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)