God's a-gonna build up Zion's walls

And I John saw the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down from God out of heaven, prepared as a bride adorned for her husband. (Revelation 21:2)

Now therefore ye are no more strangers and foreigners, but fellowcitizens with the saints, and of the household of God; and are built upon the foundation of the apostles and prophets, Jesus Christ himself being the chief corner stone; in whom all the building fitly framed together groweth unto an holy temple in the Lord; in whom ye also are builded together for an habitation of God through the Spirit. (Ephesians 2:19-22; see also I Peter 2:5)

Great day! Great day, the righteous marching,
Great day! God’s a-gonna build up Zion’s walls.
(spiritual, which we sang in an arrangement by Warren Martin)

Thirty years ago, I thought the repertoire was the most important aspect of the RSCM Courses, and it was. I thought that the skills I learned from the music directors were important, and they are; I was granted a solid background at the Choir College for which I am grateful, but the Courses have taught me much more. But it took me many years to learn what is most important and best about the RSCM Courses: the people.

It was a delight to chat with the other adults over breakfasts and dinners and suppers in the dining hall; to take an evening “field trip” to a local ice cream shoppe; to talk at length with two of my best friends in a manner that doesn’t happen in our normal routines; to share in a three-hour Lebanese dinner with “a few” (twenty-six, that is) parents and choristers after Sunday Mass.

It was a joy to see Mario again, whom I first met when he was a young tenor at the Course, his voice newly changed. He is now in college and attending this week as an adult participant, and it was good to stand by him in the tenor section for part of the week as we did so many years ago. I did not think our paths would cross again.

It was good to sing under Michael Messina, and to be reminded that we first met long ago at one of the Charlotte RSCM courses for boys, where he was organist and I was there with choristers. I had forgotten this, as I had forgotten that it was that week when I first encountered the Short Service of Orlando Gibbons. It has been important to me ever since, possibly my favorite setting of the Evening Canticles.

It was a joy to accompany my student HMB in the talent show, the two of us playing the beginning and ending of “Rejoice in the Lamb,” a project of her devising after last summer’s Course.

It was a very great joy to see Mike and Tom and Bryn do the real work of the course – looking after the young people as proctors. I remember all three of them from their childhood, and it fills my heart with joy to see them all grown up and strong and intelligent and creative and full of integrity.

It was a joy to look to the right and see the front row of trebles in the Decani, many of them from our choir at home, and all of them singing with full commitment and delight. Or right in front of me in the Cantoris, two of our teen girls, grown into intelligent choral musicians of whom any choir would be proud. Or the young choirmen among whom I stood, six of them from our parish either now or when they were younger.

For the greatest joy is singing with these people, young and old. Parry’s “I was glad”. The Sicut cervus of Palestrina, one of the great choral masterpieces of all time. Anthems with connections to two of my teachers long ago at the Choir College.

I wish it could ever be so. One of the teen boys asked me “Why can’t we do this all year?” He is right to ask, but it is not simple.

O God, whose days are without end, and whose mercies cannot be numbered: Make us, we beseech thee, deeply sensible of the shortness and uncertainty of life… (BCP p. 489)

Somewhere in St. John of the Cross, we are admonished to flee from the temptation to cling to anything in this life. As soon as we clutch a moment in our arms and say “I want this to last forever,” it turns to ashes.

One of our trebles has moved to another state far to the east, and the Course was our last farewell to her and her family. It was hard, and will remain hard. One of the long-time adults was absent for reasons that are not clear to me, and I wonder when I will see her again. One of the former proctors is now a deacon and in a faraway place; he has missed two Courses in a row and again, I wonder when I will see him again. Soon enough, it will be me that is absent.

Reflecting on these things, the passage from Ephesians came to mind. How is it that we are “fitly framed together,” and what does that mean?

There are many ways, including the Holy Sacraments and Prayer. Another, and among the most powerful, is singing together. The more we do this, the stronger the bond. I hear and see it not just in the Courses, but in our choirs at home, and the Sacred Harp group that meets in our choir room, and the Skipperlings and the Family Folk Machine.

As in an earthly building, some of the most important ties for the architecture of the whole are those that, once formed, leap across the miles or the decades. No act of friendship, no song sung or played together, is in vain. The Spirit is at work in them, patiently knitting us into a whole that, until its completion, is known only to God. "I go to prepare a place for you," He says. He prepares the place by preparing us, for we are that place. Every song, every conversation between friends, every field trip for ice cream – each builds or strengthens a tie. If you will, these things are the connective tissue the binds the Body of Christ into one, the mortar and connecting rods and flying buttresses that join us into “an holy temple… an habitation of God through the Spirit.”

And so through all the length of days
thy goodness faileth never:
Good Shepherd, may I sing thy praise
within thy house for ever.
(Henry W. Baker, from “The King of love my Shepherd is”)

We sang well. There were many moments through the week that were especially fine: the first time in rehearsal when we really got rolling on “I was glad,” any time we sang the Sicut cervus, the moment when “Great Day” finally clicked.

More than any of these: “The King of love my shepherd is.” The opening hymn for the Mass, our director called early in the week for a “descant competition” for its tune St. Columba. Any chorister or adult who wished could compose a descant for the hymn. Only two took him up on it, both of them from our parish: Jean and Caleigh. We sang both descants, with Jean’s on the second stanza and Caleigh’s at the end. They fit their respective texts perfectly, the one calm and beautiful, the other more adventurous. When it came time for the hymn in the liturgy, I was quite undone: the organ, the large acoustic, the trebles’ strong clear line soaring into the space, all bound up in my affection for these two musicians. “Cling not to these things!” I remind myself. Music more than any other art lives in the moment, eluding every effort to bind it. But it lives in the Mind of God forever.

The Skipperlings: a Review and an open Letter

The Skipperlings, a vocal and string band, played for the Iowa City Farmers’ Market the other day, Wednesday, July 26. I wrote of them here, but it is time to write some more.

The group is of particular interest to me because all three of them sing in my choir: Caleigh, Greta, Claire. Their “arranger, accompanist, and manager” (as she was introduced; on banjo in the photo above), Jean Littlejohn, is my closest musical friend. In our differing spheres of activity, both of us are committed to getting people to sing. For me, it is the Songs of Zion; for Jean, it is mostly folk music and community singing, especially the choir she founded and directs, the Family Folk Machine. All this is to say: expect no objective detachment in my appraisal.

But that is part of my point. Music at its best grows from community, as I tried to describe in my recent RSCM Reports. It is local, homespun. It is not something reserved for a handful of glamorous superstars; music is meant to be made among friends and family and church congregations. People you know. Children from your church choir. Neighbors. Co-workers. Friends. In this, the Skipperlings are a first-class example.


This was a full-fledged gig: two hours of music. Greta told me during the ten-minute break that they were singing “everything we know, and a few that we don’t know.” Those who are performing musicians know what it means to prepare two hours of music – memorized, all the kinks worked out. It is a lot of hard work, the stuff that separates the pros from the dilettantes. And every song, every last one of them, was solid, their beautiful close-knit harmonies perfect and strong, always sung with strong Connection.

It is not insignificant that the girls were at the RSCM Course. On the one hand, six hours of daily singing put them in top vocal condition; on the other hand, I doubt that they found time for their Skipperlings songs, other than the one they sang at the talent show. They were home two days, and then the gig. That is impressive.

All of them are string players as well as singers: Caleigh on the violin, Claire and Greta on the cello, which they sometimes played as a miniature stand-up bass by extending the end-pin all the way out. They have both learned to sing and play the cello at the same time, which is not elementary. But it ties them to a long tradition, right back to the medieval troubadours and jongleurs, some of whom played the viola da gamba as they sang.

Their presentation was ideally suited to the venue, the local farmers’ market (which to their credit strongly supports local music). People walking around, shopping, eating food from the vendors, lots of noise. Lots of families and children. For most of the people, the Skipperlings were background music, a welcome addition to the market. A few people drifted in and out from the “stage” area (a concrete pad at one end of the parking area-turned-market), listening for a few songs. Maybe twenty or thirty listeners of this sort at any one time, and a few people that stayed for most or all of it.

One of their songs called for Kermit the Frog (a stuffed animal version), whom the girls sat in front of them as they sang. A little boy toddled up, hugged Kermit, and toddled off with him, his mother chasing him – all while the girls sang, giggling a little at what was going on. It was delightful.

It was all low-key, relaxed, fun. The girls bantered among themselves between songs as they tuned. They introduced the songs, sometimes with good-natured disagreement as to what the song was about. Claire encouraged us to visit their Facebook page.

Local music, local food. Both homegrown by people of the community. If there is hope for the United States and beyond, this is part of it.


I do not know what lies ahead for the Skipperlings. As a group, they are not likely to be famous, though they do have a significant local presence and following. Caleigh’s voice and stage presence remind me more than a little of the young Alison Krauss, fiddler and singer and one of my favorite musicians. By Caleigh’s age, Alison had a contract with Rounder Records and was working on a commercial recording, “Too Late to Cry,” released when she was sixteen. Here is an old video of the title song, back from those days.

None of the three Skipperlings are yet at that level as musicians, though I would not rule out one or more of them getting there someday. But that does not matter; Claire, Greta, and Caleigh will walk their own paths which may include some fame, or not. What is certain is that their futures, together and apart, will include lots of quality music-making. And right now, the summer of 2017, is a special time for them, and for all who hear them. One can ask for no more.

----------------------------------------------------------
Dear Skipperlings:

You are unexpected.
I do not think that anyone, even Jean, foresaw what you have become by singing together, playing instruments together. Your music brings light and joy to the world. This is no small thing. When you sing at a farmers’ market or Uptown Bill’s or anywhere else in the community, you change the world. Not by very much, mind you; it might be one person who was sad and depressed and you brought them light, at least for a little while as they listened to you. Or it might be a child, like that little toddler with Kermit, who sees and hears you and the seed is planted: “I could do that. I could sing like that someday and be a musician.” The work of music is given to us. But it is not given us to know the results of it, not in this life.

