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.

The Meaning of Advent

A new season has begun, and this season impacts the lives of most musicians. As a church musician, I am intensely aware of the advent of Advent. Services will soon start to pile up on top of one another, and I will start to hum the theme song of church musicians during this time of year, "Nobody Knows the Trouble I've Seen." For those who work in the secular musical world, annual concerts will consume the calendar. School choirs will have "holiday" concerts, and symphony orchestras will dust off their parts to Handel's "Messiah."

When the season is over all of us will sigh a deep sigh, and take a quick inventory of the gifts yet to be purchased, cards yet to be addressed, and decorations yet to be hung.

We work hard during this time of year with the faint idea that there is some "greater meaning" out there to be discovered, and that our musical production is somehow responsible for helping everyone discover it. Whether our audience is primarily made up of religious or secularly-minded people, it seems that we have the world's attention for a few days, and we know that we must work overtime to make this year's effort stand out. We give very little attention, however, to our own journey of discovery.

I have been thinking that the "greater meaning" we are seeking is not "out there," but "in here." As I have been reading the Bible stories again in planning this year's services, I have noticed the different roles being played. There are announcers and there are seekers. The angels have the information and make the announcement. The shepherds can't begin to understand the announcement, but feel compelled to seek its subject and take a closer look. I began to think about the life of the Advent musician, a life that includes hectic rehearsals, hurried planning, and little rest or contemplation. I can frequently let myself believe that my musical task is to transport the audience to an "out there" of heavenly understanding. I am in danger of seeing myself as a latter day Christmas angel, announcing the good news from on high. What if, rather than trying to lead like the angels, I were trying to seek like the shepherds? What if the singers and parishioners with whom I work saw in me a strong desire to seek the meaning of Christmas, rather than a determination to lead them to that meaning?

In the mystical idea of the "word becoming flesh" we can see a directional arrow of prioritization. When the gospel writer sought to describe God's journey toward an ultimate creative accomplishment, the arrow pointed toward earthly, daily life. Can't we learn from that directional truth that our best leadership might be to help our singers and parishioners to find the "greater meaning" they seek in a daily, earthly life of peace and goodwill, rather than in a hurried, honking, hectic drive to a concert of heavenly music? And wouldn't they enjoy the concert more if the "greater meaning" had already occurred in that daily life?

I think I might have made this difficult season even more difficult. But surely it's possible that it might be more rewarding, too.

Back-up

We think of choral music as a purely "ensemble" activity. We exhaust ourselves in trying to blend and balance the voices in a choir, so that the total sound doesn't reflect the individuals who make it. Rather, the sound the audience hears is greater than the sum of its parts.

But western music seldom happens without featuring a combination of predominant melody and subordinate harmony. As we listen/perform, it is easy to identify the primary tune and the accompanying background of harmony. And this characteristic of most of our music brings to mind the importance of those who give great effort to accompanying.

When I was in graduate school at Florida State University, I was given a graduate assistantship primarily so that I could be the accompanist for the Chamber Choir. It was comprised of graduate students, and its director, Clayton Krehbiel, liked to use its rehearsals as an opportunity to read through a lot of very difficult music. He felt that we should all know the music of composers whose works were so difficult and sophisticated that they were seldom performed. It was my job to accompany the rehearsals in such a way that the singers' efforts to read this music were facilitated. During this time we were privileged to have Robert Shaw as a guest conductor periodically over several years, and I was asked to accompany his rehearsals. Through these experiences I found my dissertation topic, the "Competencies of the Choral Accompanist." For several years, accompanying became my primary focus. Since then I have enjoyed the help of several fine accompanists, making it possible to take this particular kind of musical excellence for granted.

Two recent events have brought the importance of accompanying to my mind again. In the first instance, our Birmingham Chamber Chorus gave a concert a few days ago in which we performed two pieces that call for a very advanced level of playing from the organist who is accompanying the choir. The organ parts actually function as equal partners in the pieces, and frequently provide the melodic material, rather than serving purely as accompanying harmony. The organist, Beth McGinnis, dove into this challenge and did an expert job, in-keeping with her usual level of excellence. The concert's success was dependent upon her efforts, and she rose to the occasion.

