The last item I want to discuss from Martin Marty's list is #8, Going Public. Marty remarked that confessing our faith in public, as illustrated by such hymns as "I Love to Tell the Story", is a very strange act in our American milieu of private spirituality.
Yet the psalms are filled with announcements that "I will speak of Thy goodness in the great congregation." The Old and New Testaments do not really credit any faith that remains private.
My husband pointed out recently that people who say they believe in Jesus but not in the church do not really believe in Jesus at all—not to the point of following His teachings beyond a vague niceness (and was Jesus actually "nice"?). Jesus reveled in symbolism and community, following the Old Testament law to the letter in His circumcision, presentation at the temple, and baptism; He went to the temple feasts with His parents; He attended the synagogue regularly, reading Scripture there publicly until the crowd decided to stone him. His first followers continued these Jewish practices, giving them a Christian twist, but not neglecting to meet together and not neglecting to carry on Jesus' commandments to use physical signs—water, bread and wine—to convey His teaching. The signs themselves were of community with the Trinity and with each other, and could not be practiced in any act of private spirituality.
Take a deep breath. Sing it out. "I will speak of Thy goodness in the great congregation; I Love to Tell the Story."
Thursday, August 31, 2006
Thursday, August 24, 2006
Martin Marty 3: Voices and Bodies that Rise, Fall, and Rise
The fourth point, Voice, emphasized Christianity as a material religion. Paying attention to our voices reminds us that we would not have Christianity without "a loaf of bread, a bottle of wine, and a river" (Marty was quoting someone else here).
The first time we sang the hymn "That Joyful Eastertide" (VRUETCHTEN) with text, the second time on "aw". We focused on the vibrations and resonance in our body, on our "wonderful madeness."
One of my employers said last week that he believes we will just be spirits in heaven, that Jesus' resurrected body was an illusion or something he cast off after he got through the clouds. That rather defeats the purpose of our belief, doesn't it? We long to be restored humanity, in all our spiritual and physical glory, not merely ghosts.
Fortunately, the Bible disagrees with my employer's views and holds out a different promise. Thomas put his hand in Jesus' side, and no body fell thunk to earth after the disciples stopped gazing up.
The first time we sang the hymn "That Joyful Eastertide" (VRUETCHTEN) with text, the second time on "aw". We focused on the vibrations and resonance in our body, on our "wonderful madeness."
One of my employers said last week that he believes we will just be spirits in heaven, that Jesus' resurrected body was an illusion or something he cast off after he got through the clouds. That rather defeats the purpose of our belief, doesn't it? We long to be restored humanity, in all our spiritual and physical glory, not merely ghosts.
Fortunately, the Bible disagrees with my employer's views and holds out a different promise. Thomas put his hand in Jesus' side, and no body fell thunk to earth after the disciples stopped gazing up.
Friday, August 11, 2006
Dan Schutte 3: Hunger and Satisfaction
This Sunday a women's trio at my church is performing another of Schutte's tunes, "Pilgrim Companions", since the lectionary, as nearly as I can recall from planning this a couple months ago, has to do with Christ's being the Bread of Life (John 6) and with our walking together as imitators of God, His beloved children (Ephesians 4-5)--two themes unified in "Pilgrim Companions".
How do we capture the idea of the now and the not-yet, of Christ feeding us but not entirely satisfying us until heaven? One of the stanzas in "PC" reads, "Over and over, we hunger for someone to feed us and fill our desire; when the God of our longing has courted and captured our hearts, we will hunger no more," and the refrain closes with, "Hungry yet hopeful, sustained by the love of the Lord."
Since college years, I've latched onto that phrase, "hungry yet hopeful," as the theme of my life. My life didn't start that way. Since age nine, I had been nurtured on John Foley's version of Psalm 16, "For You Are My God" (and just why did a pack of St. Louis Jesuits have so much standing in a Reformed church?—but that is a question for another day), and its refrain, "For you are my God, you alone are my joy…". I thought God alone had to be my joy—sort of a beatific vision. But in college I began reading Psalm 16 seriously and finally noticed that immediately after the statement, "I have no good apart from thee," the psalmist follows with, "As for the saints in the land, they are the noble, in whom is all my delight" (italics added). So I began to get an inkling that God does not want us to enjoy "just" Him, but Him in His creation.
