Rejoicing in Rejoice in the Lamb

Although I have sung Rejoice in the Lamb since I was about ten years old - first as a treble and then many times as a tenor – and I have listened to it more times than I can count, it was not until I recently reflected on the work, during this centennial celebration of the anniversary of Benjamin Britten’s birth, that I realized how economical was the composer with his notes in this cantata.  The score is forty pages long, the duration of the piece is about sixteen minutes.  The music is often exuberant, and the tempo markings are specific: the piece begins, Britten tells us, “measured and mysterious,” it advances “with vigor,” the “Hallelujahs” are “gently moving” (the English marking here allowing levels of meaning oddly absent in the Italian, andante con moto).  Britten’s version of the Italian, vivace is delightful; he says it should be “very gay and fast.”  The piece finishes “gently moving, as before.”  Nevertheless, there is a striking economy of notes in relationship to the words.  To an astonishing degree, Britten allots only one note per syllable, seldom more.  Very occasionally he allows a word to possess two notes, but throughout the entire score only four words, by my count, are allowed to be true melismata, in which a single syllable of text is stretched out and held aloft on a string of varying musical notes.

It seems far-fetched to me that this careful rationing of notes is not very deliberate on the part of the composer.  And in the work, the shear dearth of melismatic words or phrases has the effect – once you notice it – of drawing your attention to the few words on which Britten lavished such attention.

The first such occasion is found early on in the work, on page 3, where the first syllable of the word “magnify” is allowed to lengthen out over the space of three notes, spanning a minor third.  “Let man and beast appear before him, and ma-a-a-gnify his name together.”

The next instance occurs a few pages later, in the following musical section, and accompanies the only time the composer repeats a word in the score (other than Hallelujah).  And the word, this time, is “dance.”  “Let Jakim with the Satyr bless God in the dance, dance, dance, dance, dance” – and if you don’t think Britten makes the music dance here, then your ears must work differently than mine.

Next, in the lovely tenor solo on the language of flowers, the tenor is allowed to sail luxuriously along on the word “poetry,” when telling us that “flowers are peculiarly the poetry of Christ.”

Finally, in the lively section where Christopher Smart’s quirky poem recites for us the rhymes of various instruments - the flute rhymes, the shawm ryhmes, the harp, cymbal, and dulcimer rhymes – the poetry arrives at the conclusion that “the trumpet of God is a blessed intelligence, and so are all the instruments in Heav’n.”   Here, the music reaches its climax, and the word “all” – describing all the instruments in heaven – is given five notes of its own, before the music starts to come back down to earth.

So what’s going on here?  What could be the significance of this esoteric analysis of the music?

Of course, I think there is some meaning to be found; in fact, I think there are lessons to be learned specifically from the observations I have made about the four melismata to be found in Rejoice in the Lamb.  To begin with, the entire work is a lesson in stewardship.  It was written in 1943 – the middle of the war years, when resources and the basic necessities were scarce in Britain.  It was not the time to be flinging notes about as though there were lots of them to spare, on the one hand.  It’s more like Britten had coupons for only four flights of melisma, and he was determined to use them carefully.

On the other hand, Britten provides a case-study in the availability of music, even if you restrict yourself to a lean diet of notes.  Only one per customer?  No problem: there is still music to be made.  And even when resources are scarce, the score seems to teach us, there are times when a bit of profligacy are called for; there are times (even if they be few) when you need to find a few extra notes and sing them in succession.

So, first we learn that the privations of war are no cause to stop making music, and, in fact, cannot silence music.

Then, of course, there are the four words themselves.

The cantata begins with the choir singing together on a repeated, unison middle-C.  For the first two pages of music, no voice leaves this note, and monotone recitation is the only rejoicing they are allowed to do: one note per syllable, of course.  Until, at the top of page 3, the voices are allowed to magnify God’s name together.  It doesn’t take much: just three notes, rising only the short distance of a minor third.  But then, Mary didn’t have many resources available at her disposal when she lifted up her voice to magnify the Lord, either.  And the lesson this music teaches us is how readily to hand is our own solidarity with Mary’s voice, how little we need to accomplish the feat of magnifying the Lord.

