Every churchgoer, and for that matter nearly everyone else, is familiar with the concept of the lone preacher with the gathered congregation. But if you have heard choirs sing spirituals or sung them yourself, and have noticed the preponderance of soloists as compared with other styles of anthem, have you ever connected the dots?

As we consider Spiritual arrangements such as those heard at RPC throughout this Black History Month, we must try to untangle the sources and intervening factors that gave them shape. This is a complex fusion of a variety of African cultural building blocks, the imposed Christian faith both in African mission and American enslavement settings, and of course the omnipresence of struggle, suffering and oppression. But for the present we will consider just one obvious aspect, the Preacher and People.

Leaders, and the musical incarnation known as “Call and Response” is a cultural trope that spans the songs and societies, sacred and secular, of the globe: thus it is a simplification to suggest that the paradigm of the Preacher can explain entirely its presence in the modern Spiritual arrangement.

Practically any leader facilitates learning: cantor/choir forms the basis of the Hebraic and monastic chants that in turn founded all Western sacred music, but it is of obvious value to all cultures, allowing ideas and traditions to be led now, and passed on to the future.

The modern Christian Preacher finds their roots in the teachers and leaders of ancient faiths, and most recently Judaism and Islam. Through the lens of colonial Christianisation of African slaves, he adopts older known leader roles to teach the new faith, reinforce behaviors such as obedience and productivity, and strengthen a new stratified community model.

But in the Spiritual we find another dimension that stretches back thousands of years earlier into the songs and practices its founders brought with them: and followed richly into Gospel, Soul and arguably other genres: the role of emotional inspiration. When a soloist sings “Fix me Jesus, fix me” in the first person they are not really even preaching – they implore us, in a deeply personal way, to pray as they do. While a choir repeats John the Baptiser’s sober warning to “Don’t you let nobody turn you ’round”, in great authority the soloists recount his story and call the faithful to unity.

Indeed in our Presbyterian tradition, along with interpreting and sharing the scriptures the speaking Preacher, Wes Denyer and Seaton Brachmeyer as two fine examples, appeal to us in a deeply personal and often autobiographical way. And RPC’s long tradition of fine soloist leadership within its Choir offers a unique gift of beauty and humanity that goes far beyond the musical.

When you hear a voice raised in leadership, in teaching, in prayer or in community rest assured, both you and it are in an ancient social contract with a rich and powerful history – and continuing great potential for grace.

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Wes’ sermon today, “Stirring the Pot” interrogates the always interesting, and never entirely simple question of what the church has to say to the Halls of Power. This aligns neatly with the topic of Black History, observed in Canada each year during February, and more locally in the treasure trove of Spirituals in the repertoire of the RPC Choir.

Before going further we must remind ourselves that the Spiritual, with its simple faith, undeniable passion, and infectious rhythm, is tainted goods.
It symbolises, yes, faith, hope and resilience under torment and enslavement, but also a colonial Christianity imposed upon those abducted from their homelands and then abused and exploited in the service of their abductors’ wealth and pleasure. Moreover our modern choral and hymn appropriations of these remarkable songs of work, of faith, of subversion and of celebration not only tames their violent and oppressive past for our consumption – it domesticates them, again, for our pleasure, and our inspiration.

Through the Spiritual’s complex cultural journey from the slave ships and pens of white Europe and America to the (currently, though not always historically) all-white Choir Loft of RPC runs that remarkable vessel of all things human, music. As our country struggles to come to terms with its own dark past, we of European descent have become accustomed to speaking, writing and publishing land acknowledgements. As western music has made its own cautious steps into the riches of melody, rhythm and ceremony that characterises the music of our First Nations, I feel a different sort of acknowledgment, with an eye to other appropriations of the past, may be in order:

As we hear, study, arrange and share the music of those we have oppressed, be they the African, Asian and other we enslaved, the First Nation we robbed, the Celt we conquered, or still others from across the world we share that we have failed to welcome into our bounty and instead may hold in suspicion and fear, we reach across time and space to you and your descendants:

We acknowledge that the melodies, harmonies, rhythms and genres we share are the traditional and sometimes sacred property of others. We hope to do so with the permission and blessing of those from whom they have come, both knowing the darkness of our shared past and committing to a just world in which all people and their songs are held as sacred, and in loving respect.

