A moment of silence

Moving to Kent, Ohio, means that May 4th will never be the same. This year is the 40th anniversary of the infamous shootings. The site has been added to the National Register of Historic Places, and campus has been over-run with media and alumni. There have been plenty of memorials, peace rallies, and other recognitions of the tragic events.

There hasn't been much music, though. So often, we recognize tragedy with moments of silence. Our response to such pain and loss is complicated and difficult. Many memorials in recent years have involved listing the names of victims, tolling bells, or speeches. Concerts and sing-alongs have been notably absent.

I wonder if a politically correct desire not to offend people of diverse religions has precluded many of the hymns of comfort. But musicians have responded to so many events with music - I will never forget the first time I heard "Threnody for the Victims of Hiroshima," for example. The silence that follows music is even more profound and more comforting than an artificial moment of silence, in my opinion.

I've been trying to think of the hymn or music that would be appropriate for May 4th, and the best suggestion I've thought of is MacDowell's Requiem, which uses the text of Whitman's "Leaves of Grass," rather than the typical Latin mass. But perhaps that doesn't properly capture the turmoil of the period. Anyone have a better suggestion? In the meantime, please observe a moment of music and a moment of silence to ponder the implication of May 4th for civil discourse and peace among us all.

Six services in eight days

If you needed proof that Easter is more important in the church calendar than Christmas, I think the count of services alone can provide some evidence! It's definitely the busy time of year for church musicians (as well as clergy, volunteers, and congregations, of course).

The interesting thing, however, is that while I spend more time in the church and play more hymns, I actually end up playing less organ repertoire. For one thing, guest musicians get put to work on Palm Sunday and Easter, but we also observe the continuity of the story by not having a postlude on Maundy Thursday and by having neither a prelude nor postlude on Good Friday.

During this week, we spend more time in silence. Our Wednesday evening services have also represented this meditative mood of Lent. At several points in the service, we observe a moment of silence. Typically, I'm a bit preoccupied with thinking about the next moment in the service, because it is often a hymn.

I appreciate the silence as the necessary canvas for the art of music, and I savor the change in pace from the noise of our lives. But I also wonder about the liturgical intention of those moments. Whereas the ELW sometimes notes very specifically the purpose of silence ("Silence for self-reflection," for example), at other places it simply notes, "A moment of silence follows." Is that a moment for prayer? For meditation? To listen? Or just to rest and take a moment to "be" rather than "do"? Maybe it can be all of those things, dependent on many factors.

I heard the host of "Radio Lab" preach on the story of the sacrifice of Isaac, and he noted that even though Abraham often spoke and even argued with God that when given such a strange order, the story progresses without recording any dialogue, simply an implied silence. Silence can be obedient or rebellious, empty or full of meaning. In the silence of this week's services, perhaps take a meta-moment to reflect on the very topic of silence.

Quiet, snowy afternoons

It just won't quit snowing! I was happy to have a white Christmas, but I wouldn't mind a couple of days without shoveling. I am spending much of my break catching up on things around home. The Christmas decorations are coming down, books are getting read, and of course plans are being made for church music in the coming weeks and months.

As I was digging through a pile of music, I came across the November issue of "The American Organist." (See what I mean about catching up?) One article was about a new retreat for organists that opened last year. Sometimes we all need a break and a bit of silence to find the core of our passion again, the driving purpose for what we do.

The article included the text of a hymn that spoke to me at this time of the year as I work among stacks of books and tubs of Christmas decorations:

Come and find the quiet center,
In the crowded life we lead.
Find the room for hope to enter,
Find the frame where we are freed:
Clear the chaos and the clutter,
Clear our eyes that we may see
All the things that really matter,
Be at peace and simply be.

Unorthodox wisdom - sounds of silence

Isn't it amazing how a phrase can become so completely associated with a piece of music? In church music there are simple things like "Holy, Holy, Holy," which immediately conjure the rousing march-like hymn tune or Biblical passages (often Isaiah) that for some people instantly spark motifs from Handel's Messiah. Simon and Garfunkel will forever "own" that phrase, won't they?

I've been thinking a lot about silence lately and how integral it is to the experience of music. When the choir sang "Verily, verily" a couple of weeks back by Tallis, I encouraged them to think about the driving eighth-note beat that lays underneath the piece as if it began long ago and continues well after the piece is done. Even in the rests between phrases, that tactus continues to carry on - music is heard sequentially in time so the silences can have meaning.

When a piece comes to an end, the silence can be a profound moment of contemplation, even a reaction to what was just heard. (I personally detest when an audience member insists on being the first to applaud, as if proving how much he or she loved the music. In my opinion, if you loved it so much, you'd be savoring the experience of the silence.)

I'll be musing on the "meaningful silences" of the church service and music in general in the coming couple of weeks. But I figured I should lead with the most famous lyric that starts from a simple memory of a dream and goes on to tell us much about the power and meaning of silence:

"Hello darkness, my old friend,
I've come to talk with you again,
Because a vision softly creeping,
Left its seeds while I was sleeping,
And the vision that was planted in my brain
Still remains
Within the sound of silence."