"Unless The Grain Of Wheat Falls And Dies..."

There is, no doubt, much in each of our lives that we would not have chosen, and may not like. No human being always gets just what he or she wants in this world. Much comes our way that is, frankly, a “hard pill to swallow” at the time: death of a loved one; loss of a spouse or friend; serious illness that deprives one of functioning; loss of employment, public scandal or disgrace; rejection in some form; betrayal by someone we thought was our friend; and so much more. Misfortune, even agony, comes to each and to all. The question is: How will you handle so much suffering in life? We often cannot change what happens to us, but we can always change our response to it, our attitudes, actions, and through changing them, change our feelings, too. Usually such a process takes time. For saintly men and women, hardship and loss are accepted quickly, and one’s peace is restored, as one is centered in God. For most of us, accepting and dealing with loss and hardship takes time, and thought, and perhaps some sleepless nights, and finally “letting go” and accepting reality for what it is. As Jesus asked Saul of Tarsus (St. Paul): “How long will you kick against the thorns?”

It is probably the case that Jesus could have spared himself Roman torture, just as Socrates could have fled from Athens, and saved his life. Both men allowed themselves to be put to death for a far greater cause then their own life. Each saw himself as a true Representative of humanity, and a man with a mission from God Himself. Jesus did not take his torture and death as the end, but as a means to achieve far greater good. To his disciples and to the Gentiles, embodied by some Greeks, Jesus announces his intention and acceptance on the edge of death: The Son of man’s time has come. “Truly I tell you, unless the grain of wheat falls into earth and dies, it remains alone; but if it dies, it bears much fruit.” As Socrates died for the honor and success of philosophy, Jesus died to bring human beings to God. His death would be his greatest act of love, and proof of the reality of his life and love: “No one has greater love than this, to lay down his life for his friends.” For us, he died. But at the same time, Jesus extends the invitation to each of us: “He who loves his life loses it, but he who hates his life in this world keeps it for eternal life” (Jn 12). That means, among other things: Whoever clings to himself, and what is his or hers, loses what they have, and even their very self; but whoever surrenders himself to God in love, as Jesus did, preserves his being for eternal life.

Death accepted brings renewed life. A life loved at any cost—“I will do whatever it takes, and say whatever I need to say to clear my name”—is already a living death. The man in love with himself more than with goodness, truth, God, is spiritually diseased, and bound to die. The one who lives in acceptance of God’s will, God’s way—even when it costs one everything—is truly alive now, and will in God’s time “bear much fruit.” No one has been nearly as fruitful in human history as the relatively obscure man from Nazareth.

Thanksgiving And A Monument To A Good Man

Walt Osterman died on 3 March. His death is a painful loss for his family, for his friends, for St. Mark’s parish. Family and friends can share their thoughts and feelings as and when they wish, and I will reflect on how much Walt meant to me as a personal friend in the silence of my heart. As pastor of St. Mark’s, I must share a few words in public about Walt’s extraordinary and largely unsung service to our parish family.

I never had to ask Walt to help. He just did. And his good works, often hidden from the public eye, received little acknowledgment or praise. When I was new to St. Mark’s, I publicly thanked Walt for cutting the grass, and he politely asked me not do so again. Week after week, he cut the grass around St. Mark’s and the rectory. In the winter, he cleared the walks. All of the wood for our rectory was supplied by Walt, who bought it, cut it up, and delivered it to me. He would set up for the Knights’ breakfasts, and open up the hall early, make coffee, crack eggs, cook, clean up. He helped to count offerings. And so much more. Walt the humble worker, as I praised him in the funeral homily.