A draft music acknowledgment for consideration – C. Dawes

If you are reading this online or through social media, please weigh in with the discussion I hope will emerge from this idea.

If you are reading this at RPC on Sunday February 2nd, or will attend any of our services this month, we hope to offer in our full survey of the Spirituals we are fortunate to share in this way, not just beautiful and inspiring music from a tradition that we love. We hope also to offer up our sorrow for the injustice and atrocity locked into its history, our commitment to a just world that treats all people and their songs with due love and respect, and our wonder that somehow through God’s work a great evil gave us music of great beauty that inspires the faith we share.

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“The idea comes to me from outside of me – and is like a gift. I then take the idea and make it my own – that is where the skill lies.”

– Johannes Brahms

Much thought has been expended, and ink spilled, on the question of just where creativity comes from, and Johannes Brahms, the composer of one of today’s anthems, is confident and clear that it emanates from outside of himself. Following the example of Bach (whom he idolised, and to whose some compare his genius) he dwelt much more in the category of humble craftsman than anointed artist (itself another paradigm well-known in the musical world of the late 19th century).

I find composer interviewers (especially when one extends the term ‘composer’ to include modern songwriters of many genres) often seem obsessed with this question, and the culture likes to place the source of inspiration squarely on the shoulders of the artist. Though like Newton who conceded “seeing further by standing on the shoulders of giants,” they are often effusive in acknowledging the support and influence of others, artists seem mostly happy with this view. Composers of sacred music on the other hand (with Brahms as a famously, although perhaps complexly atheistic outlier) tend to depart from it.

Stay with me here: Canada’s first Grey Cup game was not the only news of 1909: on January 24th a few blocks south of where, and a few months before, that historic game would be played, Rosedale Presbyterian Church met for its first service of public worship.

In honour of this 111th anniversary, Brahms’ beautiful setting of a few verses of Psalm 84 (a scripture passage long associated with church dedication and celebration) is offered in today’s service. It forms the brief central movement of his sacred masterpiece, Ein Deutches Requiem, the seven movements of which will all gradually appear in our services throughout this winter and spring.

It seems obvious that a worldview including an ultimate Creator would make one tend to ascribe the gift of creativity outside of oneself, and indeed to that Creator. Indeed Rosedale Presbyterian Church itself, despite its considerable achievements in over a century of ministry prefers to think of the grace of gifts it has received. But what, then are we to make of Brahms?

Brahms would never up to his death in 1896 be any clearer on from just where, if not from God, the gift of inspiration flows. But one notes it was gradually premiered from 1866-1868 (five movements in Vienna, six in Leipzig and finally seven in Bremen) – it was a sort of ‘revelation.’ If despite Brahms’ insistence, it was indeed somehow God that led him gradually to its final form, and especially the completing fifth movement with soprano solo dedicated to his late mother who had died back in 1865, it seems as though the journey may have continued to his Opus 122 choral preludes for organ on Lutheran hymns, his final compositions before he died.

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It is no coincidence that, around the world, festivals of light like Christmas, Hanukkah, Divali, Kwanzaa (and many more) cluster around the time of the winter solstice – the emerging return of light to a world that has descended into darkness.

Epiphany, both the 6th of January and the following season, ends the classical twelve days of Christmas. Along with its traditional focus on the learned Magi from eastern lands who seek a newborn king in Palestine, another icon has emerged in the themography and music of Christian Worship – the star that led them on their journey, and more broadly the image of light as antidote not just to darkness, but to a host of other woes (including, but not limited to, evil, ignorance, paganism and atheism).

