, and we want every sound to emerge as if coming from a professional recording, through expensive headphones.

I thought later how misappropriated our frustration was. I thought about disciples arguing over who got to sit at the host's right hand. I thought about racing for a hair appointment or a soccer game. I thought about Jesus looking up from the foot he was washing to say "God bless you," to the person whose sneeze had interrupted the service.

And I thought that church musicians who wish for their rendition to come out perfectly are exactly right in their motivation. But church music only happens in the midst of a group of people who are deeply human; sins, allergies, appointments and all. The sneeze at the end of the song is part of the musical perfection. It is the part that says, "Come to me, all of you who are weary and heavily burdened, and I will give you rest. There is no need to worry if you have missed your allergy medication, just come. Your appointments will wait, so join us. The music is beautiful, so join the song. Wipe your nose, then help me wash these feet. You must sit down, says Love."

LOVE bade me welcome; yet my soul drew back,
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning
If I lack'd anything.

'A guest,' I answer'd, 'worthy to be here:'
Love said, 'You shall be he.'
'I, the unkind, ungrateful? Ah, my dear,
I cannot look on Thee.'
Love took my hand and smiling did reply,
'Who made the eyes but I?'

'Truth, Lord; but I have marr'd them: let my shame
Go where it doth deserve.'
'And know you not,' says Love, 'Who bore the blame?'
'My dear, then I will serve.'
'You must sit down,' says Love, 'and taste my meat.'
So I did sit and eat.
- George Herbert (1593-1632)

Magnificat

It was a pleasure to attend the Southern Division Convention of the American Choral Directors Association last week in Memphis. Several of the finest choirs from the southern United States performed, thrilling the audience of choral directors. For many of us, an ACDA convention charges our figurative batteries and reminds us of the many rewards of a career spent working in a beautiful and rich art form.

Among the choirs chosen to perform for us was the Chorale Women of Douglas Anderson High School in Jacksonville, Florida, conducted by Jeffrey Clayton. Their repertoire was varied and exciting, and their program began with a setting of the "Magnificat". It is the traditional Song of Mary, recorded in the Gospel of Luke. It has been set by many composers, in every kind of composition, from hymns to challenging works for chorus and orchestra. It begins with Mary's exclamation, "My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior."

I had never heard the particular setting of the text that was listed in the program, and was eager to listen. Those of us who make up an ACDA audience listen critically, and I was ready to evaluate the performance and the composition. My normal listening mode changed, however, as I looked up from my program.

This chorus appeared to be made up of typical high school girls. They were tall, short, black, white, asian, hispanic, skinny, less-skinny. They were typical. And among the singers making their contribution to the beautiful sound of the group were two girls singing from electric wheelchairs, obviously suffering from debilitating diseases.

Since the Americans with Disabilities Act became law, we have become accustomed to seeing student bodies enriched by the presence of young men and women who are differently-abled than their classmates. It seems silly now to remember when these students wouldn't have been welcomed in any school or class. So it wasn't the presence of these young women in the chorus that made me listen differently. It was the text.

I heard the words differently as I watched them emerge from broken bodies: "My soul magnifies the Lord. My spirit rejoices in God my Savior." As I saw rejoicing emerging from within these singers, I realized the truth of Mary's song, sung as she realized she was pregnant. The truth seems to be that God is working within us. Whether, like these singers, our bodies are not as capable as others, or , like Mary, our journey is leading to the birth of an illegitimate child, we can only rejoice when we realize that God is beautifully working inside us. In a culture obsessed with outward appearances, it is fruitful to remember that the canvas on which God's pallet of colors best comes to life is within the pure and contrite heart of God's follower.

Soul and spirit are all that are needed for rejoicing. And surely God is still creating and beautifying inside us. With such beautiful work taking place within us, maybe singing exists as an opportunity to let a little of the beauty out, so that it can be seen by all.

Sacrament

I recently read Barbara Brown Taylor's beautiful book, "Leaving Church." In it, she recounts an anecdote involving a four-year-old who was riding in a car with his mother and a visitor from out of town. He interrupted the adult conversation as they drove past the Episcopal church where Taylor was pastor, and said, "See, that's the place where God gives us the bread."


