Howard Riley: an aesthetics of imperfection

I would argue that improvisation as an art is informed by an aesthetics of imperfection. On this view, improvising musicians exploit the contingencies of the performing situation – the instrument, the acoustic, and their own capabilities – creating something out of apparently unpromising as well as promising circumstances. Age and infirmity are among these contingencies. (“Howard Riley,” by Andy Hamilton, International Piano Nov.-Dec. 2018, p. 89)

We have this treasure in earthen vessels, that the excellency of the power may be of God, and not of us. (II Corinthians 4:7)

Riley is a jazz pianist, a “giant of contemporary piano improvisation, with a highly personal musical vocabulary” (Hamilton, p. 88). Now in his mid-seventies, he began experiencing symptoms of Parkinson’s Disease in 2011. Hamilton writes that since then, “Riley [has] pared down his approach, playing very beautifully and minimally” (p. 89).

His music is new to me and I haven’t heard much of it yet. There are some tracks on YouTube; most of them are from long ago, the 1960’s and 70’s, and the few of these that I have sampled so far are well worth a listen. I find only one that is fairly recent:

Piano solo @ Brookes, 29 Nov. 2012

Especially at the beginning as he walks to the piano and gets settled, one can see that he has become old. But much more than that, one sees and hears that he is still playing.

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I love Hamilton’s phrase “an aesthetics of imperfection.” It is entirely foreign to the carefully manicured perfection of commercial recordings, pasted together from multiple takes. It is equally foreign to the world of piano and organ competitions, where one wrong note in your performance means that you are done.

Church musicians know about “creating something out of apparently unpromising” circumstances. For most of us, it takes a long time to figure that out. In my experience, some of the finest music-making has come by surprise – a congregational hymn that takes wing, an anthem that was shaky right up through the final warmup but goes right in the service, and much of my playing at the organ and piano.

Today is the Feast of All Saints. The glorious company of patriarchs, prophets, apostles, martyrs, saints of all kinds, known to us and unknown, is a kaleidoscope of personalities, gifts, peculiarities (and some of them are quite peculiar), weaknesses and strengths. But they have this in common: none of them was perfect, not in this life. It seems that God works precisely through their imperfections – and ours – to manifest his glory to the world. Thus it is no surprise that Real Music happens in a similar manner.

Almighty God, with whom do live the spirits of those who depart hence in the Lord, and with whom the souls of the faithful, after they are delivered from the burden of the flesh, are in joy and felicity: We give thee hearty thanks for the good examples of all those thy servants, who, having finished their course in faith, do now rest from their labors. And we beseech thee that we, with all those who are departed in the true faith of thy holy Name, may have our perfect consummation and bliss, both in body and soul, in thy eternal and everlasting glory; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen. (BCP p. 488)

Seeing we are compassed about with so great a cloud of witnesses…

One of my Wednesday morning tasks is setting up the choir room for the afternoon’s Youth Choir rehearsal. It is my custom as I put each chair into place to pray for the young person who will sit there. Mostly, I “hold them to the light” as the Friends say.

On this day, I had an impression so strong and vivid that it might be a vision: two of these young people as Saints. Not just any saint: the big-time people, the sort who have their name on the calendar.

Most likely, it is no more than an overactive imagination on All Saints’ Day, after reading the Epistle for Matins (Hebrews 11:32—12:3), about people being stoned and sawn asunder, destitute, afflicted, tormented. Most of the paths that lead to that kind of sanctity are thoroughly unpleasant (as compared to what most people would consider a "good life"), not infrequently including a gruesome and horrible death. I do not wish this upon my young choristers, no more than Saint Mary wished a crucifixion for her Son (and that was her gruesome and horrible death, the sword piercing through her heart as she stood by him on that day when the sun refused to shine).

But I do wish for all of them to be saints, whatever that involves for them. “And I want to be one, too,” as the song says. On this blessed and high feast, my “vision” (or whatever it was) is a good reminder that it is possible. These two children, or some other child in the choir, or one of the adults I work with, may in the end be so glorious as to put the sun and moon to shame with their brightness. They might walk as equals with Francis and Clare, or Martin Luther, or Julian of Norwich, or Bonhoeffer, or J. S. Bach.

I used to think of the “cloud of witnesses” as the saints in glory, looking down upon us, praying for us, cheering us on as we struggle forward. And that is reason enough to “run with patience the race that is set before us.” That is true enough, but increasingly, I am aware that the witnesses are also these children in the choir, their parents, my wife, my friends, the people who hear me play or sing in my rehearsals, indeed all those with whom I come in contact. They, likewise, are reason enough to “run with patience.”

O God, the King of saints, we praise and magnify thy holy Name for all thy servants who have finished their course in thy faith and fear; for the blessed Virgin Mary; for the holy patriarchs, prophets, apostles, and martyrs; and for all other thy righteous servants, known to us and unknown; and we beseech thee that, encouraged by their examples, aided by their prayers, and strengthened by their fellowship, we also may be partakers of the inheritance of the saints in light; through the merits of thy Son Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen (BCP p. 489)

James Chisholm, Priest

Fr. Chisholm departed this life on September 15, 1855 and is commemorated today on the current Episcopal Calendar. Until this morning, he was unknown to me, just a name on the calendar.

You may read about him here. Or (mostly) in his own words at considerably more length (200-plus pages) here, in his memoirs.

Chisholm was from Old Virginia, where he served St. John’s Episcopal Church in Portsmouth, down in the flat Tidewater region of the state, a graduate of the Virginia Theological Seminary. By the accounts that we have, he was not an impressive person: bashful, delicate of constitution, weak.

When the yellow fever came to that part of Virginia in the summer of 1855, most of the clergy and physicians fled, along with the rich planters. But Fr. Chisholm stayed, alongside the Roman Catholic priest, Francis Devlin. The two of them did their best to care for the sick people, all of them poor, many of them Irish immigrants and black slaves, finding food for them, even digging their graves at times. About a quarter of the original population of Portsmouth died by the time it was over, above three thousand persons. That number included Fr. Chisholm, worn out from his work and not quite forty years old.

I have spent a while skimming parts of his daily journal during the fever; near the beginning, as it became clear what was happening and everyone who could fled the town, he wrote “Such a day of mortal panic and flight as today has been, I desire never to see again” (p. 100). It proved to be the last day that anyone was allowed in or out of the town. About this point he abandoned the journal; what remains after that is personal letters. In one of them, he writes:

My present condition surprises myself. I trust that I more than ever realize that ‘Eternal God is my refuge, and underneath are the everlasting arms.’ I am in His hands, to do with me what seemeth Him good. (p. 133)

What is most striking to me is that his work is not that of general benevolence, of the somewhat anonymous care for the sick and needy one finds after natural disasters, as important as that is. It is the care of people he knows well by name, children whom he baptized as infants, members of his parish, with “parish” defined in its proper state-church sense to include everyone living in the community, churchgoers or not, including the Roman Catholics. It is especially the suffering and death of the children than is grievous to him, as it would be to any pastor.

It is also striking that it never seems to have occurred to him that leaving his parish was a possibility. Never mind the other clergy doing exactly that; the idea of walking away from his people when they were in need was unthinkable. There is no hint that he felt at all courageous or special for staying in place.

The condition of our town is awful beyond conception. The eye must see; the ear must hear; the fancy can not furnish the deep, dark shadows of the picture. On Sunday, thirty-two deaths in Portsmouth; on Monday, twenty-one; yesterday, thirteen; today, by eleven o’clock, seventeen. The heartless language of the undertaker from whom I obtained this morning’s report, was, almost in a tone of exultation: “Oh! We’ll get it up to twenty before sunset!” (p. 132)

In February of that year, his wife had died, leaving him with two young boys. At the beginning of the pestilence, he had sent them away to stay with his brother, hoping for their safety. It was not to be: September 5 was the darkest of days for Chisholm. In short order that morning he received a letter from his brother with the news that one of the boys was dead. He began writing a letter in response, called away before he could finish to officiate at the burial of a young girl from his parish. While pronouncing the Committal by the open grave of the little girl, he was seized with the sudden chill that was the first sign of the disease. For some people, it proves to be a minor infection, over within a few days. For others, it enters a toxic phase as it did for Chisholm and so many of his parishioners; high fever, bleeding from mouth, eyes and nose, black vomit, severe dehydration, liver failure and jaundice (thus the “yellow” – the Spanish name is Vómito negro, “black vomit.")

In a final letter to his brother, he wrote (p. 145):

I look back upon my past life with sorrow and shame, when I remember how unworthily and unfaithfully it has been spent… my convictions, and emotions, and hopes, in approaching Him, as my refuge against the accusations of conscience, and the fear of death and judgement, find expression in the words of that hymn whose first and final stanzas are these:

‘Just as I am! Without one plea,
Save that Thy blood was shed for me,
And that Thou biddst me come to thee,
O Lamb of God! I come.

Just as I am! Thy love unknown,
Has broken every barrier down:
Now to be thine, and thine alone,
O Lamb of God! I come.’

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Collect from the Common of Saints: Of a Pastor

O heavenly Father, Shepherd of thy people, we give thee thanks for thy servant James Chisholm, who was faithful in the care and nurture of thy flock, even unto death; and we pray that, following his example and the teaching of his holy life, we may by thy grace grow into the stature of the fullness of our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ; who liveth and reigneth with thee and the Holy Spirit, one God, for ever and ever. Amen. (BCP p. 196)

I have long revered Constance and her Companions, whose feast day was this past Saturday, September 9. Like Chisholm, they cared for the victims of a yellow fever epidemic, theirs in Memphis, Tennessee (1878). And like Chisholm, they died from the disease.