Next, we get to “dance.”  I’ve no idea whether or not Britten was much of a dancer.  I cannot quite picture him being twirled in the arms of his lover, Peter Pears; I cannot envision them pacing out a fox-trot together.  But here, his music seems to invite the rest of us to push the furniture to the side of the room, roll up the rugs, and start moving; to find a different rhythm of life, to break out of the awful two-step of war-time marching and remember what it’s like to live with the blessings of God – to remember that David danced before the ark of the covenant, and that God’s merciful kindness always and still gives us reason to dance, dance, dance, dance!

Once we have finished dancing, there is a long span of music – 11 pages – during which we are back on the strict diet of nearly one note only, per syllable.  Eventually we get to the tenor solo.  And who can disagree, in the face of this gliding melody that floats through the air on the tenor’s voice like pollen being wafted from flower to flower, that flowers are great blessings, that the flowers have their angels, that the flower glorifies God, that there is a language of flowers?  And who knew that poetry could be spelled out in musical notes using only the three syllables of its own lyric?  But here, Britten spells out his own sparse poem with nine notes – one for each of the choirs of angels, (the last three of them, admittedly repeated).

A “slow and passionate” section comes next, leading eventually to the Bass solo, in which, curiously, the word “musick” is itself confined to the rule of one note per syllable.  And then we are led to the ‘very gay and fast” enumeration of the poet’s notion of the rhymes of various instruments.

I suppose that the war had rendered England far gloomier that it normally is, its grey clouds grey-er than their customary grey.  I suppose the black-out curtains rendered the normal dreariness of life far drearier.  I suppose life was thread-bare and hungry.  I suppose it was the shared loss of so many husbands, brothers, fathers, and sons that really unified the nation more than anything: the relentless news of death, its sadness tamped down only by the need to respond to the next air-raid siren, to take cover, and plan for things to get even worse.

Shared suffering may unite a people, but it leaves you wondering who you are.  It leaves a nation fractured and scarred.  It separates those who stayed home from those who served, old from young, and those who survived from those who were killed.

The war in question finished off an already limping empire.  And by 1943, left them wondering if they had enough blood, toil, tears, and sweat to endure.  Britain had imagined itself to be a holy land, blessed by God, and possessed of a royal priesthood of the Gospel, which she had carried to the ends of the earth.  And now she was broken down by war and suffering.  Her song of praise was stuck in her throat, her trumpets would soon lead her men to their slaughter on the beaches of Normandy.

But for a moment, in 1943, all this suffering, uncertainty, and death was lifted up on the wings of five notes proffered by Britain’s own homynymous composer – recently returned from his own self-imposed exile from the war, because he realized he needed to be in England during its hour of trial, he needed to help lift his countrymen from their grief and sadness (which would grow deeper still before the war ended).

“For the trumpet of God is a blessed intelligence, and so are all, [all, all] the instruments in Heav’n!”  he bade them sing.  All the instruments of heaven now sing the glories of God.  In the span of five notes, the gulf between heaven and earth is narrowed, and we are not so far from those who have gone before us – so many of them, too soon.  And aren’t our voices, too, among the instruments of heaven?  Can’t we hear the blessed intelligence of God’s trumpet blasting a new song into our ears, our hearts, our wars, our world, our lives?

The story we write for ourselves is a story that separates us, one from another, by means of race, religion, and resources.  But Britten’s war-time music reveled in a moment of blessed unity under the unified music of heaven – all find a voice beneath the one, equal music that an earlier English voice had declared reigns in heaven above.

As a lesson in stewardship, then, I rejoice in Rejoice in the Lamb.  From its carefully rationed resources is great beauty wrung.  From lunatic verse does it find a way to make sense, and to teach its listeners to magnify the Lord, to dance even when you feel crippled, to treasure poetry above all other language, and to remember that all, all, all voices are enlisted in the blessed intelligence of heaven!