But how to enjoy God in His creation? The sadness of the world has never been far from me (many toddler portraits show a melancholy face, whereas my little brother is beaming), as the world, God's creation, including those made in His image, is continually falling short of God's intentions for it.
I read a lot of C.S. Lewis then and nearly memorized (really) his Weight of Glory essay, in which he talks frankly about our hunger for that which is not in this world, for the glory that is to come. This is still different from God alone being our joy; Lewis talks rather about our delighting in our Father's approval and stepping into the harmony and unity of creation that was meant from the beginning.
Hungry yet hopeful. You see how this develops.
When I taught for a couple years at a Christian high school, one of the kids' favorites songs was called "Hungry": "Hungry I come to you, for I know you satisfy." I sort of liked this song, but was worried that the students would get the ideas (1) that Jesus is supposed to satisfy immediately, meaning sometime in this life, and (2) that something is wrong with the kids if they don't feel "satisfied by Jesus" despite all their devotional practices. There certainly was a lot of unchristian guilt spread around that campus, possibly associated with songs like this.
I tried to talk about unrealistic expectations for satisfaction. I tried, for example, to tell the students in some chapels that if they got married, it could just increase the loneliness. My husband, The Abbott, is my best friend and a far-above-average partner in caring for me and preparing for our baby, but the loneliness I experience on a daily basis is real and unanswered by this wonderful man; I see more clearly after marriage than before that the dearest of human partners will not satisfy this ache, this hunger, for complete harmony and unity with God and His creation. I'm not sure the students understood this; I'm not sure I explained it well enough, or that because of songs like "Hungry", anyone was capable of understanding this.
The subtlety of Bernard of Clairvaux's "Jesus, Thou Joy of Loving Hearts" helps us here. Two stanzas will suffice:
Jesus, Thou Joy of loving hearts,
Thou Fount of life, Thou Light of men,
From the best bliss that earth imparts,
We turn unfilled to Thee again.
We taste Thee, O Thou living Bread,
And long to feast upon Thee still;
We drink of Thee, the Fountainhead,
And thirst our souls from Thee to fill.
The now and the not-yet. We're still hungry--yet hopeful. They didn't often sing this at the high school.
How do we capture the idea of the now and the not-yet, of Christ feeding us but not entirely satisfying us until heaven? One of the stanzas in "PC" reads, "Over and over, we hunger for someone to feed us and fill our desire; when the God of our longing has courted and captured our hearts, we will hunger no more," and the refrain closes with, "Hungry yet hopeful, sustained by the love of the Lord."
Since college years, I've latched onto that phrase, "hungry yet hopeful," as the theme of my life. My life didn't start that way. Since age nine, I had been nurtured on John Foley's version of Psalm 16, "For You Are My God" (and just why did a pack of St. Louis Jesuits have so much standing in a Reformed church?—but that is a question for another day), and its refrain, "For you are my God, you alone are my joy…". I thought God alone had to be my joy—sort of a beatific vision. But in college I began reading Psalm 16 seriously and finally noticed that immediately after the statement, "I have no good apart from thee," the psalmist follows with, "As for the saints in the land, they are the noble, in whom is all my delight" (italics added). So I began to get an inkling that God does not want us to enjoy "just" Him, but Him in His creation.
But how to enjoy God in His creation? The sadness of the world has never been far from me (many toddler portraits show a melancholy face, whereas my little brother is beaming), as the world, God's creation, including those made in His image, is continually falling short of God's intentions for it.
I read a lot of C.S. Lewis then and nearly memorized (really) his Weight of Glory essay, in which he talks frankly about our hunger for that which is not in this world, for the glory that is to come. This is still different from God alone being our joy; Lewis talks rather about our delighting in our Father's approval and stepping into the harmony and unity of creation that was meant from the beginning.
Hungry yet hopeful. You see how this develops.
When I taught for a couple years at a Christian high school, one of the kids' favorites songs was called "Hungry": "Hungry I come to you, for I know you satisfy." I sort of liked this song, but was worried that the students would get the ideas (1) that Jesus is supposed to satisfy immediately, meaning sometime in this life, and (2) that something is wrong with the kids if they don't feel "satisfied by Jesus" despite all their devotional practices. There certainly was a lot of unchristian guilt spread around that campus, possibly associated with songs like this.