I do not know it as a fact, but I would suspect that Constance knew of Chisholm’s example. It may be that it strengthened her.

It may be that their examples may strengthen us.

Finish then thy new creation

“Play softly,” they told me. “Quiet background music,” while people prayed. Some for healing, back in the side chapel where a line of people formed; a dozen or so at the baptismal font with the priest, renewing their commitment to Christ. Some, sitting in the church, listening, praying. Many in other parts of the building and outdoors; one-on-one prayer with the bishop, walking a labyrinth, mindful coloring, writing of prayers.

For twenty minutes I was to play. Or twenty-five. Or more. However long it took. I was terrified. I could easily play random soft chords in a new-ageish manner and fill the time. But could I do better than that?

I came to view it as an examination. I have improvised preludes and postludes all summer and devoted all of my practice, such as it was, to this skill; have I made any progress? Sometimes it has gone well this summer; sometimes not so much. Could I now attempt a long-form improvisation in the manner of Mr. Jarrett? Obviously I will never have his virtuosity, but could I do something that would be worthy of the occasion, perhaps a channel of healing and prayer?

Well, I gave it a try. I played variations on Hyfrydol, which was to be the closing hymn a bit later in the service. With that much time, I could go pretty far afield. I consciously tried to avoid any clear statement of the tune, and kept it in minor for much of the piece. I sought to extract motives and work with them.

Always, there was the liturgical constraint: “Quiet background music.” That removed dynamics as a possibility for contrast and development and I had to rein in the ideas several times when they wanted to grow larger than would have been appropriate. The constraint mostly ruled out “fast” as well as “loud.”

I made a recording, but I am not going to post all of it; there is too much noise. That was a clue that I got it right; for most of the first fifteen minutes, the priest speaking quietly with people at the other end of the room from the microphone is louder than my playing. This is a good sign.

There was some good playing in it, and some that was not so good; if it were indeed an examination, I would give myself a C-plus and be content that it was not an F. [Edited 9/13 to add: I listened to the recording two more times; it was not so bad as I thought as I played, nor on first listening. Maybe a B instead of C plus.] (I am grateful to one of the jazzmen who used to work in our choir room, a saxophonist. He told a student: “Any improvisation where you don’t feel like you need to put a bag over your head and sneak out the back door is a success.” He is right about that.) The best part was not me: one of my tasks was to set up the key for the Skipperlings to sing “Long time traveler” after me. That is worth hearing, so I am posting the last eight minutes or so of the improvisation followed by their song. The selection starts softly, just before my return to the improvisation’s tonic of C after a long excursion to G flat and B, but it builds up (finally!) after the bishop returns, my cue that it is time to wrap things up.

And here is the closing hymn, on which the improvisation was based. My intent was for the violinist to play on the final stanza, doubling the descant; instead, he played for all three stanzas. That made the middle stanza, unaccompanied except for the violin, much better than what I had anticipated.

Lessons:
- The summer’s work was not entirely wasted, but there is much still to do. I am unable to convincingly organize twenty-five minutes of improvisation so that it sounds like a unified musical composition. Not for the first time, I am filled with admiration for how Mr. Jarrett can do this so well. The way to get there would be to do many more “practice runs,” with close attention to form. This is not directly useful for my proper duties, so it is unlikely to happen. I am still listening to his four-CD recording “A multitude of angels” and seeking to internalize it.
- There were a few weeks this summer where my organ improvisation was better than my work at the piano; I have posted a couple of these on SoundCloud. This was a goal, and I am happy to have reached it, even if the way I did so was with lame piano playing on said Sundays.
- I survived despair. There was a week when I became convinced that my improvisations were driving people away, keeping them from entering the church from the narthex until my noise-making was done. By “what some would call chance,” that very week I happened on one of Pressfield’s books: “Do the Work,” the sequel to his important book “The War of Art.” I must say that “Do the Work” is not as good of a book, and something of a waste of money – it is short, and mostly repeats material from “War of Art.” But some of the material unique to this book was exactly what I needed to drag me out of the Slough of Despond.
- Possibly the chief benefit of the summer’s work was to my accompaniment of congregational song. Devoting more of my practice time to what I call the “Thelonious Monk method” (play the tune at the organ continuously for an extended period, forty-five minutes or an hour) made me more adventuresome when it came time to sing the hymn on Sunday, and in some cases perhaps more effective.

Now it is back to repertoire and anthem accompaniments. There is much to be done there, too. In fact, this very day I received what I view as a word from the Lord: a trustworthy friend told me that during the service I have been describing, she heard it as a voice: “(my name) has more work to do here.”

I wrote that down and attached it to my door, alongside the pictures of Bach, Bruckner, and Keith Jarrett.

Finish then thy new creation;
Pure and spotless let us be;
Let us see thy great salvation
Perfectly restored in thee;
Changed from glory into glory,
Till in heaven we take our place,
Till we cast our crowns before thee,
Lost in wonder, love, and praise.
(Charles Wesley)

O day full of grace (and a recipe)

I have not posted a Recipe for a long while, and this is not really one, just a variation. One of our family favorites is the Middle-Eastern salad called Tabbouleh, made with bulgur wheat, large amounts of fresh parsley and mint, black olives, cucumber, tomato, olive oil and lemon juice, plus other additions ad libitum.

Yesterday when I made our weekly batch, I used Kasha (toasted buckwheat) in place of the bulgur. It adds its own distinctive flavor (sort of nuttish, perhaps a bit like walnuts?) and I think that I prefer it. There is the added advantage that the dish now becomes gluten-free; here is a link discussing that aspect, and noting other nutritional advantages, particularly buckwheat’s high levels of fiber and protein. [Edited to add: My wife does not like this at all. I do. Your experience may vary.]

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On the current Episcopal calendar, this day (Sept. 8) is the feast of two nineteenth century Danish Christians: S. Kirkegaard and N. F. S. Gruntvig. The former is more generally known; the latter is more important to me because of his hymns. Our choir is working on an arrangement of one: “Built on a Rock the Church must stand/even when steeples are falling.” Here is another, which I love even better, as much for its tune Den Signede Dag as for the text: “O Day full of grace, which we behold.”

Most of all, I love the arrangement of this by F. Melius Christiansen for his St. Olaf Choir, especially the way it begins. It is a grand undertaking to sing this, which I once did at a music workshop (Presbyterian Conference on Worship and Music at Montreat, NC – that year, Anton Armstrong, one of Christiansen’s successors at St. Olaf, was the adult choir director and clinician). Here is a recording of the hymn by another fine choir, the Nordic Choir of Luther College.

I recall Mike Wagner’s sermon at the RSCM course this summer, wherein he spoke of the Collegiate Choir at Luther College (in which he sang) and “taking it home,” with “it” being what I call Connection. If one doubts what “it” or “connection” might be, this recording is a fine demonstration. May these young people take “it” with them wherever they go.

The Feast of Nicholas

December 6, 2016

As it says in the Episcopal “Lesser Feasts and Fasts,” little is known for sure about St. Nicholas. He was a bishop; he was tortured and imprisoned for his faith during the persecution of Diocletian. He was perhaps at the Council of Nicaea.

But the many legends about him surely have some basis in fact. It seems clear that he was a friend of sailors, and of the poor. And most of all, children. He is their patron saint, and thus the Patron of the Royal School of Church Music. For those who have earned an RSCM Ribbon, the guy on the medal is Nicholas, dressed as a bishop.

On this Feast of Nicholas, I was visited by the two men that I have helped for years, about an hour apart. One of them needed fuel for his “new” car (a beat-up wreck of an old rusted-out Plymouth). He asked for $5; to his surprise, I rode with him to the gas station and treated him to a full tank.

The other showed up with a young friend, perhaps in her twenties or thirties. I have heard of this person for several years, and had not until now met her. She was very cautious and did not speak for a good twenty minutes; she listened to the other two of us talk. She wandered over to the youth choir bulletin board and finally spoke; in a quiet voice she asked me about the Lent Madness bracket chart from last spring, there on the board, and the “trading cards” for the previous winners of the Golden Halo, starting with C. S. Lewis. She seemed comfortable with the idea of Saints, but not comfortable at all about being inside a church building. I can’t blame her; churches are often thoroughly unfriendly to those who live on the edge, as I suspect she does. And it is not unknown for churches and those who work in them to do positive harm to people, harm that is sufficient to scare them away from church for the rest of their life.

I think that Nicholas would be a friend to people like these. I am honored that on this day, I was granted opportunity to do the same.

Both of my friends expressed concern for this country and its future. With each of them, we talked about that for a good while. They are both convicted felons and in this state will never be permitted to vote. But they still care, and their premonition is like mine; we are in for some hard times. Perhaps not right away, and definitely not just because of the election of Mr. Trump – the three of us agree that Mrs. Clinton would have been just as bad if not worse. But sooner rather than later. One of them views it through apocalyptic lenses; the End is near, and the return of our Lord Jesus Christ. The other is just scared, worried about what it will be like for a poor old veteran in bad health – a sailor, no less, veteran of the U.S. Navy - in and out of drug addiction and sometimes out on the street. Like my other friend, he also spoke of the Day of Doom: "When He comes, I don't look forward to standing before him. I've got a lot to answer for." I quoted the verse from Malachi: "For who may abide the day of His coming? And who shall stand when He appeareth?" - there is not a one of us who can do anything except fall on our knees before Him when He sits on the throne of judgement.

It struck me afterwards that I was able to speak freely with them on these topics, in a manner in which I cannot with the church people, where I feel that I am walking on eggshells when politics comes up, to say nothing of eschatology. It struck me also that these two men (and the young lady) have a much better idea what “hard times” can be like than I do, or most of my middle-class friends. And they are worried.