And should all else fail, even in times of deep austerity, when we cannot possibly imagine expending more than one note per syllable, still this great anthem leaves its song in our hearts and on our lips:

Hallelujah, hallelujah,

Hallelujah from the heart of God,

And from the hand of the artist inimitable,

And from the echo of the heavenly harp

In sweetness magnifical and mighty.

Hallelujah, hallelujah, hallelujah.

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

16 November 2013

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

Making the Case

You may listen to Father Mullen's sermon here.

Of necessity, along with preaching the gospel and celebrating the mysteries of our Lord’s sacramental Presence among his people, I have, in my ministry as a priest of the church, been learning to raise money.  Almost no one that I know of offers his or her self to the church for the work and ministry of the Gospel because he or she feels called to raise money, but all the clergy are expected to do it anyway.  Like learning about building maintenance, and fund accounting, raising money is just one of those things you have to do if you want to build up God’s kingdom and strengthen his church in the world today.  I’m not complaining here; I’m giving you context.

One of the things I have learned about raising money is that you need a case.  A case is not a valise into which you place all the money you have raised.  A case is an argument – hopefully a compelling one – that lays out why a person might want freely to make a contribution of his or her money to your cause.  Arboretums must make the case for growing trees.  Orchestras must make the case for playing music.  Museums must make the case for displaying art.  Schools must make the case for educating children.  Hospitals must make the case for caring for the sick and curing illness.  And so on.  Churches, I suppose, must make the case for their various ministries: the worship, the music, the outreach, the pastoral care, the teaching, the preaching, the buildings, the gardens.  And so on.  I would like to think that by so doing, churches are making the case for the kingdom of God, but I suppose that remains to be seen in many cases.

An essential, underlying pre-condition of making the case is the tax-exempt status of an organization.  Philanthropy in America – which is to say charitable giving in America – is enabled largely by a tool supplied by the federal government, namely the charitable contributions tax deduction, facilitated by the granting of 501c(3) status to churches and other charitable organizations.  This arrangement has not always been in place – Rodman Wanamaker received no tax benefit when he paid for the construction of the Lady Chapel (then again, there was no federal income tax then, either!) - but for nearly 100 years the tax deduction has defined the landscape of giving in America.  Again, I’m not complaining; I’m giving you context.

And in any context, Saint Mark’s has been a parish that has benefitted from extraordinarily generous giving.  From our founders, to men and women who are sitting in the pews today, this parish has known the enormous blessings of a community of cheerful givers – some of significant means, but many of lesser means.  And you and I are the inheritors of a great legacy of Christian stewardship in this place, where the case for the Gospel and for God’s kingdom has been made for 166 years.

It is surprising to see how inept Jesus is at the basics of fund-raising, and how un-informed he seems to be about the need to make his case.  In today’s reading from Luke’s Gospel, Jesus encounters a rich man, Zacchaeus – someone who in fund-raising terms would be called a “prospect.”  There is a suggestion that Jesus has done some prospect research on Zacchaeus, maybe he has even gone to seek him out as he passed through Jericho, for he knows the tax-collector by sight when he spies him in the sycamore tree, and he calls out to Zacchaeus by name, and Jesus invites himself over to tea at Zacchaeus’ home.  (This is a lot like an Every Member Canvass visit!)  But here, if Jesus has any acumen as a fund-raiser, there is no evidence of it.  Saint Luke mentions not a word of the case that Jesus may have made to Zacchaeus, he says nothing of the glossy brochure that Jesus brought with him, or the well-produced video he showed on his iPad.  Not so much as a PowerPoint presentation is made, as far as I can tell!

And yet, astonishingly, Zacchaeus stands before Jesus and announces in the hearing of onlookers, “Look, half of my possessions, Lord, I will give to the poor; and if I have defrauded anyone of anything, I will pay back four times as much.” 

I have been looking for a couple of parishioners like Zacchaeus!

Now, I hear you fund-raisers in the congregation objecting silently.  How do we know Jesus didn’t make the case to Zacchaeus?  Maybe that’s what he did inside?  Maybe it was his miracles and his teaching that Zacchaeus had heard about that had already made the case, and Zacchaeus was ready to offer his gifts!  Maybe one of the disciples had some bullet-points scratched out on a slate, or a scrap of parchment that they discussed inside?  And I suppose any of these scenarios is possible.

