Last week I preached at the First Unitarian Church of Baltimore, the site of one of the classic sermons in Unitarian Universalist history. I preached from the same pulpit as did William Ellery Channing, one of the giant figures in our history, when he spoke about Unitarian Christianity in 1819. His was a clarion call for fledgling Unitarians to break off from the Congregational church and establish a new religious movement.
It was a full house - some 350 souls from several congregations. The sanctuary is massive, with a great arching ceiling, stained glass windows, an organ in a balcony that seemed miles away. On the right of the platform is the podium, and on the left is that historic pulpit. As I peered out at the congregation, there was a massed combined choir of perhaps 100 voices on my right, assembled for the occasion. A number of ministerial colleagues had also gathered, as well as members of their congregations. It was a lively and festive event that went on for over an hour and a half. And you think our services are long.
One of the reasons for that length is that the host ministers honored their guest preacher by using many of his words: One of our hymns was "Thanks Be for These", words I had written and which my wife Joyce helped me fashion into a hymn - # 322. The Choral Introit was my invocation "We Meet on Holy Ground" set to music by Tom Benjamin of our Columbia, Maryland Church. Joyce had commissioned the piece.
We meet on holy ground,
For that place is holy where
lives touch, love moves, hope stirs.
How much we need this moment before the eternal,
The time to be in reverence before the ultimate,
The pause that renews,
The interlude that refreshes,
The space that gives us room to be.
We meet on holy ground,
Brought into being as life encounters life,
As personal histories merge into the communal story,
As we take on the pride and pain of our companions,
As separate selves become community.
How desperate is our need for one another:
Our silent beckoning to our neighbors;
Our invitations to share life and death together;
Our welcome into the lives of those we meet,
And their welcome into our own.
May our souls capture this treasured time.
May our spirits celebrate our meeting
In this time and in this space,
For we meet on holy ground.
The first anthem, also composed as a commissioned piece by Tom Benjamin, was "These Three", which I had written actually for Christmas, but which is appropriate any time:
Faith, hope, love, these three
I offer you this season.
Faith that living affirms,
Hope that caring illumines,
Love that matters more than anything.
Faith, hope, love, these three
Not as gifts I offer them
For they are not mine to give.
They are yours and mine to share
Humbly with one another.
Fumbling, we hold their promise in our hands,
Faintly, we speak the trembling words.
Faith, hope, love, these three
I offer you this season.
The second anthem was "There Is a Time" set by Betsy Jo Angebranndt of our Annapolis, Maryland, church. Ed Schell has also set these words to music; they are especially apt at this stage of my approaching retirement.
There is a time for remembering the past,
And a time for envisioning the future.
There is a time for rejoicing in years gone by,
And a time for consecrating years yet to be.
There is a time for looking at what has been,
And a time for molding what is to be
There is a time to trace the roads of the remembered past,
And a time to strike out on paths to the unknown future.
The time for celebrating the past is here, but briefly.
For now the future beckons, and we must be on our way.
And finally, Betsy Jo Angebranndt led the choir in a Choral Benediction, a musical rendition of my words that seem appropriate for this Music Sunday:
And now may the rhythms of our coming together,
The melodies of our worship,
And the harmonies of our farewells,
Make musical our living,
Soothe our spirits,
And uplift our souls.
This day,
And into the beckoning future.
Now, I have used these readings many times in these last years, but when they are set to music something magical happens. It is not that they are such great words, but when they are embellished with voice and instrument they take on new life. When your own words come back to you in music, you wonder that you have written them - they are transformed, transmogrified.
I think of a poem by Conrad Aiken which hints at this phenomenon:
"Music will more nimbly move
Than quick wit can order word,
Words can point, or speaking prove
But music heard -
How with successions it can take
Time in change and change in time
And all reorder, all remake
With no recourse to rhyme!
Let us in joy, let us in love,
Surrender speech to music, tell
What music so much more can prove
Nor talking say so well;
Love with delight may move away
Love with delight may forward come
Or else will hesitate and stay
Finger at lip, at home,
But verse can never say these things;
Only in music may be heard
The subtle touching of such strings, never in word."
The late composer Aaron Copeland makes the point in this created dialogue:
"The whole problem can be stated quite simply by asking,
'Is there a meaning to music?'
My answer to that would be, 'Yes.'
And 'Can you state in so many words what the meaning is?'
My answer to that would be, 'No.'"