Nicholas, pray for us.

The Six-Day War, and the Hand of God

Judaism is not simply an amalgam of national concepts, moral and ritual laws, subjective emotions. Jewish existence is an engagement to what is greater than ourselves. It is sustained by numinous powers; it is carried on the wings of a hidden Presence in history. That Presence, often passive and suppressed, breaks forth in rare moments. (Abraham Joshua Heschel, “Israel: An echo of eternity,” p. 96. Heschel was an American rabbi, theologian and author. Several of his books are important to me, and this book, listed below, started the train of thought leading to this essay.)

Heschel, Abraham Joshua: Israel: An echo of eternity (Farrar, Straus and Giroux, New York, 1969
Pressfield, Steven: The Lion’s Gate: On the front lines of the Six Day War (Penguin Group, New York, 2014)
Dayan, Moshe: Living with the Bible (William Morrow and Company, New York, 1978)
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A reminder: as stated in the sidebar, the opinions here expressed are mine, and may not reflect the teachings of the parish where I work.
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In 1967, I was a young teenager and a young Christian, still reading the Old Testament for the first time. Perhaps because of my youth, I found it horribly unfair that, as pressure mounted against Israel from all of its neighbors that spring, the United States dithered. The Soviets were arming Egypt with their most modern weapons; the U.S. would not even send Israel the weapons they had already purchased.

The United Nations had a force of peacekeepers in the Sinai, which was supposed to be a demilitarized zone. When President Nasser of Egypt ordered them out, they packed up and left while the Egyptian tanks moved in.

It was not fair. Why didn’t we do something? Why didn’t the U.N. stand up to this aggression, as they did in Korea? It was blindingly obvious that the Western world would stand by, wringing its hands while the Jewish nation was obliterated. They were badly outnumbered, surrounded by enemies, with no friends.

As it transpired, Israel did not need help from the United Nations, nor the United States. They had a helper who was considerably more reliable:

Behold, he who keeps watch over Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep. (Psalm 121:4)

I have lived to see the Hand of God in action among the great deeds of the world one time, perhaps two. The one of which I am certain is the Six Day War, June 5 through 10, 1967.

The events of this time could have been lifted straight from the pages of Judges, First Samuel, and the Maccabees where the LORD of Hosts rescued his people from the hand of enemies that surrounded them on every side, enemies who appeared to be far stronger. That was clearly the situation in the spring and summer of 1967, with the entire Arab world united in determination to destroy the “Zionist entity.”

I have come to more fully understand what the Hand of God looks like in action by reading Steven Pressfield’s account of the war: “The Lion’s Gate,” which is mostly a collection of personal accounts by Israeli veterans who fought in that conflict. The Hand of God in action is for the most part individual people doing what is right (led, I would say, by the Spirit of God), in accord with Divine Providence.

Even the three supreme instances of the Hand of God, where He acted with the most glorious and surprising power, required human cooperation. The deliverance of the Children of Israel from Egypt depended on the sometimes hesitant obedience of Moses (Exodus 3, especially vv. 9-12). The Incarnation depended upon the free assent of Our Lady to what was asked of her (St. Luke 2:38). And the greatest of all the mighty acts of God hinged upon one person, alone in his prayers one night in Gethsemane (St. Luke 22:39-44).

Although the United States did not sufficiently support Israel in the wars of 1948, 1956, and 1967, we were better in the Yom Kippur War of 1973, resupplying the Israelis as fast as the Soviets were resupplying the Egyptians and Syrians, and ultimately facing down the Soviets to keep the war from spiraling into something larger. The work of President Carter in brokering the Camp David accords a few years later (1978) was important. The courage of the Egyptian president Anwar Sadat in seeking peace by means of this agreement is something to be remembered through the generations. Carter and Sadat are further examples of men simply doing what seemed right at the time, despite what it might cost them. For Sadat, it cost him his life in 1981.

I support the Zionist cause insofar as I am able, which means primarily by prayer, and (when needed) letters to my elected representatives, and by speaking up for Israel. That can be hard, because it is fashionable in the circles in which I work and live to support the Palestinians, and to consider the Israelis to be the Bad Guys. The best I can understand the liberal position, the State of Israel is one last relic of colonialism, inflicted upon the innocent Arab residents of Palestine by the British Mandate. For liberal Christians, there is the additional notion that the Old Testament (like the New) is largely pious fabrication. The Israelites were simply one of many Canaanite peoples. They invented a “back-story” involving supposed promise of the Land to the Patriarchs (fictional persons, no doubt) to justify their genocidal seizure of Canaan. For example, this from an encyclopedic source:

The Abraham story cannot be definitively related to any specific time, and it is widely agreed that the patriarchal age, along with the exodus and the period of the judges, is a late literary construct that does not relate to any period in actual history. A common hypothesis among scholars is that it was composed in the early Persian period (late 6th century BCE) as a result of tensions between Jewish landowners who had stayed in Judah during the Babylonian captivity and traced their right to the land through their "father Abraham", and the returning exiles who based their counter-claim on Moses and the Exodus tradition (Wikipedia, s.v. “Abraham,” accessed 9/9/2016)

For whatever reasons, there are periodically workshops and lectures in our college town, advertised on our parish's bulletin boards, concerning the righteous struggle of the Palestinian freedom fighters against oppression. Not a word about the Israeli side.

The U.S. has remained one of Israel’s allies. I must do my small part to help keep it that way.

The Israelis are not the Bad Guys. Neither are the Palestinians. But the Land belongs to the Jewish people by express gift from God, and Jerusalem most of all. It is impossible to read the Old Testament without seeing the promise of the Land to the children of Israel. The Land was a part of the first thing that God said to Abram (Genesis 12:1), and the promise is repeated from Genesis to Malachi (Mal. 3:12, for example: “And all nations shall call you blessed; for ye shall be a delightsome land, saith the LORD of hosts.”)

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In the first weeks of June 1967, the situation appeared hopeless. By the end of the month, not only had Israel survived, but they had recovered their lands on the west side of Jordan, and most of all, Jerusalem.

July, 1967… I have discovered a new land. Israel is not the same as before. There is great astonishment in the souls. It is as if the prophets had risen from their graves… My ancestors could only dream of you—to my people in Auschwitz you were more remote than the moon, and I can touch your stones! Am I worthy? How shall I ever repay for these moments? (Heschel, p. 7, speaking of the return to Jerusalem.)

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I have known Avremale [Schecter, sergeant, “A” company, Battalion 71] and his brothers since we were boys. His father was the kindest, most simple and modest man. He worked all his life for the Tnuva Dairy in Tel Aviv, riding his bicycle to work, raising his boys, asking nothing but to be here as a Jew in this land, but feeling always that our people’s return remained incomplete, with the Wall and the Old City in the hands of those who hated us.

Now I see Avremale, with his Uzi with its folding stock under one arm and the tefillin in place on his head and other arm. I know he is thinking of his father.

The others want to pray, too, but none of them knows how. Avremale has to teach them. (Pressfield p. 343, quoting Yoram Zamosh, “A” company's commander, describing the scene when the first Jewish soldiers reach the Wailing Wall in Jerusalem)

[Zamosh continues, describing Moshe Stempel, one of his officers] … Stempel held my arm in a grip of iron. Twice he tried to speak and twice his voice failed. He pulled me so close that the brows of our helmets were touching.

“Zamosh!” Stempel said, with such emotion that I can hear the words still, though he spoke them almost fifty years ago. “Zamosh, if my grandfather, if my great-grandfather, if any of my family who have been murdered in pograms and in the death camps… if they could know, somehow, even for one second, that I, their grandson, would be standing here at this hour, in this place, wearing the red boots of an Israeli paratrooper… if they could know this, Zamosh, for just one instant, they would suffer death a thousand times and count it as nothing.”

Stempel gripped my arm as if he would never let go. “We shall never, never leave this place,” he said. “Never will we give this up. Never.” (Pressfield p. 406)

I worry about the Israelis, which puts me in good company:

Can a woman forget her nursing child, that she should not have compassion on the son of her womb? yea, they may forget, yet will I not forget thee. Behold, I have graven thee upon the palms of my hands; thy walls are continually before me. (Isaiah 49:15-16)

But there is this:

O Jerusalem, Jerusalem, thou that killest the prophets, and stonest them which are sent unto thee, how often would I have gathered thy children together, even as a hen gathereth her chickens under her wings, and ye would not! (St. Matthew 23:37)

That is why I worry. From this distance, it does not seem to me that the Israelis treat the “strangers within their gates” (that is, the Palestinians) as they ought. Nor are their actions as individuals and a nation especially righteous. (Neither are ours, and our treatment of the “strangers” within our gates, the undocumented and mostly Hispanic immigrants who do much of the hard work of this country, leaves much to be desired.)

We have the unshakable promise of God that he will look after Israel forever. But even a cursory reading of the Old Testament shows what that can look like. It can at times look very much like what is not much beyond living memory: the Shoah.

The attack [in the 1948 war, against a formidable Egyptian position] was ready to go. At the last minute a half dozen trucks rumbled up, bringing reinforcements. The men got off. They were pale and thin. They had numbers tatooed on their arms. Someone said they had spent the last two years in relocation camps—under the British, of course—in Cyprus. They had got to Israel just a week earlier and been given only a few days of military training. They came up and were issued rifles. I will never forget their faces. They were certain they were going to die. But their eyes were shining… (Pressfield p. 82, quoting Lou Lenart, an American Jew who was a major figure in the newborn Israel Air Force during the 1948 war. Lenart describes elsewhere how he came to an enduring hatred of the British, for setting the new Israeli state up to fail as soon it was born. Pressfield dedicated this book to Lenart.)