In the second instance, I conducted the first performance of the Samford University OperaWorks production of Otto Nicolai's "The Merry Wives of Windsor" last night. The singers in the cast have done a great job all semester in preparing for their performance. Their director, Bill Bugg, has built a beautiful concept, so that the production is visually and musically stunning. In my role as Musical Director, I spend the duration of the show down in a tiny orchestra pit with a group of student instrumentalists. While the singers in the show have dedicated their entire semester to preparing their roles, the players in the orchestra have had three weeks in which to prepare to play the two-and-a-half hour score. They have faced this difficult process with good attitudes and hard work. They have worked on their own outside rehearsals, and have never complained about the long hours we spend together in rehearsal. These accompanying musicians will not be seen by the audience. In fact, to the degree they succeed in playing the score, they will become completely invisible. They will allow the audience to become lost in the plot of the opera, and forget that individual musicians are busy painting the picture they see.

In a sense, most of the music we enjoy represents a tiny audible portion of a much larger enterprise. Behind a great solo or choir or opera cast stand teachers and accompanists who invisibly make success possible. The performers deserve our applause, and accept it on behalf of the hidden musicians whose efforts they represent. In choral concerts, the accompanist is acknowledged and the audience shows their appreciation, but it is impossible for them to fully appreciated the accompanists' work in the daily rehearsals that lead to a successful concert.

So I'd like to take a moment here to salute the players in the pit, and the pianists and organists who work in our rehearsals and performances. They facilitate our enjoyment and create the context in which beautiful melodies can have their desired effect.

What is sacred?

I am intrigued by the fact that there is no universal standard for sacredness. A great deal of energy is spent in the world of church music arguing over what constitutes appropriately sacred music. Shouldn't there be some place that maintained a list of appropriate music?

The answer is obvious. We are each responsible for the sacred in our lives. The Bible says, "Behold, the Kingdom of God is with people". In our anthropomorphic attempts to understand that which cannot be understood, we assign sacredness to the things that make us feel close to the God we claim to understand.

Somewhere along the journey of monotheism that was begun by the children of Israel, we decided that it wasn't enough to have only one God. We had to increasingly define that God, and in so doing, we had to increasingly deny access to God to anyone whose understandings didn't match our own. I'm a pretty orthodox Christian believer, and I don't really propose any radical change in the ways we describe God in our worship. But I think it borders on blasphemy to think that I alone (and those with whom I agree) possess a true understanding of the nature of God. If God is all-knowing, all-being, then in order to understand God wouldn't we have to be God's equals? Obvious blasphemy.

The trigger for this train of thought came today when I saw a reference to Schubert's familiar setting of "Ave Maria." It's such a familiar piece of music that everyone has heard it, even though it represents a fairly radical part of the Christian understanding, the belief within some Christian traditions that Mary is of such elevated status that we can actually pray to her for intercession. As a Baptist, I was raised with the belief that this was incorrect and suspect doctrine. In the church of my childhood there was no place for any feminine reference related to God.

I remember the first time I heard Franz Biebl's setting of "Ave Maria," and what an impact it had on me. I decided immediately that the choir I directed had to sing the piece. It never occurred to me that we should quibble over doctrine. There was no doubt that this was sacred music. Of course, I received complaints and refusals from a couple of singers, but the rest fell in love with the piece like I had. I told them, "Just because it's not sacred to you doesn't mean it's not sacred." We sang it in our church and in Europe on tour. The last time we sang it we were in the Sistine Chapel. In that rarefied accoustic it came to life in a whole new way. A catholic friend who was traveling with us came over afterward and said, "I think Jesus was very pleased for you to sing so beautifully to his mother." It was sacred to my friend, and that was good enough for me.

I guess my point in this rambling post is that we should learn to believe in the limitations of our own understanding. It's a by-product of our self-centeredness and narcissism that we believe we can fully understand the God of the universe. Why don't we admit to our limits, and accept that other limited believers express themselves in other ways. Why don't we agree that music is sacred because of the pure intent of the worshiper who sings or plays it, rather than because it meets our arbitrary standard. Why don't we seek to be effective and committed stewards of our own musical gifts and abilities, and leave the judgment of others to a more qualified judge.

The Heart of the Choir

I spent a few weeks in Vienna last summer. My trip culminated in a concert on July 4 in Vienna's Konzerthaus, in which I conducted a festival chorus and orchestra in a performance of the Mozart Requiem. After intermission, Greg Hobbs conducted Haydn's Lord Nelson Mass. Greg is the Director of Music at Highland Park Presbyterian Church in Dallas, where he oversees one of the finest programs of church music in the country.