Epiphany, the beginning of Jesus’ mortal ministry, like the Day of Pentecost that ends it, represents the expansion of the faith of Israel into the broader world. The star’s emergence in heathen lands has long been employed as a symbol of evangelism. Ironically our December Christmas is likely because of a world already celebrating the light of winter solstice (rather than newly receiving the Light of Christ) at this time.

A musical incarnation of this we see today at RPC is Bach’s choice to end his Advent Cantata BWV 61 “Nun komm der Heiden Heiland” with a beautiful Amen based on the Lutheran chorale “Wie schön leuchtet der Morgenstern,” prominent throughout today’s service. In the title of the Cantata’s foundational hymn Jesus is identified as “Saviour of the Nations” (in older translations it goes so far as to say “Saviour of the Heathen”), and so the connection to the arrival of the Magi at Jesus’ birth is unmistakable, as Bach, a devout Lutheran, sought musical symbolism to accompany text settings in all of his church music, and the Cantatas in particular.

Viewing all this it also seems no coincidence that the International Week of Prayer for Christian Unity also falls in the Epiphany Season. First proposed in 1908 but really emerging on the international stage in 1948 with the founding of the World Council of Churches in the aftermath of World War II, it gathers notoriously divided Christians in the service of an annual theme of prayer and action. As we observe this remarkable occasion, let’s remember the growing light shining down upon, not just upon us hopefully united Christians, but also upon those of many other faiths in this holy season.

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One of the most ignored factors in the culture of song is voice. When lyrical content is considered by the average listener (or singer, or critic), the significance of just who is understood to be speaking, and to whom, is often ignored.

An anthem entitled something like “Oppression shall be overcome” might have helped in the 1960s struggle for civil rights, but would it have been the same rallying cry as the self-implicating “WE shall overcome”? Or would a hymn entitled “Jesus loves us, this we know,” have represented the same comfort and security to millions as one sung in their personal voice (1st person singular), “Jesus loves me, this I know?”

Let’s consider a medieval Germanic carol melody prominent in today’s service, whose original Latin text “In dulci jubilo” has in English long given way to a different text, “Good Christians all, rejoice,” (BOP #141) composed in the imperative voice, that is, an autonomous voice giving to someone else an exhortation or command.

“Now give heed to what WE say:”

“Now YOU hear of endless bliss:”

“Calls YOU one and calls YOU all,
To gain His everlasting hall.”

For whom are we proxy in our singing of these words, and to whom are we addressing them? Is it us, the ‘Good’ Christians, addressing others we hope are, or wish were, likewise?

Now look back at the original Latin text (shown here in a common macaronic English translation), written entirely in the first person, both singular and plural:

In dulci jubilo [‘in sweetest joy’], let US OUR homage show:

OUR heart’s joy reclineth in praesepio [‘in a cradle’].

MY prayer, let it reach Thee,
O princeps gloriae! [‘Prince of glory’]
Trahe me post te! [‘draw ME unto thee’]

The purpose here is not to judge or critique choices in authorship, translation and ecclesiology – but rather to draw attention to the role of voice in the words we sing and to engage with their meaning, for those who hear, AND for we who sing. In a sense we grant words an awesome responsibility when we choose to enliven and empower them by the addition of music in our own singing – so such questions are not trivial.

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In one of our anthems this morning, which I reserve each year for what we call here at Rosedale Presbyterian Church “Homecoming Sunday,” the late Stephen Paulus brought an American folk hymn tune ‘Prospect’ (appearing first, it is thought, in Southern Harmony (1835) under the title “The Lone White Bird”) to writer Michael Dennis Browne, who wrote three beautiful stanzas on the idea of coming home after a time of wandering. Paulus’ setting of Browne’s words has proved very popular, but while those words are surely key to its emotional purchase with conductors, choristers and audiences, let’s set them aside and look at Paulus’ setting of the music.