Days will come when you are the one who is sad and depressed, or frightened, or without a clue as to your next step. It is then most of all that you must keep on singing. The light shines in darkness, your own as well as that of the world around you.

There is a purity and innocence to your singing. I hear it in your voices, see it in your onstage demeanor; it is a part of the delight you bring to your audiences. This is partly because you are young. But it need not disappear as you get older; I see and hear some of it (for example) in Jean when she is working with the Folk Machine or playing the organ at church. Jeff Capps and Tara Dutcher have this, too, as do many others. I hope that wherever your paths lead, you continue to carry it with you.

For the best examples, one must look to the saints: Joan of Arc, for one. Cecilia, patron of music. Francis and Clare of Assisi. Most of all, look to the pure and innocent Lamb whom I know you follow and in whom you rejoice. He was pure of heart and soul and entirely innocent right through the Cross and into the pit of Hell. And He can carry us with Him all the way through the worst of it into heaven.

Don’t forget the church songs: the hymns, and the sort of things we sang this summer at the RSCM Course and in our church choir, and the people who sang them. I do not need to tell you what these things mean; you have experienced them for yourselves.

Finally, here is some advice I wrote a few years ago for others; it applies now to you and I hope you will take the time to read it:
Advice for young musicians

Whatever happens, whatever form your music takes, keep on singing and playing your instruments. You are a light in the darkness.

Hope changes everything

From the song “Sing, People, Sing,” by Pat Humphries and Sandy Opatow, as arranged by Jean Littlejohn:

O hear the banjo ring
Hear the people sing
Hope changes everything
Sing, people, sing.

Jean’s choir, the Family Folk Machine, sang this in their concert this afternoon.

From Russ Feingold, former Senator from Wisconsin who lost a bid in the recent election to return to the Senate: in an e-mail to his supporters after the election, he wrote “… something is happening in our country. I don't understand it completely. I don't think anybody does. But we as Americans have to do the best we can to deal with the pain in this country and get people to come together.”

It looks to me like we are in for hard times. I have said it before: under the label “national calamity” in the sidebar to the left, I see that I have said it in one way or another twenty-one times in this blog. Here is part of one such essay, from 2013:

The final hymn festival, the closing event of the [Hymn Society] conference, was titled "New shoots and buds: new directions in congregational song," led (mostly) by Tony Alonso and Hilary Seraph Donaldson with lots of other musicians -- almost all of them under the age of thirty (Hilary's father Andrew, a long-time Hymn Society leader, was one of the exceptions; it was great to see father and daughter together among the musicians.)

I learned that the organizers had not met in person before the conference. The planning, extending over a year, was done entirely through meetings on Skype and through other forms of electronic communication.

And they see what I see in the world. The penultimate hymn was a call to eschatological hope, which is central to the witness of the Church -- a hymn that they said was hard for them to find. It was sung to the strong shape-note tune "Morning Trumpet," with lines like this:

“Let the banker and the president beware the trumpet's call,
And beat swords of greed and commerce into equal shares for all.
Let the teachers speak in wisdom, let the music-makers play,
Let the weavers weave the tent where we shall gather on that day.

“Lowly eyes shall be lifted, while the tyrants taste their fear,
For that sound is both a gospel and a warning...”
("The trumpet in the morning," by Rory Cooney)

I sang, we all sang, with tears in our eyes, longing for that day when all shall be made right.

Later that day as I drove west through the Alleghenies into one last mist-shrouded mountain sunset, I thought of these brave words and those who sang them. Will they -- will we -- have the strength to stand when the drone attacks and "peacekeepers" kill our friends, spies and informers are everywhere, and all is darkness -- as it already is in parts of the world?

I was taken to task by a commenter after the election because of my hardness of heart and lack of political activism. I was told that I need to get off of my organ bench and live up to my “loudly proclaimed discipleship.”

Well, no I don’t. Instead, I must redouble my efforts to play better, to be a better choral director and church musician.

One part of what I must do - what all musicians must do, young and old – is sing together. My friend Jean has a big role in this, here in our community. In a different way, I have a role, too: there are specific things – true things - that we can sing in a church choir and in a Christian congregation that a community group cannot, and things that I can share through the music of Bach and Messiaen and others, and our work as choral singers, and in my own creations, that are my particular responsibility.

There are times when Music is one of the few ways that we can find hope.
There are times when Music binds up the wounds of the soul and body.
There are times when the Song is what holds us together.
There are times when the only way we can come together is by singing.

It seems insignificant. Impractical. Powerless.
No more than a mustard seed, or yeast in the dough.

But it is what I am called to do. So is Jean, so are countless others around the world, and not just musicians: poets, authors, dancers, artists, anyone who creates. We must put our best stuff out there, and keep on doing it, no matter what. Why? “Hope changes everything.”

I cannot see how it can change anything at all; that is why it is Hope, for it is not based on what we can see.

But “we are saved by hope.” (Romans 8:24)

“Hope” is the thing with feathers -
That perches in the soul -
And sings the tune without the words -
And never stops - at all -

And sweetest - in the Gale - is heard -
And sore must be the storm -
That could abash the little Bird
That kept so many warm -

I’ve heard it in the chillest land -
And on the strangest Sea -
Yet - never - in Extremity,
It asked a crumb - of me.
(Emily Dickinson)

From this morning's liturgy:
To thy heavenly banquet (Alexis Lvov)

The Visitation

The Visitation of the Blessed Virgin Mary: May 31, 2016

I was prepared to write an Imaginary Sermon, having read the Lessons for the Eucharist as appointed in the Book of Common Prayer. But I saw that they have been changed for the Revised Common Lectionary. The Gospel remains the same, fortunately; so does Psalm 113. But the other lessons were better in the old version.

Old Version (BCP):
Zephaniah 3:14-18a
Psalm 113 or Canticle 9
Colossians 3:12-17
Luke 1:39-49

New Version (RCL):
I Samuel 2:1-10
Psalm 113
Romans 12:9-16b
Luke 1:39-49

Thus, I will content myself with one observation: On this most beautiful of feasts, “how can we keep from singing?” St. Paul tells us so in the lesson from Colossians: “Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly in all wisdom; teaching and admonishing one another in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing with grace in your hearts to the Lord.”

The Word dwelt within Our Lady and was immediately recognized by John the Baptist, who was as yet in his mother’s womb. And, by the grace of the Holy Spirit, the Word dwells within us, individually and as Holy Mother Church, manifesting itself in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs: “How can we keep from singing?”

Ave Maria, gratia plena:
Dominus tecum.

As ever, the Song does not originate from us. It is He that sings over us, as we read in the lesson from Zephaniah:

The LORD thy God in the midst of thee is mighty; he will save, he will rejoice over thee with joy; he will rest in his love, he will joy over thee with singing.

Why do I consider this day to be so beautiful, so important?

From the beginning, there have been long stretches of time where the way is hard, a wilderness without food or water. Israel was in such a time when the events of the first chapter of Luke took place.

There are no signs for us to see;
there is no prophet left;
there is not one among us who knows how long (Psalm 74:8)

When least expected, the Word of the LORD breaks forth, and for a moment we see clearly. Jacob in his dream at Bethel, a stone for his pillow. Moses at the burning bush. The people at the Red Sea, when they crossed on dry ground. Elijah when the fire came from heaven and consumed the offering. Isaiah in the year that King Uzziah died.

And here. Our Lady and Elizabeth.

“How can we keep from singing?” Mary could not: she spoke the Song that has become our song, the song of the Church every evening. “My soul doth magnify the Lord…” It is not without reason that the most beautiful chants of the plainsong repertoire are reserved for the Feasts of the Blessed Virgin Mary, the Missa Marialis chants of the Ordinary of the Mass (Kyrie, Sanctus, Agnus Dei) among them.

The path would again be hard and narrow. It led Mary’s Son into the desert, and beyond that to the Cross, where even He would cry out “My God, my God, why hast thou forsaken me?”

But still, even now, there are moments when we see clearly.
How can we keep from singing?

Within our darkest night

Within our darkest night,
you kindle the fire that never dies away.
(Taizé song)

Tuesday of Holy Week:
In my years of church music I had played only one Taizé service. This evening was my second.

We use Taizé music during communion at our 9:00 service. I have attended Taizé services, memorably one at the Hymn Society Conference in Maryville, Tennessee decades ago, where Bob Batastini was introducing the songs and prayers of Taizé to American church musicians and clergy. Each night that week for the end of day, we crowded into the little chapel, many of us standing in the aisles and back, singing these songs, all of them new to me. It was there, from Batastini, that I learned how important the dynamics are to this music – it is not all slow and soft, as some musicians seem to think. Within most of the songs individually, there is an ebb and flow of dynamic – within the little eight or sixteen bar structure, and on the larger scale as the song repeats and the sound grows and softens and (perhaps) grows again and finally ends.

More recently, I was at a memorable Taizé service at the 2013 Hymn Society Conference (Richmond, Virginia). I wrote of it here.

Should the coming decades bring what I expect, the quiet witness of these Brothers [of Taizé], just Brother Roger at first and then for many years fewer than ten of them, stands as a model for those facing times of famine, death, tumult and war. No matter what the circumstances, it is always possible to live the Christian life in community, and to serve as Christ's hands in the healing of the nations.

More specifically, we church musicians must keep the Taizé songs and their manner of worship in mind. There is more strength to these songs, these prayers, than one might think.

This night, this Tuesday of Holy Week 2016, will stand in my memory alongside those other Taizé nights.

Partly, it was the company assembled: twelve of us, all of them people I know and love. Partly, it was the context: the Islamic State attack in Brussels was on the minds of many, the depressing spectacle of the U.S. electoral season with its attendant fears for the future of our country on others – my Intention as I lit a small candle during the silence was for my little godchild and student, who was among those present, that Christ might be with her whatever comes her way. And we gathered during Holy Week, when it is most clearly seen that Christ walks before us into every suffering, every darkness.