I am never going to be able to say it in music - to embellish my words so that they sing in the air - that is for others to do. However, I do find in music a metaphor for existence - its images are deeply embedded in human experience. And so many of the meditations I have written over the years embody musical terms. Here is a sampling:
Let there be music:
In a world of discord let there be music in my life.
I know, the world is full of disharmony -
Cacophony is everywhere;
The rhythms of living are ragged;
The melody of life often hits sharps and flats
When we least expect them;
Tunes are often left unsung;
Fragments of notes fly hither and yon;
Composing a life is hard work.
Still, let there be music in my life -
The music of the celestial spheres in the dark of night
When all about me is still;
The music of the seasons, their silent changing;
The music of voices lifted in song and laughter,
As well as in pity and pathos;
The music of the spoken word melodically presented,
Of the written word upon the page, the poetry of life.
Let there be music in my life
Intruding upon my tired spirit, uplifting the weary soul
Letting me know my life is yet a song to sing.
We walk in harmony with all that is -
in cosmos and community
Seeking to attune ourselves with the music of the spheres.
Knowing our existence is but a single note
In a vast universal symphony.
The harmony which undergirds the melody
Has patterns all its own.
It pulses from a centered source
Known only to a solitary composer.
Its sturdy strains resonate repeatedly,
giving body to the song.
Its rhythmic sequence repeats itself,
Again and yet again,
Holding the song together
While the melody fades from time to time.
You are the harmony.
We move in oscillating rhythms -
Now with bursts of energy -
Now with the richness of repose,
Reveling in the variety of the beat -
Stepping to our own drumbeat -
No matter how measured or far away.
We live in dissonance, for perfection is not guaranteed.
Often we are out of tune, inharmonious, out of step,
As are our companions.
That dissonance creates its own meaning
As it moves within the score,
Providing contrasts
That enrich the songs we would sing.
Life is but a song to sing.
Even if you sing off key,
Sing loud and clear.
Through all the melodies there are harsh discords,
the sometimes pain of being,
the persistence of suffering
The inevitability of death
Are dissonances to the spirit.
We learn to sing our songs - sometimes in pain -
Teaching our agony how to sing.
The melody line is the pattern of your life
As it ascends to the high notes
And plunges to the low.
It is unique, this melody of yours-
The sharps and flats are a configuration
That bespeaks who you are.
The melody is the inner music of the soul.
The rhythms of life;
The pulse of the soul;
The patterns of the spirit.
The intervals of existence.
Nature has a rhythm no less than music,
the unvarying rhythm of the seasons
the coming of solstice and equinox in welcome procession.
The regularity of time,
The ticking of the clock,
Broken now and again by the shrill sound of alarm
and bell, breaking in upon sleep or work.
The rhythm of running,
feet falling on pavement,
heart beating,
blood coursing through our bodies.
There are rhythms of the soul in me for which
there is no accounting -
a pattern unrepeatable, inimitable.
It matters not those rhythms are ever in flux -
This is the song of life.
It matters much that I move to
my own rhythms of the soul,
And keep pace with the drumbeats of my spirit,
Which incessantly sound when I have ears to hear.
Enjoy those intervals of being and doing, rush and rest.
Seek out the moment of calm
When there is no hurry,
Where there is no rush to do,
where there is only serenity of being.
Sing the song that wells up inside you;
Sing the song only you can set to music;
sing the song whose words are known only by you.
Sing the song you have lived.
Music is central in the life of this congregation. My wife Joyce was the inspiration behind the Unitarian Universalist Musicians Network, ably assisted by Ed Schell, among others. The tenth anniversary of UUMN was celebrated in this church. I was asked to compose an ode to music on that occasion, an adapted version of which I give as a tribute to the musicians among us who inspire us Sunday after Sunday. I hope they will remind all of us that without music worship would be well-nigh impossible.
We are a congregation most musically meticulous,
We are the tone takers and the music makers,
And in this sacred space the worship shakers.
We are songsters off on a spree,
Bound for here or eternity.
We embrace in this holy place,
Both baritone and bass,
And tenors most rare,
About whose tender vocal chords we care,
And sopranos who soar and altos who climb
As well as those who put the lyrics into rhyme.
And to those of you - and of us -
Who would sing lustily and well, but cannot,
Who squawk and screech when we wish we did not,
Who feel the music in our soul,
But cannot quite with our lips and chords make sound whole,
Whose feet cannot quite find the rhythm,
But still want to dance,
To all these an eager embrace as well.
Somehow it all works out in this sacred space
And special place -
A harmony of part with part
And person with person.