And far more can be said. Walt was a quiet man, self-contained, highly responsible. He did not need to be asked to work. He knew what to do, and did it. He was so available, such a willing worker, that I now think that some of us really took Walt and his work for granted. Although I thanked him in private—and sincerely meant it—still, I took Walt too much for granted. (Note: Walt did not even want to be thanked in private, as I learned to recognize). Now I miss Walt very much. He was such a blessing to the whole parish and to the priests who served here. On behalf of the priests and parishioners Walt blessed with his friendship and faithful service, I say: Thank you, dear brother in Christ, for all you have done for us. For having taken you too much for granted, I ask forgiveness, and invite you to pray to God that we all have the eyes of our hearts opened up to see what needs to be done, and to be more willing to pitch in. Even more, Walt, pray that we not take each other for granted, but truly appreciate what these good and dedicated parishioners do for all of us.”

I thought it good to build some kind of monument to Walt at St. Mark’s. Now I know the monument that is fitting. Other than placing his name on a bench near the statue of Mary, there is a far better monument to Walt, one more fitting to this humble worker: The monument I want us to build is a community in which more of us give of ourselves for the benefit of others. Some of our members do great service, and it is voluntary and unpaid, and I will not now mention their names. Believe me, you who help so freely and generously, your efforts are much appreciated. May Walt inspire more of our members to come forward and use our hands, our bodies, our hearts to work for all in our parishes. We have gifts. Let’s use them generously. Such service is the best monument to a remarkable man, Walt A. Osterman. In honor of Walt, as the best monument to such a good man, let us humbly work for the benefit of each other.

"I AM The LORD Your God, Who Brought You Out Of Egypt"

The Law is far more than law. The Law of Moses, especially the priceless words known as “the 10 Commandments,” are not primarily a list of “do’s and don’ts,” as parents may post on the refrigerator to remind their teenage children of household rules. We repeat: there is far more to the 10 commandments than mere “law.” The Law of Moses is God’s covenant with His people, the way of life, the sealing of the bond between YHWH and His chosen ones. The Decalogue given by God through his servant Moses is a magnificent gift of God for all times, all places, and ultimately, all peoples who will attend. But above all, the Law is given to the People of God, Israel, binding them to Yahweh-God forever.

In their exuberant joy at the discovery of life in Christ Jesus, the early disciples, who were Jews, seem to have disparaged the Law. This is especially true of the Apostle Paul and the Evangelist John. Paul writes, “I through the Law died to the Law, that I might live to God,” and for Paul, at his time in Jewish history, the Law had become a burden and a mere list of “do’s and don’ts.” The joy of being in covenant with God, the life found in the Covenant with the Law, had been largely lost. Indeed, the evangelist John writes late in the first century: “The Law came through Moses; grace and truth came through Jesus Christ” (Gospel of John, ch 1). Well, properly understood, the Law of Moses is God’s grace and truth to His people who receive it as gift, and who respond with joyful gratitude. Again, the problem the early Church had with the Law was historical: men had overlaid so much tradition on the glorious Law that they no longer could see “the wood for the trees,” but were oppressed under the taskmaster of needless details, rituals, exacting rules that no one could follow and fully obey. The thrill of the Law was gone.

The Law of Moses is essentially different. It is not burdensome, but a gift. God begins with giving Himself to His people, before awaiting a response: “I AM Yahweh (the LORD) your God, who brought you out of the land of Egypt, out of the house of bondage. Therefore: You shall have no other gods…You shall not murder…You shall not lie about your neighbor,” and so on. The Law provides for harmony and peace within a tight and life-giving community. In effect, by giving the Law, God throws a marriage robe over His people. How many Christians focus on the first words God speaks here, and appreciate the gift: “I AM…your God,” who delivered you from Egypt.

You may say, “But I was not in Egypt.” No? You have never experienced oppression and hardship, and bondage to your own desires, whims, addictions, impulses? You have never experienced life apart from the true God? If and only if one experiences liberation through trust in the LORD, will one understand the life-giving power of God’s will and Law. To do God’s will is life and peace.