And partly, we made Real Music. The songs went as well as could be with a small group, for many of the twelve were good singers – not just vocally, but in terms of singing “with the spirit and with the understanding also.” The space was as it should be for a Taizé service, being made so by my friend and fellow-laborer John, with candles and a cross, elegance and beauty. There were readings and prayers and silences, all guided by my friend Raisin, whose understanding of this sort of liturgy is profound.

If I had one wish, it would have been that the songs and silences and prayers would have been longer. We sang and prayed for an hour; it seemed but a few minutes, and it was difficult to leave any of the songs. The best I could tell, every one of them achieved the goal that is behind Taizé singing – song as an icon, a window into the Eternal.

One of the twelve persons, who arrived late, said afterwards “We should do a lot more of this. Maybe every week.” No. This night, this confluence of time and space and persons, was enough, at least for now.


In closing, I note that two of the sixty musical bits that now lie before me are Taizé songs:

Stay with me, remain here with me.
Watch and pray.

This will be sung in procession Thursday night, just before Psalm 22 and the Stripping of the Altar.

And the other: Laudate Dominum. In its place – communion during the Great Vigil of Easter, and again at the 9:00 service on Easter Day – it says what must be said, and what in this parish could be said by no other song.

Laudate Dominum, omnes gentes.
Alleluia.

RSCM Report: Followers of the Lamb

Tuesday, July 21

O brethren, ain't you happy,
O brethren, ain't you happy,
O brethren, ain't you happy,
Ye followers of the Lamb
(from a Shaker song, which we sang at the Course)

For years, I have attempted to teach choirs the Three Basics, a concept which I learned at an RSCM Course years ago:

Posture
Space (or "Inside Smile" as Mr. Walker puts it)
Breath (Mr. Walker's short-hand reminder: "Ribs")

Mr. Walker teaches this, using the slightly different terms noted above. Posture is obvious, and essential for a singer (and, like the others, beneficial to health more generally). Space is primarily space for the sound to develop, mostly by means of proper alignment of the larynx and soft palate; said alignment is easily created by the Yawn-Sigh (which places the larynx) and the sensation of an "inward smile," which raises the soft palate. Mr. Walker's method of teaching good breathing was new to me; by the image of hands on the lower ribs and spreading the fingers with inhalation -- then keeping the "spread" ribs as one exhales and sings -- the singer gains a sense of erect ribcage during exhalation and no involvement of the shoulders whatsoever in breathing. For a quick reminder he would often say "Ribs" as we inhaled just before starting a phrase.

He adds a fourth Basic, which I intend to use: Attitude.

Back at the Choir College, Dr. Flummerfelt described it as Connection, and I will probably use that word, though Attitude needs less explanation. When singing, are you connected to the text and musical line with all of your being? Or are you going through the motions? It might be possible for instrumentalists to sometimes get away with the latter, but the voice is so thoroughly a window into the soul that it is immediately obvious if the singers are not Connected -- and, if the other basics are in place and the group has done its homework, Connection makes it possible for the song to touch the hearts of the listeners. This will never happen if the hearts of the singers are not likewise touched by the Song and absolutely committed to it.

Following the afternoon rehearsal, the choristers played kickball and the adult directors gathered to share ideas. These sessions are part of every Course and I always learn from them. From today's work (and from Mr. Walker's work throughout the week) I carry a renewed determination to teach the choirs to Read Music, which is mostly sight-singing (or at least singing correctly at "second sight" as some of the old Chorister Training materials put it, a phrase that I think came from Martin How). Mr. Walker described the reading of vocal music as "reading two languages at once" -- the musical notation, and the words, with the eyes going up and down between the two even as they go left to right across the page. It is very difficult for some, and it is not easy for anyone. He did not take it this far, but the up-and-down and sideways motion is a part of the challenge of score reading. For something written for large orchestra with chorus, the whole page might be one system, with winds on top, brass, strings, voices, perhaps a continuo line under that. The conductor must scan up and down while her eyes go across the page -- which might be at high speed in an allegro or presto -- and account for transposing instruments and C-clefs. It is not a skill which I possess to any high degree, and not something that is learned overnight.

From the week, I hope to carry home a commitment to a higher standard of work. But I know that I come home every year from RSCM with such ideas, and the choir ultimately beats me down, especially the adults. I can tell them to sit tall, and some of them will look at me and not move a muscle. And eventually I give up and accept their standard. The best I can hope is that over a lifetime of work, I might move them along a little bit, and if I consider my fifteen years in my current position, I think that there has possibly been some slight progress. Maybe.

And for the young people, I can bring some of them here.

Years ago, a young husband and wife sang in our adult choir back in the parish. Their two preschool children -- one of them hardly past infancy -- would sit in the rehearsals or play in the back of the choir room. One of them would sometimes sit on the floor at the tail of the rehearsal (grand) piano where I was directing from the keyboard; she would "direct" the choir to the delight of all present. At least sometimes, they would process with us into evensong, the younger in her father's arms, the older holding her mother's hand.

But they moved to another state. One of the things that distressed me, and continued to grieve me in the succeeding years, was that these girls -- the two sisters joined by a third, for whom I stood as a godparent -- would never sing in our Youth Choir, or come to an RSCM Course.

And now, they are here. The three girls and their mother are at this year's Course. Tonight at Vespers, I was able to watch the eldest, who is singing beside one of the strongest high school trebles. She and her sister have been in our Youth Choir this year. The youngest, still too young to participate officially in the Course or even our Youth Choir (she joins this fall), was on this night with the trebles, out on the far end of the Cantoris front row beside C., singing her first RSCM evening service.

I did not think that I would ever see this.

RSCM Report: Final Thoughts

Evensong, and a technical note on Psalmody

From last year:

I told [Debra] how I came undone when I heard Kyle's voice, looked across and saw her singing [the solo on the final pages of “Like as the hart.”] "You think it gets you," she said, agreeing with me. "Think what I felt like: that was my kid singing it."

This year, it was my kids at the Saturday Evensong: Mark and Mike, along with Saul, singing the opening stanza of “Promised Land” and again as part of the quartet from the Walmisley Magnificat. I came entirely undone, thinking of all the years we have had together in choir, a time that has now ended.


Last year, we had no setting of the Preces and Responses, and the Psalm was done in plainsong by a semichorus of teens and adults. The choir directors had some offseason e-mail discussion about this. Some thought that it is impractical to achieve a high level of performance in psalmody with a large group, especially with trebles who may or may not watch the director. I expressed the importance of the psalmody, precisely in order to teach them to watch and listen. The discipline of psalmody is essential to the development of good choral singing, to say nothing of its spiritual benefits. The attention demanded by a choral setting of the Responses is equally important, and brings an intensity to Choral Evensong that carries over into the other music. Whether my words had any influence I do not know, but we did this year have a fine set of Responses by Stephen Carletti, written for Mr. Ashby's former choir in Capetown and based on South African models. And we sang a Psalm to Anglican Chant, all of us.

I was granted an insight during our rehearsal at the Presbyterian Church and in the subsequent liturgy: Ensemble in Psalmody, especially in a large choir, depends on watching the director, but depends much more on watching and listening to each other. We had some difficulty in synchronizing a verse sung by tenor and bass in unison, with the two sections spread widely across the chancel. I found that if I watched Mike at the far end of the row, I could synchronize my syllables with his better than I could by simply watching Mr. Ashby; when the full choir was singing, I could watch both Mike and Bryn, likewise at the far end of the choir from me.

In the other music as well as the Psalm, I found that I could anchor my pitch by tuning to Kyle (two seats to my right, singing treble) and Meara (behind us, singing alto) – fifths, thirds, octaves, unification of vowels. Their absolutely reliable singing did much to make us the fine choir that we were this year; it certainly made me a better singer.


The Chaplain and the Director

The weekday Evensongs at Todd Hall are as important to me as the final Evensong out in the community. Evensong gives a focus to the day's rehearsals; it gives the new choristers experience in the service before the weekend; most of all, it is an opportunity to sing and worship together. When I sing Evensong back home, usually by myself, I always feel its connection to the RSCM Evensongs and the First Sunday Evensongs in our parish.

This year, Michael K. was our Chaplain, a role filled in the past by Br. Vincent. By living in the Big House, I was able to watch Michael and Mr. Ashby plan the services and work together. Michael's sermons were excellent, including one on a part of the Passion account that was appointed in this week's Lectionary. One might think that these bloody and painful passages should be skipped over for children; that would be entirely wrong. We adults would like to think that the life of children is all sunshine and roses. No, they experience all the pain, fear, grief, and darkness that are known all too well by adults. The only way to understand these things as a child or an adult involves people mocking Jesus, spitting on him, crowning him with thorns, and finally nailing him to a cross, as we heard in the lesson and as Michael unpacked in his sermon.

Now, Michael is capable of being as goofy as Br. Vincent; he displayed this in our final time together as a choir in a dance with Eddie that might be on YouTube by now. But he also proved himself of being as serious in his devotion to Our Lord as Br. Vincent. And that is saying much. He is a postulant, and will be a terrific priest someday.

Our musical director, Garmon Ashby, was at his second St. Louis Course. I loved his manner of work with the choir: well-planned, fast-paced, focused on the places that needed work, with plenty of questions for the choristers, and a better understanding of vocal production and care for the voice than we have sometimes seen. Our rehearsals were calm, in spite of the fast pace, and I do not think that any of us were anxious about any of the music at any point. He certainly did not seem to be, and that carried over to the choir. By the weekend, we were fully prepared and sang the services with confidence.

I did not want to intrude on him in our shared quarters, for he used much of his free time in planning the next rehearsals. But I nonetheless consider it a privilege to have gotten to know him a bit better. I hope he will be back at Todd Hall at a future Course.


That they may be one...

… that they all may be one; as thou, Father, art in me, and I in thee... (St. John 17:21)

It came even to pass, as the trumpeters and singers were as one, to make one sound to be heard in praising and thanking the LORD... that then the house was filled with a cloud, even the house of the LORD... (II Chronicles 5:13)

It is always hard to leave the Course. In our week of singing together, we became as one. At our midweek Eucharist at Todd Hall, the priest expressed his wish that we could all stay and be part of his parish. Many of us would love to do that, to sing together all the time. But we cannot: all of us have responsibilities elsewhere, and people who are dear to us.