I tried to talk about unrealistic expectations for satisfaction. I tried, for example, to tell the students in some chapels that if they got married, it could just increase the loneliness. My husband, The Abbott, is my best friend and a far-above-average partner in caring for me and preparing for our baby, but the loneliness I experience on a daily basis is real and unanswered by this wonderful man; I see more clearly after marriage than before that the dearest of human partners will not satisfy this ache, this hunger, for complete harmony and unity with God and His creation. I'm not sure the students understood this; I'm not sure I explained it well enough, or that because of songs like "Hungry", anyone was capable of understanding this.
The subtlety of Bernard of Clairvaux's "Jesus, Thou Joy of Loving Hearts" helps us here. Two stanzas will suffice:
Jesus, Thou Joy of loving hearts,
Thou Fount of life, Thou Light of men,
From the best bliss that earth imparts,
We turn unfilled to Thee again.
We taste Thee, O Thou living Bread,
And long to feast upon Thee still;
We drink of Thee, the Fountainhead,
And thirst our souls from Thee to fill.
The now and the not-yet. We're still hungry--yet hopeful. They didn't often sing this at the high school.
Thursday, August 10, 2006
Haunted in New Mexico: Lutherans Amok
Check out our friend's most recent post. She's been attending an art conference (writers' workshop?) in New Mexico with a pack of ex-Lutherans.
Wednesday, August 09, 2006
Martin Marty 2: Silence and Noise
The first two points, Silence and Noise, could both be illustrated within sound.
Silence here refers to the spaces between notes--the organist's touch or the length of pause between phrases or stanzas--and to the possibility of a leader simply reading a stanza out loud in the middle of the hymn, while the congregation listens. Attention to silence helps us tune in to sound; the silence becomes part of the sound, another of its forms or shapes.
I use this method of attentiveness instinctively when shaping phrases in congregational song, based on the meaning of the text, but I noticed last night that I also use silence and softness pedagogically during piano lessons or choral lessons. A quiet smile or other facial expression in response to a performance is very effective after I've been blathering away or the student has been pounding away for a few minutes; the sudden absence of verbosity, whether verbal or musical, quickens our ears and sharpens our focus.
I recall also that one theory behind chant is that monks were allowed to make it somewhat organically, without a strict tempus, and with lots of individual variations within a choir. The subtlety of these variations was due, not crassly to lack of practice, but thoughtfully to the Holy Spirit's interpreting the text through each vessel, nudging here, lengthening there, taking a little breath, according to as each understood and as each had need. I do hope that theory of chant performance is true. Even if it is not, we can make it true in our own performances, explaining to the choir why in some cases we do not want them to keep an absolutely strict rhythm and tempo.
Silence.
Noise was delightfully illustrated through the spiritual "Let My People Go", which we were instructed to sing "in a down and dirty manner", stamping our feet on beats three and four after "Go down" and "Moses." Not all hymns and church tunes should be sung reverently; not all the Bible should be read reverently, I mean in an ethereal voice.
This reminds me that in a later post I mean to cover a hymn written by one of the participants of the conference, Adam Tice, in which "[t]he maiden Mary (not so mild) bore into death's domain true God, and yet an infant child...." Not so mild! Get down and dirty, Mary. Bear us that child.
Silence here refers to the spaces between notes--the organist's touch or the length of pause between phrases or stanzas--and to the possibility of a leader simply reading a stanza out loud in the middle of the hymn, while the congregation listens. Attention to silence helps us tune in to sound; the silence becomes part of the sound, another of its forms or shapes.
I use this method of attentiveness instinctively when shaping phrases in congregational song, based on the meaning of the text, but I noticed last night that I also use silence and softness pedagogically during piano lessons or choral lessons. A quiet smile or other facial expression in response to a performance is very effective after I've been blathering away or the student has been pounding away for a few minutes; the sudden absence of verbosity, whether verbal or musical, quickens our ears and sharpens our focus.
I recall also that one theory behind chant is that monks were allowed to make it somewhat organically, without a strict tempus, and with lots of individual variations within a choir. The subtlety of these variations was due, not crassly to lack of practice, but thoughtfully to the Holy Spirit's interpreting the text through each vessel, nudging here, lengthening there, taking a little breath, according to as each understood and as each had need. I do hope that theory of chant performance is true. Even if it is not, we can make it true in our own performances, explaining to the choir why in some cases we do not want them to keep an absolutely strict rhythm and tempo.