Pressfield’s book led me to what he calls an “extraordinary personal testament,” “Living with the Bible” by Moshe Dayan, minister of defense during the Six Day War. His mode of “living with the Bible” was new to me, and I suspect possible only for an Israeli. Dayan was not an observant Jew; he never even did his Bar Mitzvah. But his faith leaps from the pages of this book, a faith that is that of a warrior. It is a faith in the God who revealed Himself to Abraham, to Isaac and Jacob, the God who carried His people through the wilderness, gave them the Land, has stayed with them through thousands of years, and remains with them today. He delights most of all in the battles described in the Scripture, giving insights to them that one does not hear from the scholars -- especially the liberal Christian scholars, who mostly gloss over these passages or deplore them as barbaric. His characterization of Samson brought him to life for me in a way that nothing else has: a man who loved his strength and freedom, walking where he would through the countryside with the wind in his hair, even when it was the land of his enemies the Philistines, for whom he had no fear.

My Bible consists of the books of the Patriarchs and the Judges. Its pages narrate the stories of Joshua and Gideon, of Saul and David and Jonathan. Say these names: Galilee, Mount Carmel, Beersheba, the Vale of Sharon. These sites are not theoretical to me… They comprise the hills and flats that I have plowed and planted, tramped over and slumbered upon. A field at Ramat Yohanan has soaked up the last of my brother Zorik’s blood. I left my own eye in the dirt across the border with Lebanon. How many thousands have given the same and more?

The treads of a half-track rend a slope that has no name and is known to no one. Up comes an arrowhead three thousand years old… Into the sunlight emerges a shard from the era of Joshua, the handle of a vessel from which a soldier of Israel once drank. Who was that man? He was myself. I am that man.

He shivered on watch, this fellow thirty centuries gone; he marched through the night; he defended his fields and flocks. (Pressfield p. 162, quoting Dayan)

Dayan viewed it as his responsibility to defend this Land, and the idea of Israel, with all of his being. There were many like him then, and hopefully now:

[Menachem] Begin is curt, humorless, intractable. But he is without fear. He has endured political imprisonment under the Soviets, from which ordeal he emerged tougher than ever and more passionately dedicated to Jewish nationhood and to political autonomy for the Jewish people. He is a good man, possibly a great one. The nation needs men like him as much as she needs visionaries like Ben-Gurion and poets like Natan Alterman.

‘To the banks of the Jordan’ is Begin’s party signature. His vision is of the Israel of the Bible. He speak passionately at this cabinet meeting [which made the decision to launch the pre-emptive strike on June 5, destroying most of the Egyptian air force on the ground], citing numerous biblical passages, to which [Levi] Eshkol [the prime minister] with good humor appends, “Amen, amen.” (Pressfield p. 158, quoting Dayan)

For the Israelis and Palestinians and their neighbors, there are still no clear solutions. There have been too many wrongs, too much bloodshed. How can the two peoples ever live at peace?

[quoting Dayan, Pressfield writes] All the same, I am no hater of Arabs. I grew up with Bedouin herders and farmers. We have plowed together, and planted, and sat side by side in the furrows to take our noon meal.

Who is the Arab? No man makes a better friend than he. None will stand his ground with greater courage. To the Arab, honor is all. He will drain his blood for the clan and the tribe, and for the stranger he has taken in at the gate. No one laughs like an Arab, or loves his children with such tenderness; no one dances like him or worships God with greater devotion, and none is more compassionate to the weak and the helpless.

The modern world, in which the sons of Ishmael have fallen behind and become a backward people, is a nightmare of shame from which the proud Arab cannot awaken. This is the source of his violent and inextinguishable rage. (Pressfield, p. 162)

Many have come to hate the United States, too – partly because of our support for Israel, but we have given people many more reasons to despise us. Hatred boils in our own land, between races, between rich and poor, between political factions. It seems hopeless.

But the Hand of God worked in the summer of 1967, and in the collapse of the Soviet empire some years after. It is through such actions as were taken by ordinary people in those times that God’s purposes prevailed. It is through our actions, here and now, that God may again bring to pass what seems impossible.

Christ has no body now on earth but yours, no hands but yours, no feet but yours… (St. Teresa of Avila)

The ultimate meaning of the State of Israel must be seen in terms of the vision of the prophets: the redemption of all men. The religious duty of the Jew is to participate in the process of continuous redemption, in seeing that justice prevails over power, that awareness of God penetrates human understanding. (Heschel, p. 156)

He comes to us as One unknown

When I neglect the Music Box as I have now for more than a month, it is hard to return. Where can I start? What shall I say? The blank page lies before me, and still (as it has been these weeks) there is so little time, just what I can spare this day over my lunch.

I played a noontime recital at the Congregational Church on Wednesday; the Liszt “Weinen, Klagen” (of which I wrote when I played it in 2012 – here and here), plus a last-minute addition, the Preludio “Sine nomine” by Howells, to stretch the program a little closer to its appointed half-hour. I have recordings of both, which I should post on YouTube. But that is part of what has paralyzed me; I have quite a few sound files ready to be posted, but no time to do it. Thinking that I would write a Music Box essay once I had a link or two to include, I have done neither.

There was no Blaue Blume for the Liszt this time, for I did not play it as well as I did in 2012: Too many note mistakes, especially in the first pages. But I hope that I communicated something of its spirit. [Edit, the next day: Upon listening to the recording a second time and allowing a few days' space, I see that it is not so bad after all. Yes, there were note mistakes, one of them (at a stop change) grievous, but I should be content with it on the whole.]

The work was complicated by a large funeral on Monday, the wife of our previous rector, herself a priest well-known and respected across the diocese and beyond. Expecting a big crowd and knowing that some would arrive early, I poked my head in the room at 10:10. Finding it already more than half full (for an 11:00 funeral), I sighed, and sat down to play. I had expected this, so I had enough music at hand, though some of it was sketchily prepared, most of all the opening piece, the Bach prelude O Lamm Gottes unschuldig, which I had played through once that morning to have more or less ready if needed.

I am pleased to say that it fulfilled its function. When I began, the crowd was in party spirit, jabbering away at full volume with plenty of laughter and high spirits. The Bach begins quietly; I played for several pages and was probably attended to by no one in the room. But it grows stronger as it goes, and gradually got their attention. By the end (nine minutes later), the mood of the room had changed. Bach (and I would say the Holy Ghost) had begun to gather them for worship.

Monday funeral; Wednesday recital, with choral rehearsals afterwards. With the Youth Choir, I again spent too long with Lent Madness. If you don’t know about this, you should visit their website: Lent Madness. It is a good-natured parody on the “March Madness” college basketball doings that often coincide with Lent, complete with brackets, daily “color commentary” and much more. I have been posting the coming week’s matchups on the board and (with Nora, our Christian Formation director) talking about them.

The adult choir later on was an excellent rehearsal, with the St. Simeon’s group (which joins us for the First Sunday Choral Evensongs) alongside the regular choir. We did good work on the Howells St. John’s Cambridge canticles and an anthem by Kenton Coe, “My heart is glad.” After the break, when the St. Simeon’s singers had been dismissed, we continued with our work, finishing with about ten minutes on the first part of Handel’s “Worthy is the Lamb/Blessing and Honor.” That is the Second Lesson for Easter III, April 10, and we hope to sing it that day, with the Youth Choir alongside the adults. In a final sing-through to the beginning of the Amen, there was some Real Music in the air.

Thursday was a day for grocering, errands, tax preparation (the work of many days, on which I must nibble away as possible).

And so: Friday. With the Bach Vater unser for Sunday’s voluntaries, the large setting as prelude and the small as postlude. I have played it before (see here, when I played it six years ago on this same Sunday, the Third in Lent), but it is one of the most challenging pieces in the organ works of Bach. It needs more than the two days’ preparation available for it.

I gave the large setting about six hours; slow, frustrating work. The frustration was solely because of the short window for preparation, and stands as a warning. I should allow myself more time for such things. Keeping what at times are five contrapuntal lines going through thickets of accidentals is a considerable mental challenge – I constantly lose track of where I am, what clef my left hand is in, what key I am in, which notes are sharped, which are naturaled, the two-against-three that is one of the glories of this work. I worked steadily until I had to leave for an evening choir dinner; I worked longer than I should, making me about twenty minutes late.

Saturday. I overslept, worn out from the week’s work. After Matins, I did the choir room setup, and saw that I needed to update the Lent Madness bracket for the youth choir bulletin board, since they are singing tomorrow and will see it. We are almost through the first round, headed for the Saintly Sixteen. I noted that four of the remaining contenders for the Golden Halo are (among other things) writers, so I thought to post some quotations on my door: Julian of Norwich, Dietrich Bonhoeffer, John Mason Neale, Albert Schweitzer. I did this, and on my way upstairs to practice, thought that I should add pictures; that would give a better chance of drawing the children’s attention. So, I did: an icon of Julian, her book in hand and cat at her side, photographs of the others. For Schweitzer, I needed two: one of him at his African hospital, holding a baby, and another at the organ.

About that time, one of the street guys came in. Our discussion tended in a direction for which the Bonhoeffer quote was ideal, so I read it to him. He asked for two copies to share with his friends. Here is the quote:

To be called to a life of extraordinary quality, to live up to it, and yet to be unconscious of it is indeed a narrow way.
To confess and testify to the truth as it is in Jesus, and at the same time to love the enemies of that truth, his enemies and ours, and to love them with the infinite love of Jesus Christ, is indeed a narrow way.