This desire, this longing to keep singing together, is part of something larger; it is a desire that is shared by Our Lord, and which shall find its fulfillment in him. The day will come when we are parted no more, but are one, even as he is one with the Father and the Holy Ghost:

On Jordan's stormy banks I stand,
and cast a wishful eye
to Canaan's fair and happy land
where my possessions lie.

Oh, who will come and go with me?
I am bound for the promised land,

a choral warmup

A choral warmup exercise, developed in our youth choir rehearsal today:

Have the full choir begin on the C above middle C (third space treble clef). The tenors and basses are in unison with the trebles, in their head voice (not an octave below them)

Sing down the scale, using solfas (Do - ti - la - sol...)

At middle C, the trebles go back up (Do - re - mi ...) while the tenors and basses continue down another octave, down to the tenor C. [If there are male altos, they should take whichever part is more comfortable, probably singing with the trebles and female altos. But if they have the low notes, they can go on down with the tenors and basses.]

The two parts turn around and come back down/up the scale to meet at middle C.

Not every choir is capable of this.

I am very proud of our tenors and basses and altos. Nearly all of them have beautiful and comfortable head tones in the range from F or G of the treble clef up to the third space C, and a couple of them beyond that. I have tried to model this for them by singing that way myself, and it amazes me that they have picked this up. I hope that some of them might move with better freedom among the three male parts (alto, tenor, bass) than I have done, and maintain a wide vocal range throughout their adult lives -- I was well into my forties before I learned to properly sing in my upper range.

In my experience, the best way for a young man to develop his voice is to first establish the head voice, in a sound that some would call "falsetto," and at first it may be more of a falsetto and not a developed head voice.

Each day, after the first preliminary warmups (Posture, Space, Breath: sustained note on "ee" in comfortable range -- low voice or high voice -- yawn-sigh on "Oh", then "over the top" on "Oh" - start low, go high, slide back down low), sing several sustained notes in the high head voice, middle of treble clef. "Oh" is a good vowel to start, then use other vowels.

After establishing this sound, sing scales downward across the passagio [register "break" or "change"] into the lower voice. Then scales down and back up [not up and back down! Start high, go down first.] Then other patterns, such as arpeggios, melodies with skips, etc.

In my own singing practice, I improvise at this point, consciously seeking to make melodies that cross the passagio. This is enormous fun, one of the most enjoyable parts of my day.

It is important to develop the low voice as well, and to carry some of the power the low voice into the high voice. The "mezza di voce" is excellent for this. At first, do it on pitches that are well within the low voice or the high voice and not near the passagio. Then, work on pitches nearer to the passagio, where the exercise takes the voice from the higher register to the lower register and back.

RSCM Report: Part Two

July 24: Auf Erden bin ich nur ein Gast

We are singing the Bach motet (or one-movement cantata) "O Jesu Christ, meins Lebens Licht," BWV 118. This is the first time that we have sung Bach at any of the Courses I have attended, whether here at St. Louis or elsewhere in the 1980's and 90's.

It was written for the burial office, to be sung at the grave. The absolute reliance upon God in the face of death is central to this motet, and it is in the background of all of the music of Bach, even the most joyful.

O Jesu Christ, meins Lebens Licht,
mein Hort, mein Trost, mein Zuversicht!
Auf Erden bin ich nur ein Gast,
und drückt mich sehr der Sünden Last.

Judith determined that she and I are the two oldest people at the Course, and today, the second full day of the course, I feel it. My eyes are dim and I cannot read the vocal texts in some of the scores -- the Pachelbel and Bach pieces among them -- so I stumble over the words. I no longer have the breath to carry the phrases in any of the music, especially the Howells and Stanford. I am hoarse from too much singing at the passagio, the vocal area around middle C and D, and on this day not very happy with Mr. Kleinschmidt for choosing two big pieces in the key of D (Mozart and Pachelbel), both of them with lots of notes in this area for the tenors. Partly because of this, I feel inadequate for the Pachelbel semichorus, and sing much of it badly again in tonight's vespers."Und drückt mich sehr der Sünden Last," -- "the burden of sin weighs heavily upon me."

"You should quit," says the Adversary (Hebrew: Ha-Satan). "You are a worthless has-been. You have no place here with all these fine singers."

I believe that he is wrong: all of us are important.

I can perhaps still help the two fourteen-year-old tenors at my side, Mario and Saul. They are terrific, and both of them have better voices than mine. But I shared my music with Mario when he could not find his in last night's Vespers. I watch the director, I sing the entrances on time (mostly) and in tune, and this gives them confidence to do the same. Mario was beside me in the tenor section at last year's Course, and he seems to think well of me, treating me with the deference he might have for a grandfather. Saul was at last year's Course as well, and is becoming a fine young tenor. Both of them have become dear to me, and it was an honor to sing with them.

After Vespers was the Course event formerly known as the Gentlemen's Game. I used to have a ceremonial role in it, though that is now over, and I miss being part of it. But one of the competitors came over to me between shots and said "I need a pep talk." She had taken the early lead in this final round but then had gone cold. Others had caught up, and she was nervous. I believe that this night meant much to her, and I wanted to help, but I had no idea what to say. I reminded her to take deep breaths and I told her she could do it; she needed only one more good shot.

It was not my place to favor her over the others, especially when Ken, one of my choristers, was in the finals as well. I wished all of them the best, and do most fervently wish them the best in matters far beyond one night's game at a summer camp. Still, I would have been happy for this young lady if she could find that one more good shot and win the event.

I was not of much help to her; she lost. But she helped me; on this day when the Adversary's voice was strong, she reminded me that yes, I still have a place in this Course, even in non-musical ways.

"Auf Erden bin ich nur ein Gast" - "On earth I am but a guest." My place here is not for much longer. Tolkien called our mortality the "Gift of Eru," and a gift it is in truth. We should, like Bach and the other old Lutheran masters, contemplate our death in all that we do -- its foretaste in the gradual fading of our powers just as much as the final sleep at the end. Because of death, our choices are real, with lasting implications for ourselves and others. And the joys of this life are all the more precious. They are like music -- the art that is most preeminently in the moment, gone from the world as soon as it is sounded, but beautiful in part because it is so fleeting.

July 25: Bless, O Lord, us thy servants

Bless, O Lord, us thy servants, who minister in thy temple. Grant that what we sing with our lips, we may believe in our hearts, and what we believe in our hearts, we may show forth in our lives: through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

This is the Chorister's Prayer, with which I have begun all of my church choral rehearsals since I learned it from James Litton's choir at Trinity Church, Princeton, many years ago. Most RSCM choirs around the world use it. This week, the trebles are singing a setting of the text by Bruce Neswick for Vespers. I am glad, not least for the opportunity to revel in "That Sound," the beautiful sound made by the trebles of this Course and other well-trained choirs, boys or girls or both together. The soaring purity of it melts my heart.

It is not easy for the young choristers at their first Course, or learning to sing in changed voice. The Adversary attacks them just as he attacks older singers like me; he whispers to them: "You can't do this. You can't get anything right. You are stupid. You can't pay attention. Choral singing is dumb anyway. You should quit." In one way or another, he says such things to us all. (Why is it that he always belittles us, and our dear Lord, the Friend of Sinners and the Good Shepherd who gives his life for the sheep, always builds us up, always believes that we can one day become like him, when we shall finally see him as he is?)

The first full day is the hardest: six hours of rehearsal plus Choral Vespers, a folder full of difficult music, much of it in Latin or German, surrounded by all of these older singers for whom it seems so easy.

One of the young choirmen, new to his changed voice, was struggling by the first afternoon's rehearsal. His attention wandered, and I could see that he was dangerously close to giving up.

What he and the other new singers do not yet understand is that the entire community of faith and song in this place is pulling for him. The older chorister sitting beside him tells him to hold up his music, helps him find the right page, urges him (sometimes with exasperation) to sit tall and pay attention. And it is for love that he does this, the love of one who was just as lost a few years ago at his first Course and wants this new singer to stay, to be a Choral Singer this week and this fall and all the days of his life.

Today is now the third full day, and it is becoming easier. That young choirman is gradually finding his way; the first-year trebles (one of them from our parish) are doing well, participating and answering questions. I am singing a little better, and might do all right with the Pachelbel by Saturday. All of us are gaining confidence in the music.

-----
There are many parishes with fine choral music, all of it sung by well-trained adults, where not the slightest attention is paid to children's voices. It is much easier that way, but it is a trap. I felt its seduction this week in our semichorus work: "Wouldn't it be great to sing with these people all the time? No little ones rattling their room key or dropping their folder or going to the bathroom every ten minutes. No wobbly-voiced old sopranos singing a quarter step flat, no half-blind tenors (like me). We could get so much done!"

All it takes is money for the paid singers and a sufficiently large pool of talent, preferably vigorous and intelligent young adults who sing perfectly in tune with good blend, sight-read like crazy, and are available for the two or three (or more; you always need more) rehearsals a week.

There are such places, and there are such choirs. But they have chosen the broad road that leads to destruction. In a few years, the singers will no longer be young; their voices will begin to wobble, their hearing go bad, and the director will find it impossible to get rid of them without ill feelings. And who will replace them if no parish has taken the strait and narrow path of teaching children to sing?

The St. Louis RSCM Course is the finest model of a choral community that I have encountered. There is a full range of choristers, from the youngest treble to the oldest adults. Most of all, there is a steady progression from children to middle-school teens to high-school singers, and young adults, many of them accomplished musicians. All learn from one another, every step of the way.

It is not just the rehearsals: it is the meals, the afternoon and evening activities, the times of just sitting around with friends. It is of such things as these that the Kingdom of God is made.

RSCM Report: The Gathering

July 22: Monday

This was the travel day to the RSCM Course in St. Louis. I love solo road trips; it always takes me a while to adjust to others in the car. But I soon relaxed, enjoyed conversation with Judith, and delighted in the young choristers in the back seat, Lucy and Ted, with their conversation and songs and games. I thought of other years, other choristers, now grown up.