Second Sunday Of Lent: Preparing To Burn Sins

The best Lenten offering by far is to give God ourselves with our sins, with a firm intention to not keep wallowing in sin. How could any other offerings to God compare, when we are still stewing in our sins? There are several ways to offer God our sins, with purpose of amendment of life: At every Eucharist, as we attend, we can and should invite the Holy Spirit to search our heart, to make each of us aware of the wrong we are personally doing, and move us to change. In prayer, each of us must do the same thing daily: “LORD, you search me and you know me.  Help me to know myself as You know me, and to come clean in your Presence.” Furthermore, we offer the Sacrament of Reconciliation for those who intend to be changed by grace and by your free choices. In addition, twice a year we offer a public action of burning our sins: Each of us must think about what we have done wrong, or failed to do right; scribble them down in some form, and bring our sins to the fire we prepare in each parish next week-end. Be attentive, for this is crucial: What seems to be lacking in many of us is a searching and fearless self-examination of how we are living, how we ignore God, ways in which we deceive ourselves and others. We often examine ourselves superficially. Whether in the confessional, in discussions, and surely by examining my own life and failures, this truth becomes obvious: Most of us do not know how to examine our lives in real depth in order to root our sin and wrong-doing. We quickly glance at ourselves, and come with a few sentences to mutter, as if this serves as a real heartfelt self-examination. We toss in a few pennies of sin, and keep the big bucks of evil doing. What can and should one do? Make a list of serious wrong-doing or wrongful attitudes, and ask yourself: How have I harmed others by these actions? What effects do these sins have in my life, in my character, in what I think, say, and do? How am I contributing to the sufferings of others by the way I live? Looking back over my life, what patterns emerge and recur? Am I willing to make amends to those whom I have harmed, cheated, deceived, used for my own pleasure?  If God were to call me to account right now—and God ever seeks to bring us into the light of His righteous judgment and mercy—what would show up? What evil clings to me?  What evils am I clinging to, am I afraid to renounce here and now?  Such a fearless inventory is and ought to be an important part of Lent.

The Last Lent

“If I had known that this was my last Lent, my last Easter, and my last months on earth, I would have done things differently. I would have…”  You would have done what? What would you do differently, if you knew that this Lent is your last Lent on earth, and your final Easter is coming in a few weeks? Would you do anything differently in your life? Would you prepare to meet God beyond death? If so, how? Or would you want to remain exactly as you are?  Are you truly ready to end your life here, and to enter only into God’s Life? “NOW is the day of salvation.” “Not tomorrow, not today, but now.”  LORD, today you grace me—even now. Every moment of yours, every moment with You, is an eternal Now—a new Beginning, the final End. You are here now, and do I truly care? Do I really care enough to meet You, to strive to enter into your peace, into your Life?  Am I prepared to meet you “face to face”? Am I prepared to end my life on earth in the coming weeks, and to enter fully into your Life beyond this world, leaving behind all that I have known? During this, the last Lent, I want to meet You, listen to You, obey You, love You, care for your little ones. I desire to seek You more truly, and to find You in seeking You, and to rejoice in finding You far more than in whatever this present life has to offer. All that I do, I want to do with You, and ultimately for You. The rest is passing away. You, LORD God, and You alone, abide, endure forever. The last Lent is here now. Surely it is the last Lent for some of us, although probably unknown to us in our daily lives. A few days of preparation are given to me, to all of us, to seek and to enjoy God’s friendship. Open my heart, YHWH God, as I listen to and ponder your Word during this Lent. Help me not just to go through the motions of worshiping You, but truly to open up and to bow my heart in your divine Presence. Help me to be attentive to your voice. As I study your word, study in me and with me, that I may understand You and your will, and love You more truly.

Music To Nourish The Soul (A Brief Phenomenology Of Music)

The following is a section of a longer essay I am writing on “caring for souls.” It seems that this section can stand on its own, at least for the time being.