The Southern Harmony hymn tune is ‘pentatonic,’ that is, it employs just five of the seven notes traditional major scale (specifically the ones we we sometimes call do, re, mi, so, la, omitting fa and ti – Fraulein Maria taught you, I and the Von Trapp kids about these in The Sound of Music). The omission of the ‘unstable’ notes (fa which longs to fall to mi, and ti which longs to rise to do) conveys an incredible stability or groundedness. One simple way to explore this unique sound is to play only the black notes on the piano: interestingly it is the foundational harmonic system of many world musics, most famously those of China, Japan and other Asian cultures. To accompany this basic system of harmony Paulus employs a familiar sound from 20th and 21st century choral music, ‘added harmony’ – that is, despite the melody’s harmonic simplicity, the choral harmony is often enriched by added mild dissonant notes from within the scale, but again, in a stable sort of way that more colours the moving chords, than tells them where they need to go. Critically, the idea of home in music has a sound that is both stable and beautiful.

“Rise up, follow me, come away, is the call,
With the love in your heart as the only song;
There is no such beauty as where you belong:
Rise up, follow me, I will lead you home.”

In perhaps the anthem’s most compelling feature, just after Browne’s second stanza alludes to the existence of a ‘Voice’ that will lead the wanderer home, Paulus adds a new element, a soprano descant over the hymn tune to personify that Voice. The implication to some persons of faith, a loving God calling sinners home, is self-evident, and had Browne been not a 20th century writer, but rather the 18th or 19th century writer of an original text attached to this melody, that would be the whole story here.

But the notion that ‘home’ is not so much an abstract place of our ordered and perhaps irresistible return – perhaps like other species like salmon or monarch butterflies; rather, what we understand about home is a deeply human idea, and the addition of a solo voice to the until then exclusively plural choral texture tends, for me at least, to seal the deal.

I write this as one who has always enjoyed the privilege to discern, and to mostly choose a meaning to attach to Browne’s phrase quoted above, “where you belong” – and I acknowledge that this concept that many of us idealise and take for granted has it has often been, and continues to be used by people that look like me to control others.

Welcome home to RPC if you have returned from your wandering this Christmas season; enjoy your unique version of home, be it a place, people, evocative music such as the carols you hear and sing – or all of the above. Or if you lack home in any sense this Christmas, may God’s comfort and music’s balm both rest upon you.

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Over and over as we regard history, things we might have supposed to be older turn out to have fairly recent causes, and one such example is the tradition in Protestant Churches of “Special Music” and at this time of the year, that special instance of Special Music, the ‘Christmas Cantata.’

The Italian term ‘Sonata’ describes a multi-movement work for instruments. Its root ‘Sona-‘ comes from sound: it is music to be heard. The related term ‘Cantata’ describes a work similar in most ways, except that it incorporates voices, and comes from ‘Canta-‘: it is music to be sung. The seemingly parallel terms Sonata and Cantata are in fact not parallel, though – the former describes how the piece is received (through sound), whereas the latter describes how it is offered (by singing). Presumably Cantatas, also received through sound, should just be a special case of ‘Sonata’, right?

Wrong. In the Biblical context singing, as opposed to other sorts of music making, seems to have a special imperative all its own. True, the Psalms and a handful of other biblical stories mention instruments, but instances and explicit exhortations to singing, perhaps the most intimate and personal way of making music, far outnumber them.

So much so, that when in Reformation times our denomination’s Calvinist precursors were ‘cleaning house’ of various corrupt and non- or dubiously-scriptural practices, instruments (including the organ) were summarily removed from worship, while singing remained. Along with selling indulgences (essentially ‘salvation paid for in cash’) and the instruments went the elaborate ritual practices and sublime choral music of the Catholic tradition. Ah, you say, but what about the Lutherans and the great Cantata tradition of Bach? Yes, on this point (as well as others) Lutherans and Calvinists appear to have differed, and Lutheran worship retained, at least in principal churches, a place for elaborate music.

Fast-forward to the 20th century, when scholars of both music and liturgy became deeply interested in returning to both the works and the ‘authentic’ practices of earlier times. The Calvinist streams of Protestantism had by then re-introduced instruments and non-scriptural sung texts (i.e. ‘hymns’). And a society placing some emphasis on music in education and public life was producing fine musicians to lead public worship, who felt drawn to the riches of the Cantata tradition, then re-emerging mostly on the concert stage. The accomplished and aspirational church musician sought occasional special musical goals for their church choirs and other ensembles, and found in history (or created brand-new in history’s honour) – the Cantata.