These days are precious, and ever so fleeting.

Many friends from past courses were there at Todd Hall when we arrived, including some who had been long absent. I was delighted to see them. But again, these days are precious, and ever so fleeting: I learned this evening that Mr. B. is retiring after sixteen years as course manager. My first thought was that this might be the last St. Louis Course. By the end of the week, I came to believe that it will continue in some form, but I did not feel that way on Monday when I heard the news, and it hung over me like a cloud through much of the week. With almost everything that happened, I had the sense that it might be the last time.

I delighted in Ted, at his first course and his first rehearsal, volunteering to read a stanza of text. I sat in the tenor section beside Max at the first rehearsal -- Max, who was still a treble this spring. Mike was now sitting behind the table at registration as assistant to Mr. B., a leadership position where I am sure he will excel. It is they -- all these young folk and others like them across the world -- who will take the Song through the days to come.

July 23: Deposuit potentes

Fecit potentiam in brachio suo;
Dispersit superbos mente cordis sui,
Deposuit potentes de sede,
Et exaltavit humiles.

He hath showed strength with his arm;
He hath scattered the proud in the imagination of their hearts.
He hath put down the mighty from their seat,
And hath exalted the humble and meek.

For the first time at this Course, we are singing Lutheran Vespers instead of Anglican Evensong. That means that we have a Latin Magnificat, a fine setting by Pachelbel. It is my first time singing the Latin text, and I am glad to learn it.

The Magnificat is the sovereign answer of Our Lady and Holy Mother Church to the mystery of iniquity, and all of its powers in this world. The infancy narrative of St. Luke is in Greek, not Hebrew. But there may well be an older Hebrew or Aramaic narrative behind it. Certainly it reflects a Semitic manner of thought more than the rest of St. Luke's Gospel.

It is far from obvious that "he hath put down the mighty from their seat." To all visible evidence, they remain firmly in control. But part of the genius of Hebrew and Aramaic verbs is that they do not concern themselves very much with past, present, or future in the same way as the verbs of European languages. As I understand it, the primary concern is more with whether an action is completed -- past or future is of little account.

From the introduction to my Hebrew Psalter:

... future events are often described in past tense, because the prophet has already seen these events occur in his prophetic vision.

Every Evensong, every Vespers, whether spoken or sung, is our testimony that these things are true: "He hath put down the mighty from their seat, and hath exalted the humble and meek." This is a completed action, and the answer to all my doubts and fears.

--------
The musical balance is different for Vespers as compared with Anglican Evensong. The Anglicans have sophisticated choral settings of the Preces and Responses; the equivalents at Vespers (whether Lutheran or Roman Catholic; they are almost identical in form) are much simpler. This is a loss for an RSCM Course, because rehearsal on Preces and Responses builds concentration like few other forms of music. One must be at the height of alertness to sing them well.

I miss the Nunc Dimittis, which in the Anglican service is usually a quiet counterpoint to the Magnificat. But having only the one Canticle, the Magnificat can be (and usually is) a more extensive and challenging setting, like the one we sang.

It is worth noting that although Luther put much of the liturgy into the vernacular, he left some parts in Latin, at least for some occasions and places: the Magnificat is one example. The finest Lutheran setting of this canticle is of course the one by J. S. Bach, BWV 243, a major work for choir, soloists, and orchestra running about thirty minutes.

This is far beyond what we could do in one week at an RSCM Course. The Pachelbel setting, however, was perfectly suited for us. Here is an energetic performance of it by a young European choir (I don't recognize the language spoken at the beginning; it is perhaps from one of the Baltic countries such as Latvia?)


July 23 (continued): Beati quorum via

Beata quorum via integra est:
Qui ambulant in lege Domini (Psalm 119:1)

We learned this motet today, this fine setting by Stanford. In one day we took it from a first reading to performance at Vespers. A copy of this has resided in my personal library for decades, beautiful and unapproachable. I longed to sing it someday, but knew that I would never have the opportunity with any choir that I direct. And here we are today, singing it.

I was selected for the semichorus in the Pachelbel Magnificat, which is also the schola for the plainsong Psalmody. The group consists of four sopranos -- Elizabeth, Jenna, Kyle, Meara; Kristin and Erika on alto; Mike and Mark on bass; Eddie and me on tenor. It is an immense honor to sing with these people, most of whom I have known for many years through this Course (and two of them through our choir at home). I wish I could do more singing with them, to revel in the musicianship of this group. As it was, we had only one short rehearsal together plus the warmup on Saturday evening.

Along with the Stanford, we sang the Pachelbel at Vespers, a service that began with one of the high school singers, Kyle, at the organ for the opening voluntary. I have known for years that she is a fine choral singer. How splendid it was to learn that she is now an organist! May God's blessings be with her.

The day included good conversations with an old friend whom I did not expect to see again at the Course; a new friend, Stephen; and Michael, who is perhaps on his way toward ordination. This week he is the assistant chaplain, leading Morning Prayer and weekday Vespers. In his sermon, based on the Beatitudes lesson (for the Feast of St. Thomas á Kempis), he spoke of how blessed we are in singing here, in being gathered as a community this week. "Blessed are those whose way has integrity; who walk in the law of the Lord."

I bless the Lord for these people young and old: their music, the presence of Christ among us, gathered in his name; and for this day so perfect that I would cling to it, save for the knowledge that it endures in the mind of God forever.

Transitional Parish: an Ill-Tempered Rant

Our parish is seeking a new rector. In today's sermon, the priest said that he had seen a draft of the Parish Profile. This is a document which is prepared by the search committee and disseminated to potential clergy candidates. The priest told us that it describes us as a "Transitional Parish." That is church-growth-speak for a parish with average Sunday attendance ("ASA" is their acronym) of 141 to 225 persons, and is equivalent to Lyle Schaller's size category "Awkward" (175 to 225).

In the system used by Arlin Rothauge, modified by the Diocese of Texas, and most commonly used in Episcopal circles, there are five types of congregations: "Family Church" (ASA of six to 75 adults), "Pastoral" (76 to 140), "Transitional" (141 to 225; we are near the top of this range), "Program" (226 to 400), "Resource" (401 and up). Here is a PDF that explains the jargon.

I submit that all of this is rubbish.

- It is the application of the models of the secular business corporation to the church.
- It takes the living entity of the Body of Christ and turns it all into numbers, statistics, goals
- It implies that every parish must strive to Grow.
- If you have failed to Grow, it is because you have not successfully applied the proper methods. You, in short, are a Failure.

Most of all, it make a "Transitional" or "Awkward-Sized" parish such as ours dissatisfied with what it is -- especially after we heard all of this ten years ago in our last rector search, have not grown, and are going through it all again. Might we not, just possibly, be the right size for our place and role in the community and in the Body of Christ? Might we not be fulfilling our ministry as a congregation exactly as we are?

This pernicious business-speak causes us to constantly tinker with ourselves, to make charts of which ministries are growing and which are not, to make mission statements and five-year plans and set goals and work on our "marketing" as if we were Wal-Mart or Target.

That sets the context for the music that was sung in today's service, shortly after the sermon which focused in part on our need to Change and Grow "to become a full-fledged Program Church." [Note carefully: I do NOT blame the priest for this. He was reporting the work of the search committee, and they are, I suspect, listening to the diocesan consultant. I blame the consultant, the "experts" in the background, and the manner in which our denomination matches priests with parishes, much like a computer dating service. As I have said elsewhere, we have a terrific interim priest and I am grateful for his ministry. And this day's sermon in other respects was excellent.]

This was the day when our combined choirs sang the end of Handel's Messiah: Worthy is the Lamb, Blessing and honor, Amen.

We had a guest organist who is a member of our parish; two trumpeters who are grad students at the local university; a cellist who teaches there (and is a good friend of the parish, though not a member), an undergraduate bass player who has also worked with us before and loves our parish. We had about twenty children and youth, and seventeen adult choristers.

It was glorious.

It was, I submit, an example of what this parish does well. It is an organic outgrowth ("Fruit," one might say - cf. St. John 15:5), something that has simply "happened" as a result of the youth choir getting a little better each year, the adult choir gaining in confidence (and gaining four new singers in recent weeks - not through any Mission Plan or Marketing Technique -- it "just happened." "What some would call chance," as Gandalf would say). It happened because of gradual development of good feelings between the parish and some of the students and faculty of the School of Music -- the cellist, for example, became a friend of the parish and occasional visitor for worship when her string quartet was the major part of the summer Chamber Music Festival a few years ago, and we were nice to them -- and also nice to her mother, an Episcopalian who was visiting that week and hanging around. I had a number of pleasant chats with the mother that week and strove to make her feel at home. The trumpeters came to us because of their connection with the former trombone teaching assistant who practiced long hours at the church, made recordings here with her brass quintet, and has told me that she will drive here from Chicago to play with us next Easter.

And we should be dissatisfied with this? We should re-design our programs and ministries so that they will be Bigger and Better and attract more people? It would be fair to say that we are one of the strongest parishes in our diocese. Music is only a part of this; our Christian Formation programs for children and youth are outstanding, the parish is much involved in the local downtown community and in ministries to the wider world.

In my annual review some years ago at another church, the interim pastor (brought in specifically because of his expertise in Church Growth Methods) castigated me because I was not starting New Groups. "You are not earning your salary unless you are forming two or three new small groups every year. You are dead weight, holding us back."

What is wrong with nurturing the groups, the ministries, that are already present?
What is wrong with nurturing the people that are there, right in front of you?

"Feed my lambs," our Lord said to St. Peter. We heard this today.
Not "Conduct a marketing survey of your neighborhood and produce a strategy to increase the number of lambs twenty percent by next summer."

I tried to talk to the choir after our final run-through of the Handel this morning; I couldn't. I was too choked up after hearing them sing the Amen fugue, after seeing the trebles watching me carefully for every one of their entrances, after seeing them Connect with the music, and commit themselves to those high G's and A's, after hearing it all come together as the fruit (that word again) of three months' rehearsal.