Silence.
Noise was delightfully illustrated through the spiritual "Let My People Go", which we were instructed to sing "in a down and dirty manner", stamping our feet on beats three and four after "Go down" and "Moses." Not all hymns and church tunes should be sung reverently; not all the Bible should be read reverently, I mean in an ethereal voice.
This reminds me that in a later post I mean to cover a hymn written by one of the participants of the conference, Adam Tice, in which "[t]he maiden Mary (not so mild) bore into death's domain true God, and yet an infant child...." Not so mild! Get down and dirty, Mary. Bear us that child.
Monday, August 07, 2006
Martin Marty 1: Churchgoers as Naked Mole Rats
During the Hymn Society's recent conference, Martin Marty brought us a look at the phenomology of hymnody—"What Is Going on When Christians Sing Hymns in Congregation?"—with each of his points accompanied by an appropriate hymn.
The points seemed a little haphazard, some of them having to do with the manner or technique of making music, some with the content of the songs, and one (#8) as the most cerebral, describing what happens in general when the private becomes public. I could have used another level of organization, dividing the points more neatly into categories.
I'll list the points first, then ponder some of my favorites in this and later posts.
Introduction: Phenomenology Defined; Location of Sacred
1. Silence
2. Noise
3. Awe
4. Voice
5. Rhythm and Harmony
6. Narrating and Listening
7. Conversing
8. Going Public
9. Unisonality and Harmony
10. Catechizing
Summary: Praising and Story
I don't recall how Marty defined phenomenology except through his example of stepping back from the congregation as a stranger to observe. I would supplement this with a concrete example, comparing this attitude of the stranger in the congregation to how you might observe a colony of naked mole rats burrowing around at the zoo, underground in a clear container like an ant farm: What are those creatures up to? How are they moving? Do they look busy or languid? What happens when one naked mole rat encounters another naked mole rat going the opposite direction in the same tunnel? How big are they making their burrows? How much noise does burrowing make? Where are the baby naked mole rats kept while the adults work? Are the babies allowed to observe, or are they confined? Does any adult oversee them? (This vision of the naked mole rats is vivid in my head, since I dreamed last week that I gave birth to one. My actual baby, due the middle of November, promises to look more human than that.)
During the introduction, Marty mentioned (as an aside?) that the discipline of acting like a stranger allows one to answer the question, "Where is this congregation locating the sacred?" Some congregations locate it in the host (the communion elements), some in the center aisle, some in icons, some in the music itself. I don't think I've seen a congregation locating it in the center aisle and I'm not sure how this would be observed, but the other places seem standard.
The points seemed a little haphazard, some of them having to do with the manner or technique of making music, some with the content of the songs, and one (#8) as the most cerebral, describing what happens in general when the private becomes public. I could have used another level of organization, dividing the points more neatly into categories.
I'll list the points first, then ponder some of my favorites in this and later posts.
Introduction: Phenomenology Defined; Location of Sacred
1. Silence
2. Noise
3. Awe
4. Voice
5. Rhythm and Harmony
6. Narrating and Listening
7. Conversing
8. Going Public
9. Unisonality and Harmony
10. Catechizing
Summary: Praising and Story
I don't recall how Marty defined phenomenology except through his example of stepping back from the congregation as a stranger to observe. I would supplement this with a concrete example, comparing this attitude of the stranger in the congregation to how you might observe a colony of naked mole rats burrowing around at the zoo, underground in a clear container like an ant farm: What are those creatures up to? How are they moving? Do they look busy or languid? What happens when one naked mole rat encounters another naked mole rat going the opposite direction in the same tunnel? How big are they making their burrows? How much noise does burrowing make? Where are the baby naked mole rats kept while the adults work? Are the babies allowed to observe, or are they confined? Does any adult oversee them? (This vision of the naked mole rats is vivid in my head, since I dreamed last week that I gave birth to one. My actual baby, due the middle of November, promises to look more human than that.)
During the introduction, Marty mentioned (as an aside?) that the discipline of acting like a stranger allows one to answer the question, "Where is this congregation locating the sacred?" Some congregations locate it in the host (the communion elements), some in the center aisle, some in icons, some in the music itself. I don't think I've seen a congregation locating it in the center aisle and I'm not sure how this would be observed, but the other places seem standard.
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