To believe the promise of Jesus that his followers shall possess the earth, and at the same time to face our enemies unarmed and defenceless, preferring to incur injustice rather than to do wrong ourselves, is indeed a narrow way.

To see the weakness and wrong in others, and at the same time refrain from judging them; to deliver the gospel message without casting pearls before swine, is indeed a narrow way.

The way is unutterably hard, and at every moment we are in danger of straying from it. If we regard this way as one we follow in obedience to an external command, if we are afraid of ourselves all the time, it is indeed an impossible way.

But if we behold Jesus Christ going on before step by step, we shall not go astray.

By now, it was 11:45. On Saturday. With the Vater unser nowhere near ready. I changed my shoes, sat at the console, said my prayer (“Jesu, juva,” just like Bach used to write on his scores) and looked at the score, bristling with its cross-rhythms and accidentals.

And the thought came to me of Schweitzer sitting at the organ, in that photo on my door. I thought of him playing the Vater unser, which he certainly did, for he played the complete organ works of Bach in concert from memory (“from heart” might be the better term), having learned some of them in a WW I prison camp in Africa (where he was a missionary of German descent in French territory, and thus rounded up), “playing” on a tabletop with paper drawings of a keyboard and organ pedals

And I knew that he would approve of the way that I had spent the morning. I asked him to intercede for me.

It is now 3:00. My dinner is finished, I have lingered beyond it to finish this essay, and I must attend to my work. I hope for one more playthrough of the Vater unser, but I must also run the hymns, set the hymn boards – and not neglect the youth choir’s anthem: the choral song “He that is down need fear no fall” by Vaughan Williams. It has the potential to be Real Music, if they (and I) get it right.

As we discussed at the youth choir rehearsal, among his other works, Schweitzer was a bit of a theologian, most noted for his book “The Quest for the Historical Jesus.” In my opinion, the book opened a can of worms, leading to such abominations as the so-called “Jesus Seminar.” Some of the young people had heard bits and pieces of such discussions at home and in sermons, about how (so the scholars say, some of them) much of the Gospel accounts were written down so long after the fact that the things they describe are not true, not in a historical sense. So how can we know the “Real” Jesus?

That was Schweitzer’s question, too. One of the reasons I respect him is that he did not need this question to be answered in order to follow and serve Jesus as his Lord. I posted this quotation, mostly for the twelve-year-old who went on at length about these things, for it is the only real answer to it: Schweitzer puts this as the final paragraph of his book.

He comes to us as One unknown, without a name, as of old, by the lakeside, He came to those men who knew Him not. He speaks to us the same words: “Follow thou me!” and sets us to the tasks which He has to fulfill for our time. He commands. And to those who obey Him, whether they be wise or simple, He will reveal himself in the toils, the conflicts, the sufferings which they shall pass through in His fellowship, and, as an ineffable mystery, they shall learn in their own experience who He is.

The Chronicles

The books of I and II Chronicles are entirely absent from the Revised Common Lectionary. Only a few disconnected bits appear in the Daily Office Lectionary, interspersed into the narrative of I and II Kings that we have recently completed. I submit that this is a grievous error, akin to using only one Gospel account for public worship (perhaps St. Luke, as it is the most elegantly written), entirely ignoring St. Matthew and Mark, and taking only a few stray bits from St. John. We have four accounts of the Messiah’s ministry for very good reasons, not least to emphasize the centrality of these events. It is for similar reasons that Genesis contains two creation stories, and other passages where it appears that two or more parallel oral histories have been stitched together. Exodus contains but the one account of the deliverance from Egypt and the giving of the Torah, but it is revisited several times in the Psalter (especially Psalms 105 and 106, but also Psalm 78 and others), and is never far from the heart of the prophets.

It has been my custom for decades to read the Chronicles at this point in the two-year Daily cycle, after the completion of II Kings, alongside the bits from Jeremiah and Lamentations that have occupied us for the last week or so and the reading of Ezra and Nehemiah that begins tomorrow. I commend this practice to you, especially the reading of the Chronicles as a connected narrative in one swoop.

I will admit that I do not read the genealogies closely, and skim lightly over some of the other passages. But they are not to be entirely skipped. Some observations:

Adam, Sheth, Enosh
Kenan, Mahalaleel, Jered (I Chron. 1:1-2)

Thus begins the nine chapter genealogy. It profits from being read aloud, for it then becomes clear that the names are grouped for ease of memorization. It boggles my mind to consider such a task, but it is equally clear that some people did exactly that – they memorized these lists of names so that they could retain them as a part of their history, long before such things were committed to writing. It is also striking how little bits of family lore slip into the lists, just as they would when an old person is recounting her memories to the youngsters. There are many such examples in I Chronicles; here is one.

Now Sheshan had no sons, but daughters. And Sheshan had a servant, an Egyptian, whose name was Jarha. And Sheshan gave his daughter to Jarha his servant to wife; and she bare him Attai. And Attai begat Nathan, and Nathan begat Zabad… (I Chron. 2:34-36)

As a child, I sat for hours in utter boredom in my grandfather’s sitting room, the flies buzzing in the windows, as he and his sisters spoke of relatives and ancestors long dead, slipping in stories in exactly this manner. I wish that I had listened.

It is worthy of note also that there are no dates. Just the names, in their order, with an occasional reference to the wider events of the kingdom, such as “in the days of Hezekiah king of Judah” (4:41).

And these are they whom David set over the service of song

And these are they whom David set over the service of song in the house of the LORD, after that the ark had rest. And they ministered before the dwelling place of the tabernacle of the congregation with singing, until Solomon had built the house of the LORD in Jerusalem: and then they waited on their office according to their order… (6:31-32)

It is a delight to read these names, “they that waited, with their children” (v. 33). As the commentaries observe, these musicians, these Levites (and the porters, the equivalent of modern-day church sextons and ushers) are elsewhere nameless. It is only the priests who are considered worthy of mention by name.

This parallels current practice. In the church hallway upstairs, one may find photographs of the Bishops of Iowa and the Rectors and other clergy of this parish. No musicians. No Christian educators. And especially, no sextons or vergers, no ladies and gentlemen of the Altar Guild.

It is well to know by evidence of Holy Scripture that these persons are not unknown to God.

So they brought the ark of God, and set it in the midst of the tent that David had pitched for it, and they offered burnt sacrifices and praise offerings before God… And he appointed certain of the Levites to minister before the ark of the LORD, and to record, and to thank and praise the LORD God of Israel: Asaph the chief, and next to him Zechariah, Jeiel, and Shemiramoth… (16:1, 4-5a)

Then on that day David delivered this psalm to thank the LORD into the hand of Asaph and his brethren. Give thanks unto the LORD, call upon his name, make know his deeds among the people. Sing unto him, sing psalms unto him, talk ye of all his wondrous works (v. 7-9)

The following passage (v. 8-36) is an anthology drawn from several of the Psalms, which the commentary assures us are all “post-exilic.” I would not be so sure, not in the face of a direct statement in Scripture that they came from the hand of David at the very time that the ark came to Jerusalem.

After the psalms, the passage continues:

So he left there before the ark of the covenant of the LORD Asaph and his brethren to minister before the ark continually, as every day’s work required (16:37)

To any church musician, that last part has resonance. Three thousand years later, the ministry continues “as every day’s work requires.”

Yet more names

Chapters 23 through 27 are an account of those who ministered at the time when David, “old and full of days, made Solomon his son king over Israel” (23:1). It is a treasure to know these names, even to the point of the ordering of the musicians into twenty-four bands (25:8-31), after “they cast lots, ward against ward, as well the small as the great, the teacher as the scholar (v. 8). We see in this passage that then as now the music involves not just the adults and the most accomplished, but the small as well as the great, the teacher and the scholar. The musicians learned their work from childhood by doing it alongside their parents, their uncles and grandparents, the others of the musical community. This is a model for modern church music, a model which is too often ignored by musicians and parishes who do not have the patience to include the children in anything meaningful or important.

Moreover David and the captains of the host separated to the service of the sons of Asaph, and of Heman, and of Jeduthun, who should prophesy with harps, with psalteries, and with cymbals… (25:1)

The close relation of prophecy and music is a subject too large to address here; it is enough to note that one does not simply “play” at music; it must be a prophetic work, guided (as with all prophecy) by the Spirit of God. In this context, one may well consider St. Paul’s teachings in I Corinthians 12 through 14:

Follow after charity, and desire spiritual gifts, but rather that ye may prophesy… he that prophesieth speaketh unto men to edification, and exhortation, and comfort (14:1,3)

And of course, this:

What is it then? I will pray with the spirit, and I will pray with the understanding also: I will sing with the spirit, and I will sing with the understanding also (14:15)

The conclusion of the matter: Holy Men and Holy Women

Time fails to delve further into these things, but I cannot pass II Chronicles without the mention of two passages, both of them with the essential details presented here and not in II Kings:

Also the Levites which were the singers, all of them of Asaph, of Heman, of Jeduthun, with their sons and their brethren, being arrayed in white line, having cymbals and psalteries and harps, stood at the east end of the altar, and with them an hundred and twenty priests sounding with trumpets: 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 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 (II Chronicles 5:11-14)

Those who have been involved in the church’s music for very long have experienced such moments, when the musicians (including the congregation as they sing) are “as one,” and the Shekinah, the “cloud” that is the outward sign of the glory of the LORD, fills the house to the point that we are overcome and (at least for the moment) cannot continue.