Art enriches being human. I cannot imagine a genuinely maturing spiritual life without regular immersion in the beauties of nature and in good art. By art I mean works of human beings seeking to embody beauty in the world. Such a broad definition includes love and friendship, crafts, visual and aural arts. In this section, we briefly consider one art in order to show ways in which art can help nourish one’s soul. I have chosen music, because it is probably the art with which I am most familiar, and because music in one form or another often has powerful effects on human souls—for good, or for bad. Music that is not genuinely beautiful cannot draw a human being into communion with the unseen Beauty often called “God.”

As a non-musician, but as a life-long lover of beautiful music, I recommend a number of composers for those who seek to be spiritually enriched by the joy and healing balm of beautiful music. The list could be greatly extended, and many examples of compositions could be cited. I prefer in this section to name composers whom many musicians and musical souls educated in the western tradition would acknowledge as superb masters of the craft of music.

Anyone seriously interested in becoming familiar with master works of western music composed between the high Middle Ages and the present time would do well to familiarize themselves with three exceptional and accessible composers who embody a considerable portion of the western tradition, and advanced it. Their lives span about 150 years in which the modern western spirit flourished, and its potentials were profoundly explored. In singling out these three, I am not suggesting that they are objectively the best composers, or even the most spiritually beneficial for a particular soul. They are, rather, three essential musical spirits with whom one becomes well acquainted, if one wants to develop a love and knowledge of western music, who desires to refine one’s musical taste, and who wishes to discover the spiritual potentialities of music. I name them both in chronological order, and in what I consider the order of their significance:

1. Johann Sebastian Bach (1685-1750): Bach is the unsurpassed master of intellect in western music, and a bottomless well of musical imagination and invention. The range of spiritual, intellectual, and emotional expression in his numerous Cantatas, in the Passions, in the enormous output of orchestral and chamber works is beyond compare. To meet Bach, one could begin with the great Mass in b minor, or with the famous Brandenburg Concertos (#2, #5). Shorter works, however, may be more accessible for most Americans today. As others could acknowledge in the past century, I remain indebted to J. S. Bach for a vital part of my spiritual formation. When institutions of intellectual and spiritual formation fail, the divine Mind still works through art, and for those “with ears to hear,” through the music of Bach.

2. Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart (1756-1791): Mozart is perhaps the greatest composer of beautiful melodies who ever lived, because he seems to have had the most refined “aesthetic sense”—that is, a seemingly connatural sense of what is truly beautiful in sound. Although his finest operas, symphonies, and chamber music ought to be heard, a good place to begin enjoying Mozart may be with his piano concertos—for example, #21 in C, or #23 in A. Mozart immerses the hearer in Beauty, emanating from God.

3. Ludwig van Beethoven (1770-1827): Beethoven remains the genius of self-expression in music, who poured into sound the wide range of his emotions, and did so with consummate compositional skill. As Bach reveals Christ, Beethoven reveals Beethoven. His piano sonatas, string quartets, and symphonies remain central to our experience of music. (Even rock music can be heard as a late and decadent step-child of Beethoven in its egophany—its revelation, not primarily of God, but of oneself and one’s fleeting thoughts and feelings). Beethoven’s finest achievements, among so many, may well be his often heavenly late string quartets (Op 127-135). His 5th Symphony is more familiar, perhaps more typical of Beethoven, and probably more easily accessible for most listeners.

Now, there are a number of other western composers whom I believe a true lover of music should not neglect, but get to know “up close and personally.” Again, I name them in chronological order:

4. Thomas Tallis (c. 1505-1585): With his student and friend William Byrd, foremost composers of the Renaissance in England. Tallis set to music texts in English and Latin. Motets and hymns such as “If ye love me” and “Hear the voice and prayer” communicate to the listener the profound, peaceful, grace-filled soul of Tallis.