I tried to say: "Look around at the world. It is terrible. But that is not the last word. This is, this Amen that we have just sung."

These singers and musicians, these children of God, shall shine like the sun in the kingdom of their Father. Compared to this, nothing else matters.

Ye choirs of new Jerusalem

We are singing this standard of the Anglican repertoire for the Great Vigil of Easter.
We will not sound like this recording by the choir of New College, Oxford.

From the February issue of The American Organist, the "UK Report," a regular (and very fine) column by Sarah MacDonald, writing about English choirs and Vibrato (pp. 66-67):

Since both age and technique are known to play a crucial role in the distinction between a natural vibrato and an undesirable warble, it is necessary to consider the normal make-up of an English choir's soprano section to ascertain why the latter is not perceived in the sound. In the majority of England's best-known choirs, the soprano sections consist of young, individually trained singers: boys or girls in cathedral choirs; those in their late teens/early 20s in mixed Oxbridge choirs; and young professionals in the best-known specialist choirs.

In our adult parish choir, we currently have one female singer who is (I think) in her early twenties, and another who is perhaps a bit over thirty. The others are well beyond that, as are nearly all of the men. So far as I know, none of them have had professional training as choral singers.

James Jordan in his book "The Musician's Soul" (G.I.A. Publications, Chicago, 1999) has a chapter on "Mimetics and Envy... The Major Obstacle for the Creative Artist" (chapter eight, pp. 96-122). Jordan lists the forms that Envy takes for musicians, and at the top of the list: "The perfect sound" (p. 109). The conductor perhaps has a sound like that of the New College choir in his head from listening to recordings, and when the parish choir does not sound that way in rehearsal, it can get ugly, as Jordan describes. The director might take it out on the choir in anger, belittlement of the choristers, scapegoating (picking out one person on whom to blame the deficiency of the sound or lack of musicianship). Or he might take it out on himself through self-mutilation of various sorts. I have done all of these things, and still do.

Rather than envying the sound of another choir, one must be entirely present with the singers that are before you in the rehearsal room, just as they are. Through everything that happens in the rehearsal and in the services, one must help them sing a little better, know a little more about music, the liturgy, themselves, and the Lord whom we serve. One must love them.

This is not easy.

Love, care, humbleness, and selflessness must be a constant during rehearsal... First and foremost, you will love yourself and your gifts, recognizing and accepting your musical limitations with love. You also, at all times will be humble and selfless, and place your own ego in a place that does not infect or interact with the music-making process... You will constantly self-empty, love, and care for others. This self-emptying process is known as kenosis. (Jordan, p. 116)

Kenosis is, of course, the path to which our Lord called us when he said "Take up your cross, and follow me." It is the path of Conversion of Life, a path which, if followed to the end, leads to sanctity. And above all, it is the path that He walked (Philippians 2:5-8).

So, what do I discover when I set foot on that path in connection with "Ye choirs of new Jerusalem?" I discover that despite what I might think at first, we shall sing it well, very differently from the New College choir, and in some ways better. The reason is precisely that we are not vigorous well-trained young elite choral singers like the New College group. They do a very fine job of the piece, but these young people have not seen as much of life as the singers of our parish choir. When our choir is at its best, when they connect with what they are singing, one hears their decades of life experience in the sound. One hears their love of the Lord, a love that for most of them is strong and mature. One hears their struggles, their limitations, and one hears the grace of God present in their -- our, for I must include myself -- our weakness.

I must help them reach that point when they sing, a place for them as well as their conductor of kenosis, of union with Christ.

I am crucified with Christ: nevertheless I live; yet not I, but Christ liveth in me: and the life which I now live in the flesh I live by the faith of the Son of God, who loved me, and gave himself for me. (Galatians 2:20)

It applies to organists, too. One might detect a hint of Envy in my essay from Sunday, wherein I wished that I could play like Daniel Roth (or, in the background of that, play an instrument like the Cavaille-Coll at Saint-Sulpice). Yes, I can and should (and do) admire him, and I can be spurred to work harder, and learn from him. But I must in the end play like myself, not like an imitation of him, or of any other musician, and I must do it at the considerably more modest pipe organ to which God has called me. The same kenosis is required at the organ bench as in the choral rehearsal, making myself small so that the Music may be large, and that which it serves.

Three Links and an Observation

A housekeeping detail: I have modified the settings for Comments, so that one should now be able to make Anonymous comments -- so long as one can decipher the word recognition gadget. Perhaps this will allow human beings to comment, which I desire, but not spambots, which I do not welcome.



I was playing the organ fairly well in May and June by necessity, for there was a lot of playing to be done and I spent more than twice my usual amount of time on the bench. But then came a span of almost a month, from July 15 until August 5, when my services at the organ were not required, so I did no practicing whatsoever until August 3.

The Observation: I expected my improvisation skills to decline and they did, but what suffered the most was the playing of hymns. With three weeks off, I got sloppy. My sense of pulse, the keeping of a steady rhythmic flow, and the breathing space between phrases and especially stanzas, all needed attention. I worked carefully on them this week, running my tape recorder, and played more accurately today.



Robin Denney is a former agricultural missionary to what is now the nation of South Sudan. Her website has not been active since she left South Sudan about a year ago, but she posted a video seminar recently which I commend to you.

While in Africa, she worked as an Episcopal missionary with the Anglican Church of the Sudan, travelling through the bush, teaching sustainable agricultural methods to subsistence farmers. As she describes in the video and the written curriculum, the secular NGOs have difficulty convincing the farmers to try something different, and rightly so: bringing in a crop is life-or-death for them. "But when the local church, of which subsistence farmers are members, presents them with a new teaching (their calling to be caretakers of creation, and God's faithfulness in increasing their yield), their response is shocking!"

The video records how she has adapted her teaching to a different (and in many ways less capable) audience – Americans. It runs about an hour, with the first half indoors and the second half outside in the field. For a short summary, one can view her curriculum, which I believe she has prepared so that other people can teach this workshop in their parishes, or their communities, here and elsewhere in the world:

God is calling YOU to the work of tending and taking care of creation. To:
-- Pray while you work and for the work of your hands
-- Look for solutions to the problems you face by praying and observing creation
-- Try techniques on a small portion of your crop, and compare it to the rest
-- Give out of your harvest to God and to those in need

[In the curriculum, she is being modest about one thing: she mentions an introductory handbook to tropical agriculture, but neglects to mention that she wrote it.]

I often despair of the Episcopal Church in the United States. But Robin, and others like her – including some whom I know personally from this parish – make me proud of it. I believe that the strength of the church has nothing to do with the ranting and posturing of General Conventions, and little to do with clergy or church programming or buildings or even church music; the strength is the unique and irreplaceable work that many Episcopalians do “out in the world.”

Just this afternoon I spoke with a young woman who, because of her faith and the situation in which she finds herself, has become an activist against “fracking.” It has isolated her from most of the community in which she lives, and perhaps placed her and her family in physical danger. But she is doing what she has to, and part of me does not think she would be able to do so without the Episcopal Church somewhere in the background.

She is, in short, a Heroine.

And that brings me to my second link: Bill Moyers maintains a presence on the Web these days which is, again, an irreplaceable and unique Christian answer to the situation in which he (and in many respects all of us) finds himself. I commend his weekly webcasts to you.

This week, his audio podcast is a revisiting of his interview with Joseph Campbell in 1987, twenty-five years ago. Campbell's views are probably well-known to most of my readers. The “Hero's Adventure” is a focus of his work, and of this interview.

My largest disagreement with Campbell has to do with his failure to recognize that the mythos recounted in the Hebrew and Christian Scriptures, especially in relation to Jesus of Nazareth, is, as C. S. Lewis often said, the fulfillment of all the myths, not least because it is True, in sober historical fact. There was a day, a day just as real as this day in August 2012, when the children of Israel stood on the far shore of the Sea of Reeds and saw the dead bodies of the Egyptians wash ashore. There was a night when angels sang in the sky over Bethlehem, and the shepherds gazed upon a virgin mother and her Child. And there was a day when the women brought spices to the tomb and found it empty, and later saw one whom they knew beyond any doubt had been dead.

Still, one should listen to Campbell, for he has much to say. Certainly, the myth of the Hero is in every culture, as Lewis also describes. I especially commend the segment beginning about 43 minutes into the podcast: “What the myths are for is to bring us into a level of consciousness that is spiritual.” He describes walking from the streets of New York City into St. Patrick's Cathedral – “and everything around me speaks of spiritual mystery.” And then he walks back out. Can he hold something of the mystery out on the street? The answer is “Yes,” but you must listen to Campbell for that.

Campbell is also right that each of us is on a Hero's Journey. But I would add that we cannot be “mavericks,” as he described himself; we cannot be our own master. Rather, our Journey makes sense only when viewed as a part of the larger Journey that includes Adam and Enoch and Abraham and Sarah and Moses and Deborah and Samuel and David and Hezekiah and Jeremiah and the Maccabees and Mary and Jesus (most of all) and Paul of Tarsus and Timothy and Clement of Rome and Augustine and all the rest.

“Everything around me speaks of spiritual mystery...” As Campbell says, we can eventually realize that the sidewalks and traffic and concrete outside the doors of St. Patrick's are part of the same mystery. I said this too, in another way:

The Qodesh, the holy place, is not limited to the Temple. It is, as the Sages wrote, a state of mind and spirit. Were a person sufficiently advanced, he would dwell in that place day and night, as did Joshua the son of Nun (Exodus 33:11). Most of us need help to perceive the Qodesh. Even Moses needed admonition from the LORD at the burning bush (Exodus 3:5). Sacred Music is one point of entry; the holy Icons are another, as is the acoustic of a place such as the Basilica, where the Song lingers in the air.

It is all true, all of the time. But it is more true in some times and places: thus my third link. We will sing this piece in the Choral Evensong for the commemoration of All Saints, Sunday November 4 at 5 pm. As is our practice when we have something especially beautiful, I seek to involve the children and youth as well as the adults, so we will combine the choirs for this service.