But I want to suggest another possibility to you:  I want to suggest to you that as far as Zacchaeus was concerned there was no case to be made, for Jesus was himself the case.  His presence, his call to Zacchaeus, his desire to be invited into the tax-collector’s home, his sitting down at table with him, and his friendship – all these seem to have been the elements of their encounter, and the steps that led to Zacchaeus’ astonishing act of generosity, his extraordinary gift!  Jesus makes no case to Zacchaeus; Jesus is the case!

In this parish, we are currently in the midst of what we have been calling a “season of stewardship.”  Such a season demands that we talk about money, demands that the Vestry and I make the case for your financial support of this parish and its ministries.  And we are happy to do so – for a lovely and compelling and happy case there is to be made, I have no doubt!  But the truth is that Saint Mark’s has always been a parish that has tried to make Jesus the case, because we know that when all is said and done, he is the case, and the only case to be made!  We are here to meet Jesus: to let him into our lives, and allow him to change us, to perfect us, to lift us, to hold us, to enlighten us, to forgive us, to delight us, to mold us, and to love us.  Jesus is the case!

I want to make up a story, now.  I want to tell you a fanciful tale of how the wood that was used to build our pews in this beautiful church was harvested from a grove of sycamore trees in Jericho that is thought to be the place where Zacchaeus climbed up into the tree to see Jesus.  But the tree in question in the scriptures is a sycamore fig tree (ficus sycamorus), not very useful in furniture making, unlike the American sycamore (platanis occidentalis) from which furniture can be made.  And anyway, anyone can see that our pews are made of oak (genus: Quercus).  So my story-telling is squelched by the intrusion of facts and real life.

Neverthless, I wish you would imagine that the uncomfortable wooden planks on which you sit are, in fact, the branches of a tree – never mind the species.  I want you to imagine that you have climbed up into those branches to see Jesus.  This is not so far-fetched, after all you have made your way here this morning for some similar reason.

While you are up there, enjoying the view, I want you to imagine - not that you are Zacchaeus, not that you are a tax-collector, not that you are short of stature - but that you are rich!  And for many of us, this is not so far-fetched either, but for some, I know it is a stretch.  But we are just imagining, so don’t worry!

And since you are perched up there in your branch, and I am perched up here in my pulpit, we have time to talk.  And since you are feeling rich, I want to make the case for your support for Saint Mark’s.  I want to remind you of our elegant liturgy and our glorious music.  I want to recite for you the numbers of hungry people we feed.  I want you to recall the fine work at St. James School – founded by this parish and still supported by us in so many ways.  I want you to look around at our historic and lovely buildings.  I want you to see how the gardens continue to become lovelier.  I want to count with you the growing number of children who are becoming a part of the life of this parish. And I want to listen with you to the Boys & Girls Choir.  I want to talk with you about the importance of the Ministry Residents.  And so on.  I want to spend time with you, up in your branch, making the case for Saint Mark’s – and I know this would be time well spent, and I believe you would respond well to it.

But I sense another presence below us, calling us each by name, as we sit here in our perches.  And as he calls, I know that there is nothing else really to talk about, for it is Jesus calling, as he always does.  And Jesus is the case, and he is calling you and me.  It’s almost as if he has researched us as likely prospects for the kingdom of God!

It is because of Jesus that we come here day in and day out to worship, which means to open our hearts to God’s living presence, to beseech him to inhabit our lives, and to listen for his call to us to ask him into our homes.

It is because of Jesus that we lift our voices in song, and work to perfect that song with careful preparation.

It is because of Jesus that we care for the poor – not only because he tells us to, but because he was poor himself.

It is because of Jesus that we have been trying to bend our ministry toward children – because we remember how he called children to himself, and how he taught that the kingdom was meant for them.

It is because of Jesus that we want to ensure that the ministry of this place continues for generations.

All for Jesus, all for Jesus, as the old hymn says.