5. Giovanni da Palestrina (1525-1594): the Italian Renaissance master of counter-point, who breathes the warm, gentle, loving spirit of Catholic faith into hearers. As Beethoven and much music after him has both good and bad effects on the soul, Palestrina provides a refreshing and cleansing experience, without harmful side-effects. Palestrina seeks not to communicate his private ego, but a firm and loving trust in God.

6. Heinrich Schuetz (1585-1672): with J. S. Bach, the finest representatives of the Lutheran spirit in music, and one of the unsurpassable composers for human voice. With Tallis and Palestrina, Schuetz is perhaps the finest translator of mystical experience into sound. Schuetz sought union through music. A foremost example of musical mysticism is Schuetz’ Easter Oratorio. Some of his many Psalms of David may be initially more accessible.

7. Antonio Vivaldi (1678-1741): master of the joy of beautiful, lively and enlivening music. “Never heavy, just right.” His music generally lacks the profundity and intellectual brilliance of J. S. Bach, and is at the same time more accessible for many listeners. One could begin with the famous “Four Seasons” violin concertos or his famous “Gloria,” and explore from there. I find his compositions for cello especially appealing.

8. Georg Friedrich Handel (1685-1759): a German-born then English Baroque genius, who fortunately composed masterpieces such as his Messiah in English; a craftsman of melodious and harmonically rich counterpoint. I recommend his concerti grossi and his delightful organ concertos, in addition to the Messiah and other oratorios and operas.

9. Franz Josef Haydn (1732-1809): the ever-enriching music of a happy soul, who more or less invented two outstanding and central forms of music—the string quartet and the symphony—and bequeathed to us an abundant variety of each, and so much more. If you seek peace in music, listen to happy Haydn. His Symphony #88 in G provides a good entry place to this genial spirit. I especially love his string quartets, such as #62 in C, the “Emperor.”

10. Franz Schubert (1797-1828): with Mozart, Schubert remains the supreme master of lovely melody. Not to listen to some of his exquisite songs is to be deprived a delightful experience. Even in sorrow, he is not bitter or self-pitying. “Wanderers Nachtlied” (768) is unequaled, and best appreciated if one understands the German of Goethe’s poem, or at least a good translation. Schubert’s 8th and 9th Symphonies are memorable, and often stirring.

11. Richard Wagner (1813-1883): undoubtedly a towering musical genius, who used his considerable skill to move audiences according to his will—for good and for ill. Wagner is a master of manipulating feelings in his hearers. And yet, with Odysseus, I would have myself strapped to the mast to listen to the siren song of Kirstin Flagstad or another superb soprano singing Isolde’s “Transfiguration” (the “Love-death”) from Tristan und Isolde. More accessible and less disturbing for some listeners would be the popular Prelude (Overture) to Die Meistersinger von Nuernberg.

12. Johannes Brahms (1833-1897): In the music of Brahms one hears the marriage of classical form, accomplished technique, with lush Romantic idiom. I have long loved Brahms’ music, but painfully hear in it a soul not open to the divine, and feeling the chill winds of empty death. Brahms brings forth much beautiful music out of his spiritual isolation and its effects: loneliness and sorrow. His late clarinet sonatas (Opus 120) and the wonderful Clarinet Quintet (Op. 115) are exquisite examples of bringing forth beauty out of autumnal melancholy.

13. Antonin Dvorak (1841-1904): Romanticism yet with simple Catholic faith and a gentle, whimsical Czech spirit. Dvorak was also graced with a gift for composing lovely melodies, which he generously and imaginatively shares with hearers. Often I return to his later symphonies and to his beautiful chamber music (for example, the “Dumky” Trio, Op. 90), of which I never tire. Even when sad, Dvorak can break into a peasant dance, turning tears to smiles. To listen to Dvorak is to make a soul friend. His Concerto for Cello and his Symphony #9 (“From the New World”), both composed while visiting America, are delightful and noble works of the spirit.

