In sorrow that the ancient curse...

In sorrow that the ancient curse
should doom to death a universe,
you came, O Savior, to set free
your own in glorious liberty.
(Conditor alme siderum, number 60 in the Hymnal 1982)

“What does this stanza mean,” a young chorister asked in rehearsal. “What is this curse?” They knew about Adam and Eve and the serpent, but they had not heard about the Curse. I did not explain it very well; I spoke of the sweat of our brow, the thorns and thistles, the pains of child-bearing. And Death. We all die, and not just us, but all the other animals and plants. We all die.

That is the point of the hymn: He came to set us free. I said this. “No he didn't,” one of them replied. “We still die.” “But we will live forever with Him after that,” I said. “That is what He did. Without Him, we would die and that would be it. He broke the Curse and gave us life.”

They seemed puzzled by this. Perhaps they will think about it, perhaps for a long time.


This was another difficult week. I had a big voluntary for the Evensong prelude, but I did not make it onto the bench Tuesday, or Wednesday. That meant that I had Friday and Saturday to work it up – and this hardly a fortnight after I had sworn I would not play another big piece without more preparation.

I have played the piece (the Partita on “Wachet auf, ruft uns die Stimme” by Hugo Distler) about a half-dozen times over the years, the first time on my graduate recital under Dr. McDonald, so it had a solid fingering and I have a good idea of how I think it should go. Starting from scratch, such a piece would be impossible in two days, or a week.

But the mighty ones of old could have done it. Back in the day, the students of Alexander McCurdy (my teacher's teacher) had to prepare and memorize a new piece every week. No matter how difficult it was, right up to the most challenging works in the organ repertoire, they had one week.

I want to be that kind of organist.


This was “Cocoa and Carols” day, in some respects the most important parish event of the year. I was worried about it; many of us were, for a variety of reasons. As the morning progressed, it grew more frantic behind the scenes. My friend Anne who has done most of the hospitality events in the parish for the last several years was not to be found, and the clock was ticking. Thirty minutes before the event, there was no one working on food but me. I got John C. to start the coffee pot and I started boiling water for the cocoa in the kitchen.

Another friend, Judith, appeared in the kitchen and said “I am Anne,” telling me what had happened; Anne was in the emergency room. I was helping get the food in place when Nora pulled me away and sent me to the piano – for it was time; I had to kick off the event. The church was almost full, lots of children and families, loud chattering and excitement.

I stepped to the microphone: “WEELLLCOMME to the 2014 edition of COCOOA and CAAAROLLSSS!!!!” I gave it my best Caesar Flickerman imitation (a character in The Hunger Games, for those unfamiliar with the name), and got the people applauding. They probably thought I had lost my marbles.

We sang a couple of Advent songs, and then “St. Nicholas” knocked loudly on the church door – so loudly that he put some dents in it. Two young people opened the doors for him and the Rector gave him the full liturgical greeting appropriate for a visiting Bishop. He processed slowly down the aisle blessing everyone, looking for all the world like Pope Francis.

My part done for the moment, I slipped downstairs to check on the food. There was still a good deal of frantic putting-things-in-order. But it was showtime again; the young folk were pounding down the steps, running across the room to the cookies.

I played a few carols and started the Songs By Request. People (mostly the children, by this time sitting on the floor) shout numbers from the Christmas section of the hymnal and we sing them. It is very loud, chaotic, and wonderful.

The time came to wrap it up with Silent Night and Go Tell It On the Mountain, and I trotted upstairs: 10:55, and I had another service to play at 11:00. I climbed on the bench, took a deep breath, and started the prelude.

By 1:00 when all was done, I was exhausted. And there was still a lot to do. I ate dinner, spent almost an hour crafting a careful e-mail and making a related phone call, and warmed up for Choral Evensong. There was, inevitably, not enough time to do it properly.

But the choir sang splendidly: the Ayleward Responses, Psalm 37, and Sumsion in G, along with a Chinese-language anthem, “Pengyou, ting.” The lessons were dark; the excellent sermon by Judith was dark – as was the morning's sermon by my friend Meg W., newly ordained as a Deacon. There was much talk of the events in Ferguson, in New York City, and elsewhere. “I looked for grapes, and it brought forth wild grapes” (Isaiah 5:4). “He looked for judgment, but behold oppression, for righteousness, but behold a cry” (5:7).

And we sang Hymn 60, Conditor alme:

When this old world drew on toward night,
you came, but not in splendor bright,
not as a monarch, but the child
of Mary, blameless mother mild.

From Evensong, I joined a small group of families to walk over to a community residence for the elderly. A handful of them were awaiting us in the common room, and we sang Christmas carols for them, using the sheet which I prepared yesterday. One of our own adult choristers, Louise, was there, like me having just come from Evensong; she lives in this facility.

The final song was “Silent Night.” I invited any of them that knew it in German to sing it that way, and Louise did. That finished me off; hearing her sing “Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht” just as she had done as a child many years ago brought tears to my eyes and I could no longer sing.

It is a dark world, and the Curse is still with us.
But it has been broken.

Stille Nacht! Heilige Nacht!
Alles schläft; einsam wacht
Nur das traute heilige Paar.
Holder Knab im lockigten Haar,
Schlafe in himmlischer Ruh!
Schlafe in himmlischer Ruh!

Here is the Distler. There are mistakes, to be sure – this is one way that the Curse manifests itself for a musician – but it turned out well enough. In the YouTube clip, I include three photographs of this young composer who is very dear to me. It was his misfortune to come of age in a time and place much darker than ours: Nazi Germany in the 1930's. The third photo shows him with some of his students at the Hochschule, these young men whom he loved, so many of them fated to die in the Wehrmacht.

May he rest in peace. May they all rest in peace.

Almighty God, give us grace that we may cast away the works of darkness, and put upon us the armor of light, now in the time of this mortal life in which thy Son Jesus Christ came to visit us in great humility; that in the last day, when he shall come again in his glorious majesty to judge both the quick and the dead, we may rise to the life immortal; through him who liveth and reigneth with thee and the Holy Ghost, one God, now and for ever. Amen (Collect for the First Sunday of Advent, BCP p. 159)