This story immediately made me think of the deep secret church musicians keep. We are accustomed to being thanked by the members of our congregations for the work we do, and the meaningful worship that results from our leadership. The secret lies in the fact that the reward we receive from rehearsing together and dedicating our talents to worship is far greater than the amount we give.

The intrinsic reward we find in a deep experience with beauty and creativity is overwhelming. We are bonded together in an experience that points ultimately beyond ourselves, and whose total is always greater than the sum of the individual and imperfect parts we each contribute.

The boy in the anecdote was describing the moment in the church's worship which is described as "sacrament." The Anglican Book of Common Prayer defines sacrament as an outward and visible sign of an inward and invisible Grace. When we receive the sacrament in church, we accept that Christ miraculously defined his gracious role in terms that were understandable by a four-year-old.

In addition to the historic sacrament, there are often times in which the "inward and invisible Grace" is effectively made apparent through the beauty of music. And as much as listeners experience this "outward sign", singers regularly experience more revelation than they can hope to understand. Cooks are never under-nourished, and those of us who distribute the bread are seldom short of capacity ourselves.

Last night we changed the format of our regular rehearsal, and it became a night of abundant bread distribution. A member of our congregation for the last fifty years is moving to live with her daughter due to declining health. Throughout her membership, she has gone out of her way to thank the church's musicians for their efforts. In countless notes and words of kindness, she has made sure that the choir members, directors and accompanists at our church have felt appreciated. So last night, thanks to a brilliant idea from a choir member, we arranged for her daughter to bring her to rehearsal. Before she leaves town she had the chance to sit and listen to her beloved choir. From her wheelchair she traveled through several favorite anthems with us. When we thought we had sung as long as her strength would allow her to comfortably listen, we presented her with several choir recordings and pictures, and gave her a hymnal as a souvenir. As we continued to rehearse, she asked her daughter to allow her to stay to the end. She didn't want to leave a morsel uneaten.

Our guest last night felt deeply blessed. But, of course, those of us who sang were profoundly rewarded, as the blessing of a loving listener filtered our singing. We sang with all our hearts, she listened with ears of love, and bread cascaded into every life, sacramental and free.

Unlikely Singing

Images and stories from a shaken neighbor have flooded our senses and united our benevolence for the last few days. We imagine that we are powerful beyond measure, and we expect to control our world. When that fails we elect someone else. Then a natural disaster demonstrates that sometimes it is our impotence that knows no bounds. During these times there is a chance that, if we keep our eyes and ears open, we might observe something that is deeply true.

Last week our church choir's schedule called for the singing of a new arrangement of the hymn, "How Can I Keep from Singing." During our rehearsal we discussed the role of singing in our lives. It is easy to relate singing to superficial emotion. We sing for joy when we are happy, we sing for sadness when our heart is broken. But in most of our lives, these emotions happen for reasons that are not life-changing. They are real, but we are able to move beyond them quickly. Then we see unimaginable destruction and grief, and we find that we are without words. We see news reporters choked by the lumps in their throats. We see physicians coolly striving to save lives in primitive conditions, then falling apart when they speak about their efforts. We see mothers and fathers screaming for their children, and orphans pulled from far below the earth.

In our rehearsal discussion, we talked about the slaves who worked in the cotton fields near the spot of our suburban Alabama church. Expected to toil in the Alabama sun anytime it was in the sky, they found a way to put one foot in front of the other, and to express themselves to one another, even though they had been forced to come from different tribal and language groups in Africa, and only had pigment and captivity in common. The way they communicated their anguish, hopes and plans for escape was by singing.

Their grandchildren faced laws designed to keep them a secondary class of citizens, without the rights to vote, advance economically, or even drink and eat near the grandchildren of their ancestors' captors. When they joined hands to walk in protest, they sang.