14. Bela Bartok (1881-1945): From late Romantic to violently modernistic to spiritually harmonious and transcending, so is the musical evolution of this genius. If you wish to hear and to feel what the twentieth century was all about, one good way is to familiarize yourself with Bartok. His music can be deeply disturbing, hypnotic, restless, soothing, spiritually up-lifting. I prefer to listen to his later works, such as the “Divertimento,” “Music for Strings, Percussion, and Celeste,” his late Third Piano Concerto and the “Concerto for Orchestra,” for they are less disturbed and less disturbing than many of his compositions. The 6 String Quartets, brilliant works, document the 20th century’s spiritual crisis perhaps better than any other set of musical compositions. They can be shocking in their effects.
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Now I will attempt to put into words what cannot be described with precision: some effects of beautiful music on the attentive listener. It may be that by saying too much, too little is said. Still, an attempt seems fitting, for listening sensitively to good music is an important means of caring for one’s spiritual life. As Plato discusses and demonstrates at length in his Republic, music is a vital part of spiritual and intellectual formation—for good or for ill. In other words, good words with appropriate music can help build up the soul, infusing it with beauty and a sensitivity for goodness; bad music, with deceptive or harmful words, damage the soul, and immerse the hearer in various forms of degeneracy.

Consider music: the composer communicates to the listener through sounds which have been produced by voice or instrument. There are at least several human conduits involved: the composer, the performer, the ears and mind of the listener. More fully, music comes from the mind of the composer to the mind of the hearer, mediated through bodily organs, instruments, airwaves. The most direct means of musical communication would be to hear the composer-musician singing or playing his own composition or spontaneous, “live performance.” Presently we are unable to listen directly to Bach or Mozart performing; these composers speak to us through musicians, who may or may not be faithful to the original composition. Listening to pre-recorded music adds other conduits or media, such as the original recording equipment, methods of adjusting the sounds during and after recording, techniques of mass production, and the play-back sound system (e.g., disc player, amplifier, speakers or headphones). Even through so many media, it is truly amazing how directly music can speak to the soul of the hearer.

It needs to be kept in mind that ultimately music is composed out of the spiritual resources of the composer’s soul, so that the listener is hearing music, but at the same time, listening to the human being who composed the music. The thoughtful listener hears not only sounds, but the composer’s soul: his spiritual life, intellectual formation, present thoughts, emotions, and his technical knowledge and mastery of the art of composition. One hears sounds, but also the sounder—the human being who conceived and composed the music which is now mediated through other musicians and technology. A highly gifted musician, such as Glen Gould, communicates Bach so directly that one can be reasonably assured that he is close to hearing Bach immediately through Gould; a poor musician, or one whose ego is not disciplined, encumbers the music by interjecting himself inappropriately into the process. There is a time for faithful, accurate performances, and a time for more free-flowing interpretations, but in either case, musicians must know their craft and have disciplined effects on hearers. Music of a high quality often admits of a wide range of performances and instrumentations, for the original composition is rich in potentialities which various musicians can effectively bring out. The compositions of J. S. Bach, in particular, admit of an astounding variety of performance options, in part because of their intellectual, even mathematical, precision. This does not mean, for instance, as one musicologist wrote, that Bach lacked a sense of tone color. It means that an entire palette of colors can be displayed from a single Bachian melody, harmony, rhythm. Arrangements of Bach’s works for different instruments than he originally intended demonstrate such potentialities.

Consider Bach’s exceptionally masterful and refined “Art of Fugue” as an example. Scholars have long debated for which instrument(s) Bach composed this late composition, as Bach did not explicitly specify the instrumentation, although the case for harpsichord seems persuasive. But I have listened to arrangements of the “Art of Fugue” for harpsichord, for piano, for organ, for string quartet, for brass, and for orchestra, and each performance had much to offer: each arrangement displayed the compositional genius of the original, and delighted the mind that sought to hear and to understand the original work as conceived in Bach’s mind. It is apparently true, however, that if the music has a higher emotional impact than intellectual one, that the original instrumentation and tempi need to be followed more closely to have the desired emotional effect as intended by the composer. Would the highly moving “Adagietto” of Mahler’s 5th Symphony, for example, have nearly the same emotional impact if it were played on a piano, rather than using the vast resources of Mahler’s large orchestra, or if it were played presto rather than slowly and tenderly?