So, music from an earlier tradition is restored (as we do at RPC this morning with masterpieces of the German Baroque before Bach), and a new repertoire of Christmas, Lenten and Easter Cantatas emerges, mostly in the English west – not every week as in the impressive practice of Bach at Leipzig – but rather on special occasions and in special seasons.

The Church Cantata today reminds us of the unique role of singing in worship throughout God’s church, of the aspirations of choirs like other ministry teams working in service, and the compelling ability of artistic beauty to offer us a window upon a Gospel of truth.

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As the new church year dawns this Advent Sunday, at RPC we have been thinking about a new kingdom. The annual observance of Reign of Christ Sunday followed immediately by Advent expectation of that kingdom is no coincidence.

But as we implied last week, with our varied musical conceptions of Jesus’ kingship, it is no conventional or even mythical kingship we await. The Kingdom, when it comes, dwells not in fortresses and palaces – it dwells in us – our choral music today explores this idea from three angles.

American Lutheran pastor and musician Paul Manz and his wife Ruth Manz wrote “E’en So, Lord Jesus, Quickly Come” in 1953 during a time when their three-year-old son John was critically ill. Reflecting on the time, Ruth Manz reported, “I think we’d reached the point where we felt that time was certainly running out so we committed it to the Lord and said, ‘Lord Jesus quickly come'”. During this time, she had prepared some text for Paul for a composition based on the Book of Revelation. While at his son’s bedside, Paul began drafting the composition, which later became the current piece. Their son did recover, which the couple attributed to the power of prayer.

Elizabeth Poston’s sole contribution to the sacred repertoire, the beautiful “Jesus Christ the Apple Tree” is a deeply personal affirmation of the balm of Jesus’ indwelling that grows from a single voice to full higher voices, to full SATB choir, and then returns.

The French carol known as the hymn-tune Picardy has since the early 19th century been associated with the awe-filled Communion hymn “Let all mortal flesh keep silence”, rich in conventional kingly imagery. Today’s setting is by the late Sir Stephen Cleobury, longtime Director of the Chapel Choir at King’s College, Cambridge, who left this earth a week ago last Friday on St Cecilia’s Day, adding extra poignancy to our sharing it today.

If you noticed the prominence of Revelation imagery in today’s choral texts, this too is no coincidence: if a new kingdom is to be ours, it is to be revealed, rather than calamitously imposed. And as in the case of the author of the poem “Jesus Christ the Apple Tree”, and the invitation and answered prayer from Ruth and Paul Manz for healing of their little son, it is to visit and dwell among us in deeply personal ways, rather than “lord” over us from afar.

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By relative coincidence my entire musical life in the church can be characterised by the adage “twice on Sundays.” When my education began in organ apprenticeship to an Anglican Cathedral, each Sunday began with either Matins or the Holy Eucharist, and ended with Choral Evensong – a pattern that continued twenty years for me, until I finished 12 years’ service to Toronto’s St James’ Cathedral. Then, as the Georgetown Christian Reformed Church became a home for my growing family I was surprised to discover that it was one of the last in its denomination to worship twice on Sundays, a ritual that had been the norm in my wife’s youth.

Increasingly rare and even anomalous evening worship traces its history back to the monastic liturgy of the hours, which saw monks and nuns rise every three hours, all day and all night to pray and sing – but so too do the morning traditions of Lauds and Matins. There is a body of compositions, both hymns and anthems specifically geared towards the idea of rising and beginning one’s day in worship and praise… and at RPC today the Choir offers two very beautiful and very different ones.