When Jewish people from all over Europe were forced into concentration camps, their diagnosis became terminal. But at the Terezin Camp, those who remained met in a basement around a piano that had no legs, and a leader taught them the choral parts of the Requiem by Giuseppe Verdi. When they performed it, the Nazis touted the concert as evidence of their benign treatment of happy captives. They didn't realize that the Jews were singing the Christian liturgy of death toward them, not for them.

And last week a lot of attention was paid to 69-year old Ena Zizi, who burst into song as she was pulled from the wreckage of the Cathedral in Port-au-Prince. She had laid under twelve feet of rubble, praying for nine days. When she came into the light she provided her own soundtrack.

These anecdotes demonstrate the deepest purpose of singing. Words are not enough, once the circumstances of life become overwhelming. Whether a heartbroken teenager listening to the top 40, or a grown-up living through an unimaginable torment, people are ill-equipped to express themselves through language alone. Singing allows more of our thoughts to be seen by others. It allows us to order our chaotic thoughts. These are the times when we "see through a glass darkly," and singing sheds light.

When we claim that school music is important because it relates to mathematics, or that hymn singing in church is important because it conveys theology, we short-change the value of the musical expression. Theology requires 500 pages to cogently express the experience of the slave who sings, "Sometimes I feel like a motherless child." A world-class theological conference would be required to derive verbal expression for the experience of the Jew who sings to the Nazi, "Day of wrath, that day will dissolve the world in ashes...When therefore the judge will sit, whatever hides will appear, nothing will remain unpunished." A sermon would be confounded to attempt to express the experience of Ena Zizi, who had prayed alone for days, and then couldn't help singing.

The purpose of singing is not to set words to music. It is to take up where the words leave off, delving deeper into the human experience and our need to express it.

My life flows on in endless song above earth’s lamentation.
I hear the real though far off hymn that hails a new creation.
Through all the tumult and the strife I hear its music ringing.
It sounds an echo in my soul; how can I keep from singing?

What We've Forgotten

Happy New Year! I'm looking forward to the opportunities that await those of us who are involved in Worship and the Arts in 2010. Surely we can mark 2009 as a year of accomplishments and milestones. Most notable, I think, has been the fact that we have gone through a time in which the members of our congregations have felt a lot of anxiety and stress due to the economy, and they seem to have been genuinely comforted and helped through the worship we have led. I am grateful to have the opportunity to lead worship every week, and I feel that our efforts are validated when the members and visitors in those services feel that they have had a chance to draw near to God.

I am fond of reading Parker Palmer, a Quaker theologian. He recounts a story about a young couple who brought their new-born second child home from the hospital. The three-year-old first-born sister waited with excitement, and asked her parents if she could visit the baby in the nursery. When they agreed, she said she wanted to close the door and be alone with the baby. Since they had installed an intercom system to listen to the baby, they said "yes," and listened. They heard their older daughter approach the crib quietly, then say, "Tell me about God, I've almost forgotten."

I've thought about this story as I've spent the holidays contemplating our role in the church's new year. And I suggest that we prepare ourselves to play the role of the new-born in our congregations, full of promise and bringing hope. When our sister who is grieving says, "Tell me about God, I've almost forgotten," we must reply by singing, "There is a balm in Gilead to heal the sin-sick soul." And when our brother who is afraid makes the same request, we should be ready to reply, "All is well, lift up your voice and sing." When a sibling returns from an ill-chosen road saying, "Tell me about God," let us help them to pray, "Finish, then, thy new creation; pure and spotless let us be." When a seeker comes, let us sing, "As the deer longs for flowing streams, so my heart longs for you, O God." And when our neighbor is shattered by circumstances, and needs to be reminded about God, let us sing, "Earth has no sorrow that heaven cannot heal."

We must not view our sheet music, voices, instruments and practice as our tools. They are our calling. When our sister says, "Tell me about God, I've almost forgotten," we must be honest to say, "I've almost forgotten, too. But God, in wisdom, has given us beautiful art so that we can be reminded, and can remind others."

I hope that 2010 is a year in which we steadfastly answer our calling.

Photograph courtesy of Johnsonearth.com