Now consider the art of music and how it works on hearers. The gods, as it were, give extraordinary gifts to musicians, and move them to share their inspirations with fellow human beings. The musician must bring forth beauty in sound in order to follow his calling. As I can detect, often a composer is ever trying to attain perfection, trying to put as well as he possibly can his vision of the Beautiful, which he hears and longs to communicate. Composition demands not only divine inspiration, but disciplined knowledge of the craft of composition, and knowledge of effects of hearers. Music is sound ordered through time, using the chosen media: voice, instruments. When a text is set to music, the composer seeks to communicate the meaning of the words through both the words sung and the accompanying music. At all times, the composer is speaking to the attentive listener in the personal, expressive, moving language that constitutes high quality music. The one abiding condition or measure of all art music is that it be beautiful: and that means that the music entices the hearer to experience beauty, if possible to commune directly with Beauty itself. Perhaps that is what the gods or Muses require when they pour their gifts into favored souls to bring forth beauty in sound: that the composer and musicians guide the hearers back into the heavenly realm. What is not perceivable as beautiful in sound is noise. What is beautiful and what is noisy may in some sense give pleasure, but beauty has more elevating, ennobling spiritual and emotional effects on the soul than noise can possibly have.


In addition to all of the well known emotional effects of music, it is the singular spiritual effect which deserves exploring. Quality music is indeed a divine-human creation, a foremost work of the Muse, abiding between God and man, sharing at once in the human and the divine. In Christian terminology, the Muse could be called “the Holy Spirit,” and this spirit is indeed holy and good. Music, the Muse’s inspired work in the composer, has a divinely appointed task to perform, as hinted at in the preceding paragraph. Music acquires its grounding, its reason for being, as it incarnates divine Beauty itself, communicating Beauty from the unseen realm to listeners in time. Music’s grounding is not static or fixed, but a movement, a flowing from the eternal through time and leading human souls back towards eternity. Music moves in the in-between, but is beautiful and noble, “a gift of the gods,” in its task of drawing the listener from this shore towards the farther shore. If it merely runs up and down this tangible shore of existence, music is not justly called beautiful in the full and elevating sense, although it may be delightful and entertaining. Such music would leave the hearer firmly planted on this shore of existence, in passing time, as music passes in time. What remains in passing time, passes away. Needlessly to say, many want this experience in music, which can be pleasant; perhaps they crave to remain entrenched in this passing world. Some persistently cling to passing life, and find music suitable for that mode of existence. (Remember “disco”? It was far better for wild dancing than for transcending anywhere.) The divinely-inspired spiritual duty of genuinely beautiful music, however, is specific: to lead the listener from where he is now to the border of existence, towards death. Beauty ever bespeaks of death, for beauty is at once wonderfully exquisite and poignantly passing. Truly to behold something or somehow that is beautiful includes the awareness that beauty in this temporary form is passing away, and such an experience is at once wonderful yet tinged with sadness. Seeing beauty may bring tears to one’s eyes: so beautiful, and yet, so fleeting. Beautiful music draws one to experience existence on the edge of eternity, and to meditate on death, on death in life, on life in death. In other words, in hearing truly beautiful music, one is moved to experience a foretaste of death, and by trust to move through the void of passing away towards the ever-lasting. This experience occurs as one succumbs to the drawing of the beautiful to die to self, to release one’s entire interior world, to enter into the selfless state we call death. One is charmed and enticed by beauty to release one’s anxious grip on existence, so that here and now cease to matter; and so one transcends himself and communes with Beauty beyond space-time, with the eternal—with the God who ever comes to human beings, wrapped in death.