This is not something of human manufacture. There is always the temptation to use music to manipulate, to achieve a desired effect or to implant an agenda. These are unworthy goals which stand in the way of music’s proper function, which is to help the people attain their unity in Christ (“as one”) and together to come into the divine Presence.
..........

Hezekiah began to reign when he was five and twenty years old, and he reigned nine and twenty years in Jerusalem… and he did that which was right in the sight of the LORD, according to all that David his father had done. He in the first year of his reign, in the first month, opened the doors of the house of the LORD, and repaired them… (II Chron. 29:1-3)

The reign of Hezekiah is one of the central passages of the Old Testament. Fittingly, it is recorded not once or twice, but three times (II Kings, here in II Chronicles, and Isaiah). It is only here that the account is given in detail of the cleansing of the House and the restoration of worship according to its ancient and proper pattern, including the musical work (29:25-28), and the great Passover, such as had not been since the time of Solomon (chapter 30).

The Sages say that there are four holy men who found God on their own, out of the darkness without human assistance (though not without Divine help and revelation): Abraham, Job, the Messiah – and Hezekiah. He had grown up in the wicked court of his father Ahaz, and somehow he found it in his heart to do as he did.

But he was not the last king worthy of his fathers, for as we read in the Chronicles, there was one more revival under Josiah (chapters 34 and 35). He too restored the passover, with the musical service (35:15), so that it was written

And there was no passover like to that kept in Israel from the days of Samuel the prophet (35:18).

When he died in battle at the age of thirty-nine,

… all Judah and Jerusalem mourned for Josiah. And Jeremiah lamented for Josiah: and all the singing men and the singing women spake of Josiah in their lamentations to this day… (35:24-25).

The end was now at hand. But it is not a small thing for one’s death to be lamented by Jeremiah the prophet – perhaps in musical form, as might be implied by the context. One might also note the “singing women” in this verse; until now, we have heard nothing of female musicians, and it is good to know that they were there. Unlike the men, we do not even have their names, nor anything about what they did (beyond “lamentations”). But like the men, they are known to God and their music is not forgotten; like all music that is true, it ever remains in the heart of God.

We live in time and can see and hear but the present moment, with memories of the past – our own memories, and those preserved in the genealogies and stories and writings passed from our ancestors. Music preeminently is the art of the Present – it exists in its only true form, its live sound in performance, only in the moment. But God stands above the circle of time and perceives it all, in its entirety, all at once and forever.

King David, and some loose ends

If the Daily Office Lectionary were to work straight through the Old Testament books, today would have been the second chapter of I Kings: chapter one was yesterday, chapter three is tomorrow. And chapter two is omitted, excepting the first four verses.

Longtime readers of the Music Box know that I love these untidy bits of Holy Scripture that the framers of the Lectionary thought it better to skip. Some of them would be boring as a spoken lesson in public liturgy (e.g., most of Leviticus, especially the details of the sacrifices and offerings, and the diagnosis of leprosy). Some of them would seem redundant, such as I and II Chronicles. I would submit that when the Scriptures see fit to repeat something, especially when there are differences in detail, it is not without reason (e.g., the Gospels according to Matthew, Mark, and Luke). Some do not fit comfortably with modern liberal theology (e.g., Romans 1:26-27).

And some reflect badly on people, describing aspects of them that we would prefer to overlook. The second chapter of I Kings is one of these. “Now the days of David drew nigh that he should die, and he charged Solomon his son, saying...” (v. 1). David tells Solomon to see to it that some old scores are settled, and in such a manner that David will be guiltless, or at least appear so. (Any parallel with the death of Uriah the Hittite is purely a coincidence.)

The most troubling to me is David's instructions to see that Joab the son of Zeruiah (v. 5-6, and 28-34), who has been the captain of David's host all these many years, through good times and bad, does "not go down to the grave in peace" (v.6). There were many occasions when Joab's plain-spoken wisdom bailed David out (e.g., II Samuel 19:1-8, following the death of Absalom). David lists some reasons why Joab should die, but it seems thoroughly ungrateful to treat his friend this way – and worse, to not do the deed himself, but to leave it to Solomon so that he himself can remain guiltless.

Uh... is this the same David who wrote Psalm 23? And Psalm 51?

Yes, it is. And I believe that is the point, or one of the points. It would have been easy for those who brought the Books of the Kings into the form in which we have them (much of it perhaps in the time of Hezekiah, and some of it doubtless during or after the Exile) to gloss over these bits, just as the lectionary people have done in our time. But, guided (I believe) by the Holy Spirit, they felt it necessary to tell the truth. David was indeed capable of singing Psalm 23. He was able to dance before the LORD with all his might in utter abandonment to praise and adoration (II Samuel 6:12-16). He had the insight to be one of the greatest of Prophets as well as King, by writing Psalm 22 and many others about the Messiah who was to come – and it was he to whom God first made that promise explicit (II Samuel 7:1-17). And this same David was capable of doing some thoroughly horrible things.

And so are we.

I finish with two thoughts. I honor Joab the son of Zeruiah, as I have said. He is one of the heroes of the story, a thoroughly brave and loyal man of valor. And he died well. Knowing that Solomon was out to get him, he went to the Altar of God and took hold of it. At first, Solomon's hit-man, Benaiah the son of Jehoiada – who had been one of David's forty men of might (II Samuel 23:20-23), fighting alongside Joab for all these years – refused to obey his orders; he went back to Solomon, who told him to go ahead, even with Joab holding on to the horns of the Altar.

The people of that time viewed the Altar and the Holy Place as safe spaces – as we hope our churches are to this day. But I think that Joab did this just as much out of faith – if he was to die, he was going to do so while hanging on to his Lord with all his might. “And he was buried in his own house in the wilderness” (v. 34). I like that – Joab was the sort of man who would have wanted a house in the wilderness. Not Jerusalem; the wilderness. Out there where he could be on his own, and at peace.

And the second thought: This same David, whom our Lord was not ashamed to claim as ancestor, was “a man after God's own heart” (I Samuel 13:14, cf 16:7-13). In the modern synagogues, one can find the inscription: Know before whom you stand. More than almost anyone who has ever lived, David knew. Even when (and perhaps especially when) he didn't get it right, he knew.

Now these be the last words of David. David the son of Jesse said, and the man who was raised up on high, the anointed of the God of Jacob, and the sweet psalmist of Israel, said, The Spirit of the LORD spake by me, and his word was in my tongue. The God of Israel said, the Rock of Israel spake to me, He that ruleth over men must be just, ruling in the fear of God. And he shall be as the light of the morning, when the sun riseth, even a morning without clouds; as the tender grass springing out of the earth by clear shining after rain. Although my house be not so with God [that is, I think, David knew that he had not always been just and how unworthy he was of the promises of God]; yet he hath made with me an everlasting covenant, ordered in all things, and sure: for this is all my salvation, and all my desire... (II Samuel 23:1-5, with my comment in italics, and emphasis at the end)

The Last Words of David, by Randall Thompson

There are many performances of this on YouTube; this one is very fine, and not viewed so many times as some of the others. By the Florida All-State Choir and Orchestra in 2011, it has the energy and commitment that high school singers can often bring to their work – and that us older musicians would do well to emulate.

G. K. Chesterton (1874-1936)

Chesterton (or "GKC") is commemorated in the Episcopal calendar today. Here is an appreciation of him from Kiefer's Bios (or more properly, James Kiefer's website “Biographical Sketches of Memorable Christians of the Past.”) The site is linked in the sidebar to the left as one of my online favorites, and I encourage you to make it one of yours.

Kiefer mentions several of GKC's books, most of which I have not read as of yet. But two that I have read are important to me, and I commend them to you:

Orthodoxy
The Ballad of the White Horse (a long poem about Alfred the Great)

It is fascinating to note that, as Kiefer says, GKC was good friends with H. G. Wells and Bernard Shaw, despite sharp philosophical differences with them. Our generation could learn much from their example.

Many of his books are freely available at Project Gutenberg (another of my favorite sites on the Net, linked in the sidebar). Drawing partly from Kiefer, I have compiled a short list of several that I will try to read in the next year. I encourage you to do likewise.

George Fox

For several years in the late '90's, my wife and I worshipped on Sunday afternoons with the Society of Friends, after I had played services at the Presbyterian church in the morning. It was the only period in our thirty-plus years of marriage that we have been able to attend church together, and it was good to be there with her, to share the long silences, the listening.

George Fox, who died yesterday (13 January) in the year 1691, is unlikely to appear on any Anglican calendar of saints. I suspect he would be displeased with the very idea. But I commemorate him, and revere his memory. In a tumultuous age, he preached nonviolence. In an aristocratic society, he considered all to be equal before God, women and children as well as men. He called both Anglicans and Dissenters to account, and neither group would attend to his message.

Fox, and the Society of Friends which came into being around him, are, I think, an important corrective to the Anglican Way. Our clergy (and sometimes church musicians) too easily become enamored of our Perogatives, our fat pensions and comfortable salaries and medical insurance and fine pipe organs and lovely old buildings and clerical finery and all the rest. I cannot think of many Episcopal clergypersons who live a life of humble simplicity, and if they did, I suspect they would have a hard time finding a parish that would hire them. The musicians are no better – we love our AAM and AGO conferences where we stay in the finest hotels and eat at the finest restaurants. George Fox reminds us that this is not the path that Christ walked.

Worse still, we too easily become enamored of our Liturgy and our Music. We come to believe that they give us a direct line to God. Fox reminds us that the whole business – Prayerbook, Liturgy, church buildings, pipe organs, choirs, clergy, even the Holy Sacraments – is superfluous in comparison to the Inner Light, the simple following after God, the love for one's neighbor.