We will not sound as good as the choir on this YouTube link (King's College, Cambridge), and our little parish church is a far cry from that glorious space – especially glorious at Evensong in candlelight, as in the video – but the difference between us and them is of degree, not of kind. For one of the mysteries is that the Qodesh is not limited by time or space.

And I saw a new heaven (Edgar Bainton)

RSCM Report, Part Three: My soul doth magnify the Lord

Thursday, July 26: Joachim and Anne, the Parents of the Blessed Virgin Mary

Yet I have left me seven thousand in Israel... (I Kings 19:18)

We know nothing, really, of the parents of St. Mary, not even their names. But all that one need know of them can be seen in the character of their daughter.

It is well to remember this family, who, in a time darker than ours, with a few others such as Zechariah and Elisabeth, Simeon and Anna, and their future son-in-law Joseph, “looked for redemption” (St. Luke 2:38). At that time, as at many times, people considered such things as old-fashioned superstition, or at best something that could not happen in their time and place. It was only a handful that believed the promise of the forefathers, and taught their children of these things (cf. St. Luke 1:54-55 and 1:72-75).

But it was through this little flock, this remnant, that the truth of God endured from generation to generation. It is not without reason that St. Matthew began his account with a genealogy, and St. Luke got around to it by the end of the third chapter.

It was noted in one of the adult discussions that the children of privilege rarely sing in our church choirs; they have too many other options. This is nothing new: throughout the seventeen-plus centuries of organized choral music in the Church, treble choristers have usually come from humble origins. The purposes of God seldom bear fruit among the “one percent” of this or any generation. But God continues to “regard the lowliness of his handmaiden[s].” No one would have expected the faith of a little girl in Nazareth to change the world. Who can tell what these little ones at the Course will do to continue the work of redemption in their generation? “Fear ye not, stand still, and see the salvation of the LORD” (Genesis 14:13).

Today is our last full day of rehearsal at the camp; tomorrow we board bus and cars to go rehearse at the churches. We have come far in these few days. The singing has become strong, confident, expressive, and intelligent. Our little tenor section, most of them with newly-changed voices, is splendid. They are singing at a level well beyond their years. May this week be the impetus for a lifetime of song.

For three nights we have sung Evensong in the little Chapel of St. Cecilia where we rehearse. A few of our past directors have seemed to consider these services little more than dress rehearsals for the one that matters on Sunday evening at the conclusion of the Course. With his training under Dr. Guest, Dr. Adelmann knows that every Evensong is important. We must pour all of ourselves into them without regard for the presence or absence of a congregation.

Each year, these Evensongs at Todd Hall are among my favorite aspects of the Course. On this night, the finest music was in the Magnificat and Nunc Dimittis of Harold Friedell, and the anthem (linked in Part Two: “Let all the world” by Kenneth Leighton). I was quite overcome with emotion by the end of the service.

Such emotion is at times a negative in my conducting, organ playing, and singing; it interferes with my duty to play or sing the right notes and to lead the choirs entrusted to my care. Yet, without feeling there is no genuine music. The motto by my office door (from St. Augustine) is this: Cantare amantis est, which more or less means “Singing is generated by Love.” Somehow, there must be a balance. One of the old Italian singing-masters said “The heart must burn with fire, but the head must be as cool and clear as ice.” Or as we find in St. Paul:

Psallam spiritu et mente (I Corinthians 14:15)

RSCM Report, Part One: The Question

From plague, pestilence, and famine,
Good Lord, deliver us. (BCP p. 149)

Monday, July 23: Feast of St. Mary Magdalene

Last week as I cycled to work, I walked my bike through a narrow railroad underpass as is my custom, and met a deer. She was at the road's edge, eating weeds – short, tough weeds. She stood still, gazing at me as I approached almost close enough to touch her. She was thin, her bones showing through her brown coat – too thin for midsummer. There is nothing to eat, and winter lies ahead.

Today we drove to the RSCM Course in St. Louis, through more than two hundred miles of the finest farmland in North America, almost entirely devoted to corn and soybeans. It was grim: some cornfields entirely dead, the stalks brown and brittle. Some were still green, more or less, but they will not make a crop; it was too hot and dry at the critical time when corn tassels and pollinates. Later in the week I walked to the edge of the soybean field behind the chapel. The plants looked well enough, but most had not set any blossoms. Only about one plant of every three or four had anything, and then it was just one or two little pods, an inch long or less. The other plants were half-heartedly putting out blossoms; with rain, they might yet make a crop, if there is time before first frost.

I will utterly consume all things from off the land, saith the LORD. I will consume man and beast; I will consume the fowls of the heaven, and the fishes of the sea, and the stumblingblocks with the wicked; and I will cut off man from off the land, saith the LORD. (Zephaniah 1:2-3)

We have made this mistake before, pinning everything on one or two crops [e.g., the Great Famine of Ireland, 1845-52]. But this is America. We don't have famines.

And I will bring distress upon men, that they shall walk like blind men, because they have sinned against the LORD: and their blood will be poured out as dust, and their flesh as the dung. Neither their silver nor their gold shall be able to deliver them in the day of the LORD's wrath, but the whole land shall be devoured by the fire of his jealousy: for he shall make even a speedy riddance of all them that dwell in the land. (Zephaniah 1:17-18)

When these and like passages come in the Daily Office (they rarely if ever appear in the Sunday Lectionary), I am terrified. How can we escape the wrath of God, we who have turned judgment into wormwood, and leave off righteousness (Amos 5:7)? And when a summer like this comes, we do not repent. Nor, for the most part, do we even pray for rain. We do not any longer believe that God “sendeth the rain on the just and on the unjust” (St. Matthew 5:45) -- why should we? It is all a matter of atmospheric circulation and moisture. Or is it?

We have plenty of food, for now; one bad year for crops won't kill us. We can buy corn from Brazil, as the Smithfield company is doing; the same for wheat and soybeans. Sure, it will be expensive. But we are Americans: someone else can go hungry. Ethanol for our cars is more important than masa for someone else's tortillas. This is iniquity, and one day we will be judged for it.

The Missouri and Mississippi Rivers at St. Louis looked to be about half their usual size, with wide and dry sandbars, grass growing where there had always been water.

A dry summer? Perhaps it is random chance, a fluke. But what if next summer is like this, and the next after that? “The times, they are a-changing.”

And also I have withholden the rain from you, when there were yet three months to the harvest: and I caused it to rain upon one city, and caused it not to rain upon another city: one piece was rained upon, and the piece whereupon it rained not withered. So two or three cities wandered unto one city, to drink water; but they were not satisfied: yet have ye not returned unto me, saith the LORD. (Amos 4:7-8)

What is to become of these young people, the chapel filled with them at rehearsal this evening? Children and teenagers and young adults whom I love: what is to become of them?

Tuesday, July 24: Feast of St. Thomas á Kempis

Just as I am, thy love unknown
hath broken ev'ry barrier down;
now to be thine, yea, thine alone,
O Lamb of God, I come, I come. (Charlotte Elliot: Hymn 693)

I love solitude. Much of my work depends upon it – the organ playing, the selection of choral music, score study. But all of these things can bear fruit only in the congregation of the faithful (Psalm 149:1).

Choral rehearsals are the bridge. They draw me out of myself into the community of singers. This is true when I conduct rehearsals at home; it is even more true when I am a chorister at the RSCM Course.

Our tenor section this year is young, largely men of middle school age, thirteen or fourteen years old. There are only two adults: Eric and me. I was shy about plunking myself down into their midst at the first ATB rehearsal this morning; surely they did not want this grey-haired old coot beside them for the week. But singing together casts down all such barriers of age and background, which in truth are mostly constructs of a culture that seeks to pigeonhole us into market segments in order to enslave us.

It is not only age that is a barrier: on my left was Chris, an African-American Baptist from a Lutheran school, on my right for most of the week was Mario, a Hispanic Roman Catholic, and me in the middle, a white Episcopalian from the old South who can well remember the days of Jim Crow. By the end of this first full day of rehearsals and Choral Evensong, we were talking, working together, accepting one another's imperfections, becoming brothers in song. I respect their quick intelligence, their obvious love for this music and for our Lord. They appear to respect me as well.

Today there were many mistakes, but it was a good beginning.

Hymnal Revision: pitfalls and potential

I should expand on my comment the other day concerning the sort of hymnal the Episcopal Church would be likely to produce in our generation. There are many potential pitfalls, but among them lies potential for good.

Three of the reasons I would not be sanguine about a new Episcopal hymnal can be illustrated by our closing hymn at the 11:00 Eucharist this morning: number 481 in the Hymnal 1982, Rejoice, the Lord is King with the tune Gopsal. It is a terrific hymn -- and it would be unlikely to appear in a new Episcopal hymnal. For one reason, the title: many clergy and others in authority are hesitant to refer to the Deity as either “Lord” or “King.” There is overwhelming Biblical support for using these names, such as Psalm 97:1, which may have been in Wesley's mind when he wrote this hymn -- “The LORD is King; let the earth rejoice; let the multitude of the isles be glad.” But these terms imply a hierarchy with which many would disagree – the Deity, especially in its incarnation as Jesus of Nazareth, is our Friend, our Companion, our Lover – but not our Lord. Further, both “Lord” and “King” are masculine terms, which are unacceptable in many circles. For reasons such as this, most of the corpus of traditional hymnody is dissonant with the more liberal expressions of contemporary theology, and many argue that it is time to lay aside the old texts, with the ideas they embody.

A second (and related) reason is that this hymn is the work of two Dead White Males: Charles Wesley (1707-88) and George Frideric Handel (1685-1759). Many modern clergy (and not a few laypersons) are not interested in hearing from such persons, for they are part of the oppressor class and did their work before 1960, meaning that they have nothing to say to our generation.

A third reason is that the tune Gopsal is musically challenging, especially to the organist or pianist. With all my certificates, diplomas, and experience, I have to devote a good bit of work to this tune in order to play it convincingly. What is the volunteer musician in a small parish to do? Or worse yet, what is the guitarist to do? This piece will not work without a keyboard accompaniment.