Greg and I are good friends, and we speak or e-mail frequently. Our conversations usually revolve around "talking shop." His program is large and complicated, and includes the allocation of professional personnel and resources to achieve a dizzying schedule of services and musical performances. Highland Park employs some of Dallas' finest singers, who lend incredible vocal depth and passion to their singing.

Although Greg oversees a program that functions at the highest possible professional level, he reminded me last week of the true heart of the church choir. That heart is different from the professional musical resources required to accomplish the high standards of a major program. It is the organ at the center of the body, pumping the life-giving blood throughout the organism. It is the dedicated volunteer singer.

While we were in Vienna, I met a man name Sid who had grown up singing in the children's and youth choirs of Highland Park Presbyterian Church. He had then joined the adult choir, where his faithfulness inspired the other singers, and where he had sung for over thirty years. At a dinner in Vienna he organized a quartet of men to entertain the crowd. During the festival he volunteered to sing in additional concerts to help balance the sections of the choir. His fountain of good humor and commitment drenched everyone.

I was shocked last week when Greg told me that Sid had taken the H1N1 virus, and its attack had been so severe that he had succumbed. The heart of the choir stopped.

A large memorial service was planned, and I can only imagine how that great choir sang for their fallen friend. The pulse of the choir will return, for Sid wasn't the only dedicated volunteer. In church music the next service is always looming, and the Highland Park Choir will rise to the challenge. But they will need a painful bypass operation, followed by some recuperation. Things won't sound or feel the same. For Sid is representative of the choir members everywhere who pump the blood and bring life to the mind and soul of worship; the amateurs who respond to a calling much higher than merely professional. When we lose the irreplaceable, we can't help but ask existential questions for which no answer comes. But we must not let our questions drown out our gratitude for a life so musically and spiritually lived. Those of us who lead church music are unspeakably grateful for people like Sid.

Good and Bad Miracles

A character on a television show was recently describing Mozart. He was telling that Wolfgang's father thought him to be a miracle, and felt a duty to take him all over Europe and let the miracle be seen. I'm pretty convinced that the father's perceived miracle lay in the profits he earned by exploiting his son's talent. At any rate, the end of the story, of course, is that Mozart became a childish adult. His adulthood started at the age of five or six, and he never matured normally. The world got to witness a miraculous talent, and the miraculously talented performer paid a very high price.

The recent death of Michael Jackson brings a similarly exploitive childhood to mind, as do the biographies of Britney Spears and her sister. I'm not comparing their talents to those of Mozart, rather the fact that their parents took a step beyond normal parental pride. Their talent, which many consider to be supernatural, became a source of both pride and income, and the talented child suffered for it.

Music can have a miraculous effect on children. All musical mentors in schools, churches or private studios can recount cases of prodigious talent that became a source of nurture and discipline in a child's life. They can also tell stories of students with no musical capital to spend, but whose musical experience had a profound effect on their lives.

The miracle of musical effect on a child who doesn't display unusual talent seems to me to be the greatest miracle of all. While I enjoy working with an advanced student, and seeing the minute-by-minute growth that occurs in their ability and understanding, I find most rewarding the situations where a child who has joined the choir with no real contribution to offer finds their life improved and their perspective opened. And I am certain that the parental pride in those families is equally strong, but in no way exploitive.

I know a child with profound hearing difficulty, who chose not to attend children's choir because the noise of the room was so disconcerting when filtered through her hearing aid. Consequently, I never really got to see her fun personality. When she made the attempt to come to Youth Choir, it was because of her efforts to fit completely into the group with all her classmates. I worried that the choir experience might still not work for her. Her mother told me she was committed to trying. It was difficult to ever hear her voice, and when I did it was not surprising that pitch was difficult.

She remained true to her commitment, and as she felt more comfortable, she began to play the piano for me when she arrived early. She played by ear, but had mastered some of the popular songs she enjoyed over headphones. She obviously had a musical talent that was in direct conflict with her hearing disability. One day I was passing by her as we were singing, and I was overjoyed to hear her clearly singing the alto part in tune.

The miracle happening before my eyes could be described as the victory of her musical ability over her hearing disability. I think this is a bigger miracle than seeing a prodigious talent perform with inevitable success. I love to listen to Mozart, but the sound of a young voice singing an alto part is the bigger miracle.