I believe that the Friends are not without their problems. In my experience, by throwing out Sacraments and Liturgy, they have also gradually lost connection with Scripture and (I would say) any recognizable belief in Christ. The Friends I was around are in belief essentially Unitarians, and most of them have not opened a Bible in decades, if ever. I would submit that without grounding in Scripture and a conversion experience in Christ (which Fox himself considered essential), it all becomes like chaff, blown about by the winds.

But there is nothing like a burial service among Friends. Or a wedding. And by comparison, Episcopalians know nothing about Silence, or waiting for Clearness. And there remains the steadfast nonviolence of the Friends, even at great personal cost.

Perhaps we need each other, we Anglicans and the Friends.

From Harmony, from heavenly Harmony...

But oh! what art can teach
What human voice can reach
The sacred organ's praise?
Notes inspiring holy love,
Notes that wing their Heav'nly ways
To mend the choirs above.

Orpheus could lead the savage race;
And trees unrooted left their place;
Sequacious of the lyre:
But bright Cecilia rais'd the wonder high'r;
When to her organ, vocal breath was giv'n,
An angel heard, and straight appear'd
Mistaking earth for Heav'n.

(John Dryden, “A Song for St. Cecilia's Day”)
http://www.poetryfoundation.org/poem/173449

Thursday, November 20: St. Edmund

As a church musician, I find that I cannot keep the Real Sabbath, not if I am to play on the following day. And the Lord's Day is most decidedly not a day of rest. So, I do what I can by observing Thursday as a day of rest, set apart from the others.

I have recently read a fine little book: “The Sabbath,” by Abraham Joshua Heschel. He introduced me to the concept of welcoming the Holy Day as a visiting Queen, or a Bride, and expanded on what I already knew of the sanctification of Time, which we Christians carry forward by means of the Daily Office. A quote:

Holiness in space, in nature, was known in other religions. New in the teaching of Judaism was that the idea of holiness was gradually shifted from space to time, from the realm of nature to the realm of history, from things to events.

And that brings us to St. Edmund. King of East Anglia in a time of darkness, he strove to keep his people and the holy Faith alive in the face of overwhelming odds. And, so the story goes, he did: not by sword or victory, but by martyrdom, setting an example that no infidels could erase from the hearts of the people.

For we sanctify Time not only by prayer, but by action.

Friday, November 21: Tallis, Byrd, Merbecke

Here are men that I should certainly emulate. I am not so certain of their sanctity as the framers of the Episcopal Calendar in “Holy Men, Holy Women” seem, but they, and the other great composers, remind us that this work is not easy:

The Song does not come without cost; to do it well, it requires all that you are, every part of your being.... It is, in short, a little “martyrdom.” We give ourselves over to the Song, without regard for where it will lead us.

Friday is normally a good working day: the Rector has the day off, the office is usually quiet – and by this time in the week, I am most often desperately scrambling to prepare for Sunday. Top of the list: a full workout of the Bach, beginning to end.

But first... After Matins, I go to the kitchen. We had a dinner on Wednesday evening, and the youth group is selling Thanksgiving pies, delivering them this Sunday. They need refrigerator storage space, and the church refrigerator is packed. I begin pulling things out – almost-empty juice bottles, an uncovered pitcher of iced tea that has been in the back corner long enough to grow a layer of mold, bags of grapes many months old, salad dressings and milk and coffee cream (“half and half”) well beyond their “best by” date, much more. I end up with two trash bags full. I empty the dishwasher and dish drainer, I wash the cups and glasses left in the sink. I appropriate some of the Wednesday leftovers for my dinner. I try to think holy thoughts. This is important work: it is the Lord's House, and this is His kitchen. These cups and plates, this refrigerator, are as holy as the vessels of the Altar (as I think St. Benedict says, more or less). As children of the household, if we neglect to do our chores now, what will happen when we are There?

It is now 10:45, and I have not done any of my Good Habits (except Matins, and on this day the Great Litany). They are not going to happen today; Bach awaits.

I get my Full Workout, beginning to end, starting with the Fugue. It is solid, but the Toccata, untouched since Sunday evening, is not. I must “brush off the cobwebs” as I often tell the choir. It is enough; there is now the possibility of being ready to play the piece on Sunday.

The Toccata begins with a long tonic pedal point, fifty-four measures. Then (after a pedal solo) there is a dominant pedal point, another fifty-four measures. At the end of the Toccata, there is a majestic descent down the scale in the pedals to the low C, the dominant, and another pedal point, this one thirty measures (counting the octave leaps on C with which it ends), and Bach takes us toward the final cadence. With all this preparation, we need a thoroughgoing resolution, perhaps another pedal point on the tonic. We do not get it; all we have is one chord. At least it has a fermata.

The balance is not restored until the end of the Fugue, which (in the context of Sunday's liturgy) will be over an hour later, as the postlude. The final entry of the main fugal subject in the pedal is sufficient. When that pedal comes in on the low F with full organ, we have Arrived. It is a place where the organist always wishes there were one more stop, perhaps a 32' Montre like they have at the Tabernacle in Salt Lake City: they are the large pipes you can see in this photo.

For we have not in truth Arrived: that will happen only on the Last Day, when the sanctification of Time is complete: “I am Alpha and Omega, the beginning and the end, the first and the last.” (Revelation 22:13)

Saturday, November 22: St. Cecilia

Sing for the morning's joy, Cecilia, sing,
In words of youth and phrases of the Spring;
Walk the bright colonnades by fountains' spray,
And sing as sunlight fills the waking day;
Till angels, voyaging in upper air
Pause on a wing and gather the clear sound
Into celestial joy, wound and unwound,
A silver chain, or golden as your hair.
(from "A Hymn to St. Cecilia" by Herbert Howells: text by Ursula Vaughan Williams)

I keep a Holy Card of this great Lady on the organ console to remind me of her every day when I climb onto the bench. This day especially, I seek her intercessions; there is Work to Do. But I open the day with what proves a grievous error: not only do I skip my Good Habits for yet another day, but I skip Matins in my haste to get on the bench.

The Toccata does not go well. I work on it for three hours. In the final slow playthrough, which is supposed to settle me down, I cannot play one passage at all (measures 223-4). Not even at half tempo. I am forced to stop and work on it with the rhythms and try to patch things up. The place may well be a Train Wreck tomorrow, a place where the piece comes apart and I am forced to stop. Shortly after, still in the playthrough, D. comes in the church. When I realize that he is there, I stop, though I do not want to, not in the middle.

In my evaluation on Tuesday, my lowest score was for displaying Poor Judgment, mostly in regard to these men from the street that I have helped. The Rector correctly observed that many of them are not genuine in their requests for help, and that they have caused me considerable emotional distress. And my friend N., who has helped me much in going Cold Turkey on helping these people financially, pointed out to me that the Diocesan Policy on sexual boundaries that we studied this Tuesday says that we are not to give money to anyone with whom we are in a ministry relationship. That includes D.

Lately, he has mostly come for prayer, not money: his mother died of cancer about a week ago, and he has other problems, such as an uncertain roof over his head and his constant struggle with drug addiction (he is doing fairly well these days, but “Every day is hard,” he says. I believe him. I think that his bereavement has been a strong push back toward the drugs, for they would ease the pain. So far, I think he has resisted.) Today he wanted money: I said no, telling him of the reasons above.

But I thought of tomorrow's Gospel, and St. Elizabeth, and St. James, whose Epistle we read this past week in the Office (chapter 2, verse 17: Faith without works is dead.)

I finish the Toccata's playthrough, exhausted in mind, body, and spirit.

Elizabeth, pray for us, that we may be Generous.
Edmond, pray for us, that we may be Brave.
Cecilia, pray for us, that we may Sing.

After some food and a cup of tea, I am back on the bench for the Fugue. It goes well; about an hour's work and it is done.

I see that this is my three hundredth post in the Music Box. Thank you all for reading it.

(to be continued)

We feebly struggle: they in glory shine

Monday, November 17: St. Hugh of Lincoln

This is Grocery Day, and a cold one; twenty-plus degrees below normal, blustery, snow flurries. No practice, no church work. I would love to be more like St. Hugh: cheerful, disciplined, fearless, a champion of the poor.

Tuesday, November 18: St. Hilda of Whitby

I would love to be more like St. Hilda, too. Few people have been as sensible and wise as this woman, “endowed with gifts of justice, prudence and strength” as her Collect says.

This is a work day, dominated by five hours of meetings: staff meeting, then mandatory child protection training. I was glad to do the latter in the company of my friends and colleagues instead of alone in front of a computer, as the training modules are intended to be used.

But no practicing. Not so much as a note.

Wednesday, November 19: St. Elizabeth of Hungary

I could see, barely, the possibility of becoming more like Hugh or Hilda. Elizabeth is so far beyond any possibility of emulation that I can only look on with what amounts to a schoolboy crush. I wrote of this on her Feast Day in 2008:

I must confess to having a bit of a crush on Elizabeth of Hungary, whose feast is today, and on certain other female saints. The feeling is very much akin to what I recall as a teenager, gazing with starry eyes at some of the older girls who seemed impossibly far above me, dwelling on some higher plane. As the years passed, I eventually realized that these girls of my youth were not on some higher plane – some of them just liked to act as if they were. But Elizabeth of Hungary? Dame Julian? Dorothy Day? Cecilia? Agnes? Joan of Arc? Mary Magdalene? Martha of Bethany? And, most of all, Mary the Mother of God?

“We feebly struggle: they in glory shine....”

At last, a day for practice. But not so fast... first, there is Matins. This being Wednesday, I then reset the chairs in the choir room for Youth Choir.