A melody that cannot be put on any cleft
Nor be captured in brain lobe right or left,
But whose beauty makes even the angels jealous
And makes them want to sing - this living tradition.
Poet May Sarton says it well: "There are days when only religious music will do. Under the light of eternity, things, the daily trivia, the daily frustrations, fall away. It is all a matter of getting to the center of the beam."
And perhaps that is what music can do for us - get us to the center of the beam. When the rest of the world seems chaos, when our lives are confused, when we know not which way to turn, when yesterday is a nightmare and tomorrow a dread, music can bring us to the center of the beam. I don't know who said it, but I agree - that life without music is a mistake. "It is all a matter of getting to the center of the beam."
Our annual recognition of our musicians features George Shearing's Music to Hear, as well as other works. Shearing at 82 is still making music. He has been called by music critic Terry Teachout of Commentary magazine "a people's pianist, loved by the musically unsophisticated folk who've never heard of Art Tatum, much less Hank Jones. To be sure, musicians also admire Mr. Shearing (I've never met another pianist who didn't speak well of him), but certain jazz critics take it for granted that to be popular is to be bad, and far too many have jumped to the conclusion that since he is successful, he must be a sellout."[1]
Teachout writes that Shearing is a deeply serious jazz musician, yet also does well with his "smoothly tooled balladry" which "helped define the genre known as elevator music. He also once played a flawless Bach D Minor Concerto with the Kansas City Philharmonic. And all this from a man born blind.
Music to Hear was commissioned by the Dale Warland Singers in 1985. Of Music to Hear Shearing writes: "It occurred to me that, obviously, I would need a first-rate lyricist . . . one who wouldn't be too busy to help. Fortunately, almost immediately William Shakespeare appeared and offered his literary services." It is music that speaks to the soul - and such music is by its very nature - religious. Enjoy.
Poet Conrad Aiken hints at the power of music in his "Music Will More Nimbly Move."
"Music will more nimbly move
Than quick wit can order word,
Words can point, or speaking prove
But music heard -
How with successions it can take
Time in change and change in time
And all reorder, all remake
With no recourse to rhyme!
Let us in joy, let us in love,
Surrender speech to music, tell
What music so much more can prove
Nor talking say so well;
Love with delight may move away
Love with delight may forward come
Or else will hesitate and stay
Finger at lip, at home,
But verse can never say these things;
Only in music may be heard
The subtle touching of such strings, never in word."
The late composer Aaron Copeland makes the point in this created dialogue:
"The whole problem can be stated quite simply by asking,
'Is there a meaning to music?'
My answer to that would be, 'Yes.'
And 'Can you state in so many words what the meaning is?'
My answer to that would be, 'No.'"
Music is central in the life of this congregation. My wife Joyce was the inspiration behind the Unitarian Universalist Musicians Network, ably assisted by Ed Schell, among others. The tenth anniversary of UUMN was celebrated in this church. I was asked to compose an ode to music on that occasion, an adapted version of which I give as a tribute to the musicians among us who inspire us Sunday after Sunday. I hope they will remind all of us that without music worship would be well-nigh impossible.
We are a congregation most musically meticulous,
We are the tone takers and the music makers,
And in this sacred space the worship shakers.
We are songsters off on a spree,
Bound for here or eternity.
We embrace in this holy place,
Both baritone and bass,
And tenors most rare,
About whose tender vocal chords we care,
And sopranos who soar and altos who climb
As well as those who put the lyrics into rhyme.
And to those of you - and of us -
Who would sing lustily and well, but cannot,
Who squawk and screech when we wish we did not,
Who feel the music in our soul,
But cannot quite with our lips and chords make sound whole,
Whose feet cannot quite find the rhythm,
But still want to dance,
To all these an eager embrace as well.
Somehow it all works out in this sacred space
And special place -
A harmony of part with part
And person with person.
A melody that cannot be put on any cleft
Nor be captured in brain lobe right or left,
But whose beauty makes even the angels jealous
And makes them want to sing - this living tradition.
Poet May Sarton says it well: "There are days when only religious music will do. Under the light of eternity, things, the daily trivia, the daily frustrations, fall away. It is all a matter of getting to the center of the beam."
And perhaps that is what music can do for us - get us to the center of the beam. When the rest of the world seems chaos, when our lives are confused, when we know not which way to turn, when yesterday is a nightmare and tomorrow a dread, music can bring us to the center of the beam. I don't know who said it, but I agree - that life without music is a mistake. "It is all a matter of getting to the center of the beam."
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