To listen to music with an active mind, a discerning ear, an open heart, is to listen to the human spirit, and to spirits. With time, study, and familiarity, one can grow in the ability to discern the spirits of the composers, as well as to understand what cultured and nourished them. As one discerns the spirits of the composers, one also grows in self-knowledge, to various movements within one’s own soul. Furthermore, in discerning the Spirit in music, one experiences an openness to the many and various workings of God in human beings. Through music, I have met Bach, Mozart, Beethoven, Brahms, Dvorak, Bartok. These men are not distant strangers, but are familiar to me. Their souls have drawn close to mine through their music. They communicate who they are, what they think, what they feel, what they love or hate, their openness or closeness to the divine, through their well-conceived and highly polished compositions. To study their works is to be educated in the discernment of spirits, for they are masters in communicating spirit to spirit. Even if a sensitive composer is spiritually or emotionally ill, yet has solid musical skills, knowing and employing well his composing craft, the careful listener comes away enriched and educated—not always uplifted or spiritually renewed, but wiser in the ways of humankind, and wiser at discerning the Spirit at home in human beings, and displayed in works of art.

Ash Wednesday

T. S. Eliot’s poem “Ash Wednesday” has been difficult for me to understand since I first read it many years ago, but it contains some lines which may be useful for our Lenten observances. First, some excellent practical advice, addressed as a request to God: “Teach us to care and not to care / Teach us to sit still.” Superficially we may dismiss the advice as nonsensical, but it is wise.  For all who help to care for other human beings, it is essential to learn to care well, and “not to care,” that is, to be emotionally detached and calm, rather than obsessively and emotionally involved. A care-giver who does not learn and practice “caring and not caring” becomes of little use to himself, and to those for whom he or she should genuinely be caring. This advice applies to parents, who all-too-often do not know when to “let go and let God,” who insist that they hover around and in effect control their children. (These are the infamous “helicopter parents,” who can be a real challenge for teachers.)  As for “Teach us to sit still,” it is difficult to imagine a better request for a Lenten exercise. Just to sit still, without noise, without chatter, without TV or iPads and so on, without chattering at God as if He does not know what is truly for our good… “Be still and know that I AM God.” Another understandable and profound line from Eliot’s “Ash Wednesday” pertains to the nature of our human existence: “This is the time of tension between dying and birth.” We exist in-between time and eternity, between attached love of self and selfless love of God and neighbor, between good and evil. Our lives unfold in the tension between, not simply on earth, and not in an imagined realm called “heaven.” And note that Eliot describes this “time of tension” as “between dying and birth,” which indicates the kind of dying and the kind of birth he has in mind. He is not thinking of mere biological birth and death, but of dying to ourselves and living to God and to others. We must first die to undergo a greater birth. The only way truly to be alive is to die to all in ourselves that is not from God, or in accord with God’s holiness, God’s will. We have a choice: die now, or die later. For those who practice living as a process of dying to their own wishes and wills in many ways, the last moments of life here are not a shock, but that for which one has been preparing. For those who live enmeshed in the passing moments, always thinking of “fun” and “what’s exciting,” when our time comes to pass out of this physical world, we are not ready. Unless we practice letting go of self in its various forms now, how do we expect to see and to love the “face of God” beyond death? Lent is what we make of it. At its best, I believe, Lent can be a journey from death-in-self into life-in-union-with-God. This process is not automatic, but costs us “nothing less than everything,” to borrow another line from Eliot. In the profoundly true words of the Apostle Paul, “Now I live, yet not I, but Christ lives in me; and the life I now live in the body I live by faith in the Son of God, who loved me and gave himself up for me.” Life and death are contending. What is deadly and kills the spirit often appears to be life; and what we think of as death may in truth be a sharing in real life. We are between death and life. Which do we choose?