On the bus this morning, I completed “The Technique and Art of Playing the Organ” by Clarence Dickinson, which I recommend as the finest organ instruction book that I have encountered. And it is free.

It was published in 1922, so some of his recommendations must be taken with a grain of salt, especially on the playing of hymns. Even here, it is good to recall how it was done in those days. I can remember some of the most distinguished Old Timers in the 1970's who still played in the manner he describes, considerably more straight-laced than what one would hear from the best modern players, such as John Ferguson or David Cherwien.

There is one chapter that is a Must Read for those working toward the AGO exams: the chapter on Choral Accompaniments. Dickinson clearly and logically describes the procedures of adapting a piano accompaniment (which was probably a reduction from orchestral score) to the organ.

Another strength lies in his musical examples, which form the bulk of the volume. He prints short passages from the standard repertoire – some of it things that are no longer played, but much of it from Bach and Mendelssohn – passages isolated for their technical challenges and in this context, the finest of etudes for skill development.

I determined to spend some time with this book at the organ, for I have neglected my technical equipment. It has been years since I have systematically played pedal scales, or pedal arpeggios (such as one finds in the Bach Toccata).

And that gave me impetus to return to the neglected Good Habit of daily work on sight-singing and vocal technique, and the box of anthems. Almost as soon as I wrote about it here, the habit fell aside. I was too busy, I thought, with the preparations for the Howells canticles and the Victoria Requiem and the Phillips “Sine Nomine.” And, always, the Bulletins.

No time like the present: after resetting the choir room, I spent a few minutes on these things, with the intent of heading for the organ bench as soon as I checked e-mail and the Net.

That went smoothly enough until I felt moved to write an extended comment on Father Tim's blog. I am glad that I did, not least because it helped in my mental preparations for today's Annual Performance Review, my first with the current Rector, but the writing took about a half-hour.

Finally, Bach in hand, I made it to the bench, with about ninety minutes before the aforementioned Review. But first, the Dickenson: “If I don't do it now, when will I do it? Next week will be just as busy, and after that we are in Advent.” Five minutes on a page of finger-substitution exercises... and then, at last, the Bach Fugue. As with the Toccata, I started with the hard part, the final pages where the pedal returns and the two subjects are combined. It came together with remarkable ease. Rev'd R. came through, and I sought her intercessions for my Review; I was very nervous about it. Thanks be to God, it went well: the Rector treated me like a professional and a colleague rather than a recalcitrant child.

In the afternoon, I made it back to the bench and made it most of the way through a First Workout on the Fugue, plus review of anthem accompaniments for tonight's adult rehearsal. It was a Good Day's work as Organist.

Then, it was time to put on my other hat: Choirmaster. We had good rehearsals today. Time is short so I will say no more – but I must mention Evening Prayer. I went upstairs for the service, normally led by others, and found a group of four college students putting on their coats and leaving. It was the same group that had come for the morning Eucharist the day that we did not have it, and here they were for Evening Prayer, a regularly scheduled service on our website and our calendar – and no one was there. “A man came through and turned out the lights, and told us there was no service.” I led them back in the church, turned on the lights, and we had the Office. I told them that this was an essential aspect of the Anglican Way; I am not sure they believed me, not seeing anyone there for this service that I claimed was important.

(to be continued)

Saint Benedict, and Getting Things Done

Today, July 11, is the Feast of St. Benedict.

Listen carefully, my son, to the master's instructions, and attend to them with the ear of your heart... The labor of obedience will bring you back to him from whom you had drifted through the sloth of disobedience. (Prologue to the Rule of St. Benedict)

Benedict's thoroughly sensible Rule laid a foundation for Christian life in community in the Western Church. Much of it deals with the Opus Dei, the daily cycle of Psalmody, Scripture, and Prayer. As I wrote in the previous essay, nothing is more important: Operi Dei nihil praeponatur. The Rule gives down-to-earth advice on becoming more humble and more obedient. And it covers the administrative aspects of living in community with unsurpassed wisdom.

Some of it might require a grain of salt nowadays:

Should anyone make a mistake in a psalm, responsory, refrain or reading, he must make satisfaction there before all.... Children, however, are to be whipped for such a fault. (Chapter 45, “Mistakes in the oratory,” sentences 1 and 3)

That might not go over so well in our youth choir rehearsals.

Much has been written and said about this Saint. I will content myself with one link, a sermon by the Holy Father who took his name, Benedict XVI: General Audience, 9 April 2008

… the Saint's work and particularly his Rule were to prove heralds of an authentic spiritual leaven which, in the course of the centuries, far beyond the boundaries of his country and time, changed the face of Europe following the fall of the political unity created by the Roman Empire, inspiring a new spiritual and cultural unity, that of the Christian faith shared by the peoples of the Continent. This is how the reality we call "Europe" came into being....

Without prayer there is no experience of God. Yet Benedict's spirituality was not an interiority removed from reality. In the anxiety and confusion of his day, he lived under God's gaze and in this very way never lost sight of the duties of daily life and of man with his practical needs.

A Rule of life is not just for monks and nuns. It is a helpful practice for anyone to develop some manner of Rule. I first started such a document many years ago as a way to organize my work on Sundays, a complex and challenging day for church musicians and others, such as clergy. At first, I simply wanted a task list so that others could fill in for me, but it quickly grew beyond that, and beyond Sundays into the rest of the week. Over years, it grew larger and more detailed, and then simpler. Changes to the Rule are made with thought and prayer, and the result is that, when I am disciplined by it (which is not always) I am not living my life by whim, but by reason and faith. I do not always live up to it.

As one of my colleagues, a youth director, often said, “Transitions are important.” If I am on task, I am all right – as I wrote the other day in regard to the Daily Office: once I begin, I can almost always carry it through. The point of danger arises when one task is laid aside and it is time to do Something Else. What might that be? Countless times the Rule has helped me; when in doubt, I do what is next. If necessary, I open my computer file and look at the Rule, and it reminds me. But over time, the sequence of the day's work becomes habitual, and that is good.

There must be enough flexibility to lay aside the order of things in the Rule to take care of what Stephen Covey would call “Quadrant One” tasks – “important and urgent.” But one of the defining qualities of such a task is that when it arises, there is no question as to what to do next, though the question of how to address the task may be less clear. As soon as possible, I return to the Rule.

My recent tweaks have mostly had to do with my growing recognition of larger cycles in my life, especially the monthly cycle that culminates in Choral Evensong, and the weekly cycles that center on Choral Rehearsals and Sunday Eucharist. How can my work be best arranged so that the things that matter get done?

I have said enough. You must make your own Rule, informed by the work of others, including Benedict most of all.

The Ascent of Mount Carmel

I have begun reading “The Ascent of Mount Carmel” by St. John of the Cross, and so far, I am appalled.

... every pleasure that presents itself to the senses, if it be not purely for the honor and glory of God, must be renounced and completely rejected... [If one cannot avoid encountering something pleasant,] it suffices that, although these things may be present to his senses, he desires not to have this pleasure. And in this wise he will be able to mortify and void his senses of such pleasure, as though they were in darkness.

This is so wrong! It is ungrateful to thus despise the gifts of God.
Better advice comes from Moses:

And thou shalt rejoice in every good thing which the LORD thy God hath given unto thee, and unto thine house; thou, and the Levite, and the stranger that is among you. (Deuteronomy 26:11)

And from the Preacher:

There is nothing better for a man, than that he should eat and drink, and that he should make his soul enjoy good in his labor. This also I saw, that it was from the hand of God. (Ecclesiastes 2:24)

And St. Paul:

Now the Spirit speaketh expressly, that in the latter times some shall depart from the faith, giving heed to seducing spirits, and doctrines of devils; speaking lies in hypocrisy, having their conscience seared with a hot iron; forbidding to marry, and commanding to abstain from meats, which God hath created to be received with thanksgiving of them which believe and know the truth. For every creature of God is good, and nothing to be refused, if it be received with thanksgiving: for it is sanctified by the word of God and prayer. (I Timothy 4:1-5)

I am not prepared to call the writings of St. John of the Cross “doctrines of devils,” for he does have an important point. If any desires, any possessions, any persons, any things whatsoever come between us and God, they “weary the soul and torment and darken it, and defile it and weaken it.”

But the path he describes can easily end in a narrow, bitter, solitary death of the spirit, destroying one's self and everything that one touches. One sees this, I think, in the Spanish Catholicism of his day, which bore its most characteristic fruit in the work of the Inquisition, and the enslavement of the native peoples of Latin America. But then one must consider Tomás Luis de Victoria. And El Greco. They are the other side of that dark and oppressive age.

Perhaps what St. John is after, or at least what I would say of such things, is that desire takes us out of the present moment, the Now which is the only opportunity we have to walk with God. We hunger, we lust, we covet, and we are immediately out of the Now, longing for some imagined future when our desires are sated. Or an equally imaginary past when we had that which is no longer with us (e.g., “the cucumbers, and the melons, and the leeks, and the onions, and the garlick” of Egypt [Numbers 11:8]).

But I would submit that the Now should be a joyful thanksgiving, not a dreary blinding of the senses and spirit to what surrounds us. "I have learned, in whatsoever state I am, therewith to be content. I know both how to be abased, and I know how to abound: every where and in all things I am instructed both to be full and to be hungry, both to abound and to suffer need." (Philippians 4:11-12). One might say: "Desire nothing; enjoy everything."

I will continue with St. John of the Cross, for he is one of the great spiritual masters. Perhaps he will make more sense as I proceed, or (as he suggests early on in the book) upon a second reading.

We are not off to a good start.