Remember that up here in our branches we are feeling rich!  But Jesus is calling us down, asking to come home with us, to be invited into our lives so that he can invite us more deeply into his life.

And if we hear him call, and if we are feeling even a little bit rich, the question is: what are we going to do about it?

What did Zacchaeus do?

Zacchaeus gave away half his money, and then some.  And remember that Zacchaeus didn’t even receive a tax benefit; in fact he gave others a four-fold tax benefit by his generosity!  And Zaccaeus didn’t give away his money because of the great case for support that Jesus presented to him over tea, so far as I can tell.  No, Zacchaeus gave his money away because it was good for him to do it; because Jesus is, himself, the case.  Zaccaeus must have discovered that in a world that encourages us to be greedy, selfish, murderous, and mean; Jesus calls us to be good.  In a world that enables our sins, Jesus calls us to repent.  In a world that revels in darkness, Jesus calls us to bask in the light of his love.

There is no greater case I can make to you for the support of the work of this parish than the case that is Jesus.  And there is no greater promise I can make to you than that we will always work to make Jesus the case here at Saint Mark’s.  And there is no better place I could be with you at the moment, than up here in this tree with you.  To help you hear the voice of Jesus calling you and me.  And to encourage you to get down out of the tree with me, to bring Jesus home with us, just as Zacchaeus did.  To let him into our lives, into our homes, to let him make his case of love and self-offering.  And then to do as Zacchaeus did: to open our hearts, and to give.

Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen

3 November 2013

Saint Mark’s Church, Philadelphia

Who are you talking to?

You may listen to Mother Takacs's sermon here.

It’s amazing what you can get used to. An example: last week I was on my way home, walking down Broad Street, lost in my own musings and enjoying the crisp fall weather. As I crossed South Street, I looked up to see a man about halfway down the block, walking in my direction. Immediately the great question that haunts all city-dwellers popped into my mind: do I make eye contact and smile, or do I pretend like I don’t see him at all? I usually opt for the former, even if it makes me seem less cosmopolitan and chic. So as the gentleman and I approach one another, I look up, ready to smile, and suddenly he says, “Right…right. That’s exactly what I said. What in the world is she thinking?” At which point, I realized that he was, in fact, on the phone, and I laughed to myself and continued on my way.

These kinds of surprise outbursts are so common anymore that I barely even notice them. Remember the good old days, when to talk on your cell phone, you had to actually, you know, talk on your cell phone? Remember how strange it was at first to hear these one-sided conversations in public, as you sat in the train station or did your grocery shopping? But by now we’ve been through the era giant blue-blinking earpieces and the speakerphone, where people just kind of yelled in the general direction of their phone and moved on to the era of the headphones with the attached microphone. The man I saw had no visible communication device at all – no earpiece, no headphones, no phone to be seen. For all I could tell he’d had a microphone surgically implanted in his face. Nonetheless, I didn’t think a thing of it. That man who appears to be talking to himself as he walks alone down the street? Why, of course, he must be on the phone. Amazing what we can get used to.   

That man who appears to be talking to himself as he stands in the midst of the temple compound? Why, of course, he must be praying. We are, of course, completely used to the parable of the Pharisee and the tax collector. We have heard this story so many times that the behavior of the Pharisee hardly strikes us as odd. The fact that he stands alone in the middle of a crowd and talks out loud is no surprise to us, because we have long ago realized that he is really talking to God, trying to pray. He gets it wrong, we know this; we’re used to watching him boast about his piety, his holiness, about how much he tithes and fasts. We’re also used to the actions of his foil, the tax collector, who stands far off and cannot even lift his eyes for shame. And, of course, we’re used to Jesus’ punchline: “I tell you, this man went down to his home justified rather than the other….” These two men, who appear to be talking to themselves in the courts of the temple? Why, of course, they must be praying – one of them well, and one of them not-so-well. We’re used to it.