Gabriel Fauré wrote his Cantique de Jean Racine, op.11 at the age of 19 as the winning entry in the 1865 composition competition of the Paris École Niedermeyer church music school, where he studied composition under Camille Saint-Saëns. The text, “Verbe égal au Très-Haut” (“Word, one with the Highest”), is a French paraphrase by Jean Racine of a Latin hymn from the breviary for matins, Consors paterni luminis.

“Word, one with the Highest, the Almighty, our only hope,
Eternal day of the earth and heavens;
We break the silence of the peaceful night,
Divine Saviour, look upon us!”

English translation of Cantique de Jean Racine (excerpt)

Across the Channel and a century later English poet and author Ursula Vaughan Williams’ (the late widow to composer Ralph Vaughan Williams) vivid and touching poetic tribute to Cecilia, Patron Saint of music and musicians, finds gorgeous partnership with the music of Herbert Howells for the Livery Club of The Worshipful Company of Musicians. Saint Cecilia’s Feast Day is November 22nd, so you will often find her music creeping into choral services around that time of year.

“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.”

– Ursula Vaughan Williams, A Hymn for St Cecilia (excerpt)

Musical and poetic depictions of the morning have a special power in a beautiful created world such as ours – if the above examples don’t convince you look to the secular theatrical compositions for orchestra Daphnis et Chloe by Ravel and Peer Gynt by Grieg. Mornings signify reawakening, renewal, the defeat of night’s darkness and dawning hope for the day.

As Sunday morning worship remains ubiquitous while worship at other times is increasingly rare, it is worthwhile recalling a time and place where every part of every day was offered to God – and uniquely done so in songs for different times. We close our service today with a favourite hymn of mine that captures this outlook, “Lord of all hopefulness” by Jan Struther.

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Isaac Watts (1674-1748), often said to be the father of English hymnody, had a particular vision for the language of faith. Watts was a poet – and a critic of ponderous and banal church music – from a tender age, famously annoying his family by rhyming in daily conversation (one attributed line spoken to his irritated father “Oh Father, do some pity take, and I will no more verses make.”) That father, a learned deacon in the dissenting Congregationalist church, famously challenged him to improve on the rather functional hymn-psalm settings used by protestants in that time – Isaac accepted this challenge and wrote a new hymn every Sunday for two years, eventually contributing more than 600. One of which was the striking paraphrase of Psalm 23 “My Shepherd will supply my need” sung by the choir last Sunday, and another, the central melody of our annual Remembrance Service, a paraphrase of Psalm 90, “O God, our help in ages past.”

Music and memory are deeply intertwined, music often added to word to aid in our remembering. We continue to see, in children learning to speak right up to dementia patients, snatches of song and pieces of music entering first and remaining longest in memory. The new field of music and cognition continues to enrich our understanding of why pieces of music evoke, on simple hearing, memory of a time or place perhaps not thought of in years, or for any other reason.

“O God, our help in ages past,” sung and heard today at RPC to William Croft’s 1708 tune, ‘St Anne,’ picks up on the theme of time that Psalm 90 so grandly explores, even in the six of Watts’ nine verses still in use (and interestingly after a significant change made by John Wesley upon re-publishing it in 1738, changing the first line from “Our God…” to “O God…”). The simple ‘St Anne’ tune is masterfully incorporated into Ralph Vaughan Williams’ own choral paraphrase of Psalm 90, “Lord, Thou hast been our refuge”, figures into one of Handel’s ‘Chandos anthems, “O Praise the Lord with one consent,” and perhaps more dubiously into today’s postlude, the great E-flat major ‘St Anne’ Fugue.

“Time, like an ever-rolling stream” bears the memory of our war-fallen further and further away: several generations of us here in the west now have never lost a loved one to war, known a veteran, or been forced to suffer the experience of war. But we know that war continues – its refugees become our neighbours and our sisters and brothers. It would not be hard to argue that deeply evocative texts and tunes such as those running throughout our service today have become key agents in our remembering – but as Seaton suggests today, remembering is also about the future: our call to a gospel of peace, in contrast to a past of conflict. Perhaps our songs and verses can be repurposed in a similar way as we journey on.

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