The Hymnal 1982 is more musically challenging than most denominational hymnals. One senses that the committee which assembled it took pride in the Episcopal Church's tradition of being a place where the best possible music was sung and played. That remains true in places, but not as widely as in 1982, and a new hymnal would probably strive to be more “accessible” at the expense of tunes like Gopsal.

To be fair to the Episcopal hymnal supplements, it is their duty to include new songs and hymns, and there is a lot of excellent new material available. Part of what needs to be added to the wider congregational song are voices that have indeed been overlooked, and the supplements have been at their best when they have attempted to do that.

There is difference of opinion as to whether a new hymnal will ever be needed, or for that matter a new prayerbook. I gather that the Standing Commission's feasibility study discovered that many churches either print all of the day's music in the service leaflet or project it onto screens. The denomination's current trend is to encourage the use of “RiteSong,” which is a subscription-based download service for the hymns and songs in all of the Episcopal hymnals and supplements. This makes it easier to produce service leaflets and PowerPoint presentations. Why have a printed book in the pews if it is not going to be used?

For many reasons, I am convinced that we should continue to have printed Prayerbooks and Hymnals and that we should use them: perhaps I can write of this another time. Should a committee someday be charged with the preparation of a full-scale hymnal to replace the Hymnal 1982, it could easily turn into a battleground, with every constituency pushing its own agenda. But with God's grace it could instead be a feast of many cultures, the best of old and new. One recent book that I think presents a good example is the 2005 hymnal of the (Presbyterian) Church of Scotland, Church Hymnnary 4, where one finds eighteenth century Scottish Paraphrases and items from the old Scottish Psalter alongside Iona songs, Graham Kendrick and others from the “praise and worship” genre, contemporary authors such as Shirley Erena Murray and Carl P. Daw, songs from Africa and Asia, Watts and Wesley, Fanny Crosby, and much more.

There are only two verses in the New Testament that explicitly instruct about music in the church: I Corinthians 14:15 and Colossians 3:16. Both verses occur in the context of forbearance for one another: the first in relation to the exercise of spiritual gifts in worship, most of all in the context of the “more excellent way” outlined in chapter thirteen; the second likewise in the context of “charity, which is the bond of perfectness” (Col. 3:14), and submission to one another (v. 18-24) that there may be “neither Greek nor Jew, circumcision nor uncircumcision, Barbarian, Scythian, bond nor free: but Christ... in all” (v. 11):

Let the word of Christ dwell in you richly in all wisdom; teaching and admonishing one another in psalms and hymns and spiritual songs, singing with grace in your hearts to the Lord. And whatsoever ye do in word or deed, do all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God and the Father by him. (v. 16-17).

It is perhaps the challenge and the privilege of our generation, more than any that have come before, to sing one another's songs – across the centuries as well as the continents and islands. The hymnal can be a model of how this may be done.

---

As a footnote, here is a YouTube rendition of "Rejoice, the Lord is King." The first version is to Gopsal, as discussed here; the second is to Darwall's 148th, which is the tune more commonly given with this text -- a thoroughly worthwhile pairing, but not quite as challenging as Gopsal. [the first clip begins with something of an advertisement, and continues after "Rejoice, the Lord is King" with another hymn: "God is love, let heaven adore him" with the Welsh tune Blaenwern with which it is most often sung in Great Britain. The whole thing is taken from the BBC series "Songs of Praise."]

Do take the time to watch this clip. Seeing the people in these two churches brings to mind a sermon by Martin Franzmann, "Theology must sing." In it, he refers to the Albrecht Dürer woodcut, "Hymns of the Chosen before the Lamb." Franzmann said:

[Some persons] begin by criticizing the good hymns as 'hard to sing.' One might ask in return, Why must a hymn be easy? Who ever said that it should be easy? Look at that woodcut... in which those that came through the great tribulation, who have washed their robes in the blood of the Lamb, sing their heavenly song. Look at those faces, their intensity of concentration... if you would know what singing with grace in your hearts to the Lord really means. ["Come to the Feast," edited Robin A. Leaver, MorningStar Music Publishers, page 139]

Lord, thou hast been our refuge

October 23, 2011 - I have anticipated this day for a long time:

At the furthest reach of my plans: Oct. 23, 2011 - "Lord, thou hast been our refuge" (RVW), with the Youth Choir doing the semichorus part. This will be unorthodox, but I believe that RVW, practical musician that he was, would approve. The young people will sing the lines "The years of our life are threescore years and ten..." to the adults; I get chills imagining it, and contemplating a whole semester of living with Psalm 90 and this magnificent music alongside the young people. Singing it will teach them the Psalm more thoroughly than any words could do. (from the Music Box, June 9, 2010)

The Old Testament lesson for today was the last chapter of Deuteronomy, the ascent of Moses to the top of Pisgah, where the LORD showed him “all the land... unto the utmost sea.” The account says that “there arose not a prophet since in Israel like unto Moses, whom the LORD knew face to face.”

In response, the Lectionary appointed a selection from Psalm 90, whose superscription reads: “A prayer of Moses the man of God.”

Lord, thou hast been our refuge from one generation to another ...

There are two settings of Psalm 90 that surpass all others: one is the setting by Charles Ives with its incomparable quiet ending, “as church bells, from a distance” (notation in the parts for orchestral bells, measure 93). The entire piece is over a C pedal point in the organ, and is “as evolution: quiet, unseen and unheeded, but strong fundamentally” (notation in choral parts, measure 14). Ives worked on this piece for over thirty years, and “Mrs. Ives recalled his saying that it was the only one of his works that he was satisfied with.”

Shortly before Ives brought this to completion in 1923-24, Ralph Vaughan Williams wrote his setting of the same text: “Lord, thou hast been our refuge.” It incorporates a stanza of St. Anne, “O God our help in ages past,” the metrical setting of Psalm 90 by Isaac Watts. At first this is pianississimo while the semichorus (the youth choir, in our rendition today) sings the first verses of the prose text. The hymn tune returns later, in other guise.

RVW wanted everyone to make music, and he gave options with this piece for performance by limited forces – the semichorus can be replaced by a solo baritone, and the trumpet is “ad lib,” and can be omitted – though with considerable loss to the effect. It seemed appropriate to me for our Youth Choir to sing the semichorus part, with the Adult Choir on the “full chorus,” and both choirs joining for the final pages. It works splendidly in the grandest of settings, but it also works in our little parish church, with our amateur choristers, young and old. Although our performance was far from perfect, I believe that RVW would be pleased with the way that we sang it. I certainly was.

I do not know if I can do this piece again; I barely made it through this day. After our one-and-only combined rehearsal with trumpet, organ, and both choirs, I was an emotional wreck. But I was saved by three things: the children, the congregation, and the trumpet.

After the rehearsal, one of the boys (Tom) complained about how loud it was: “I can't even hear myself.” “Yes. Isn't it grand?” I answered. One of the little girls (Elise) said pretty much the same thing, expressing her delight in it. They brought me back to earth with their reminder of the sheer practical childlike joy of making Real Music that is splendid and overwhelming. This is, I think, what Holy Scripture is expressing in passages such as II Chronicles 5:13-14 and Revelation 5:11-14.

It came even to pass, as the trumpeters and singers were as one, to make one sound to be heard in praising and thanking the LORD; and when they lifted up their voice with the trumpets and cymbals and instruments of musick, and praised the LORD, saying, For he is good; for his mercy endureth for ever: that then the house was filled with a cloud, even the house of the LORD; so that the priests could not stand to minister by reason of the cloud: for the glory of the LORD had filled the house of God.

And I beheld, and I heard the voice of many angels round about the throne and the beasts and the elders: and the number of them was ten thousand times ten thousand, and thousands of thousands; saying with a loud voice, Worthy is the Lamb that was slain...

Part way through the piece, I noticed the congregation. The youth choir filled the choir loft, relegating the adult choir to the front three pews. And behind them – the congregation, by this point listening intently. They too were part of the music, as was their inner response to it, a response that for some of them may echo for years to come. Dorothy Sayers explores this at length in “The Mind of the Maker,” to which I have referred in these pages. This is even more important when the audience/congregation and the musicians are one community, as we were today. The listeners enter into the music-making more fully, for they know the people from whom the music comes. Although the performance from Westminster Abbey linked above was from a much grander occasion, it too was “one community,” representing an entire nation on an important day of remembrance. This connects (again) with II Chronicles 5:13-14 and Revelation 5:11-14, where music serves this function on two of the most important occasions in history (past and future), and where, in the latter passage, the community encompasses “every creature which is in heaven, and on the earth, and under the earth, and such as are in the sea, and all that are in them.”


The trumpeter does not play until the hymn tune St. Anne returns on page twelve, more than five minutes into the piece. Her part appears to be simple, all of it in long notes, playing once through the hymn tune. But it is not; she needed careful and accurate cues from me, as did the trebles for their entrances, and the tenors for one key passage on page fourteen. And it was the hymn tune and my responsibility for it that carried me through the final pages.

Psallam spiritu et mente – I will sing with the spirit, and with the understanding also (I Cor. 14:15, the motto of the RSCM).

I become emotional at moments such as these, and the “understanding” must remain in control, else I would fail in my duty. A conductor has to do only one thing: give the ensemble what they need to get through the piece. The music-making comes from the singers and instrumentalists, not the conductor.


It was a Good Day. The choirs of this parish made this anthem their own, and sang it from the heart.

[When we sing,] we express ourselves and become vulnerable to God and to one another in our song in a unique way.... [There is] something intangible, something about health and healing that congregations and choirs experience in their innermost beings....

The point is that any music that bears repetition, music on which time and effort are worth being spent, will be fine art. The point is that music in worship, the highest activity of humankind, will of necessity invoke the finest craft and that, in turn, has the potential to issue in the finest art. Precisely because music serves a greater good than itself gives it the best chance to be the finest art. Gregorian chant, Palestrina motets, Bach cantatas, black spirituals, and innumerable hymns with their tunes are prime examples [as is this day's anthem] – amazing art and amazing gifts to the whole human race.
(Paul Westermeyer, “The Heart of the Matter,” p. 50-52)