This is, of course, dangerous. Whenever we find ourselves thinking that we “get” a parable, we should take a breath, take a step back, and sit at Jesus’ feet once more. Because we know that the parables of Jesus were intended to be shocking, to describe a world that was unlike anything his listeners were used to. Those to whom Jesus told this tale would have never seen this punchline coming in a million years. It would have seemed to them entirely outlandish, nonsensical. They would have walked away shaking their heads, wondering what color the sky was in Jesus’ world, this world where a lowlife like a tax collector, a corrupt, abusive, puppet of Rome, is held up as a model over and above a Pharisee, a faithful, righteous, strict keeper of the law.

And why is it so dangerous for us to think that we know better? After all, we have the gift of hindsight; we see the whole story, and we know how it ends. We see the color of the sky in Jesus’ world because we’re trying to live in that world, too. We know a bit better, don’t we? Ah, dangerous thinking. The risk here is two-fold: first, that we might get so used to this story, so comfortable with the caricature of Pharisee as fool and tax collector as diamond in the rough, that we will fall headlong into the parable’s trap by saying something like, “God, I thank you that I am not like this Pharisee.” Dangerous.

But the second risk here, if we are too quick to get used to this parable, is that we might miss the fact this Pharisee is not, actually, like the man I saw walking down Broad Street. That man looked like he was talking to himself but was actually talking to someone else. The Pharisee in this story looks like he’s talking to God but is actually talking to himself. He doesn’t speak as if God is actually listening; he’s just thinking out loud, talking to himself about what he’s done, and how he feels about it. God doesn’t have much to do with it. Even the text itself is unclear here. The Greek phrase which describes his prayer translates to something like, “he prayed thus to himself.” Does this mean he prayed under his breath so that no one else could year? Or does it literally mean that he was praying to himself? Or, perhaps, does the ambiguity simply lie there, challenging us to think differently, about him and about ourselves?  

There are times in all of our lives when we find ourselves praying thus to us? It’s an easy trap to fall into. It’s easy to get so used to our prayers that we are blinded to the fact that they actually do ascend to heaven like incense. We pray without actually praying, start a conversation with the expectation that no one is really listening. An example: we confess our sins often in this place – every Sunday, every day, in fact. We offer a weekly opportunity for private confession. But do we say those words as if God is actually listening? When we say, “Most merciful Father,” do we feel, in the speaking of those words, that we are demanding the attention of Almighty God? When we pray, “we confess that we have sinned against you in thought, word, and deed,” are we just talking to ourselves, going over a list in our own heads and for our own sakes, waiting for the priest to turn around with words of absolution, waiting to get up off our knees? Are we talking to God, or to ourselves?

This parable reminds us that whether we recognize it or not, God is listening. God is always listening. God does hear us talking. This confession that we make week after week, day after day, can never be an empty gesture, because it’s real. It’s efficacious. It matters. We have really sinned, you and I have sinned, the Church has sinned, the country has sinned, our forebears have sinned. And God knows it, knows all of our sins already, even those that we are too afraid to bring to mind. God listens. If we were able to really grasp this, if we were to feel the sharp reality of this conversation, to acknowledge God’s Almighty, Omnipotent presence, our regular confessions would feel far different. We might even find ourselves beating our breasts, kneeling with heads bowed low, foreheads on the ground, unable to speak at all. We might find ourselves echoing the words of God’s people in Jeremiah, praying that God will not completely reject us, hoping that God does not loathe us, longing for peace and healing, hoping against all hope that God will continue to be righteous, that God will continue to forgive.

But this is not meant to scare us. Because the truth is that if we let ourselves become so used to speech of our confession that we are only really giving it lip service, we miss out. We miss out on the opportunity to feel the transformational grace of God’s mercy, the unearned and unmerited gift that God gives us when he says to us again and again, yes, I hear you, yes, you are mine, and yes, I forgive you, I cherish you, I see you and seek you out, and yes, through the merits of my only son, your beloved Savior, Jesus Christ, I even exalt you.       

So go ahead. Make your humble confession before Almighty God, devoutly kneeling. Pray as if he is listening, talk not to yourself but to him, and know his infinite mercy and love. Speak, you humble, beautiful sinners, speak you servants, for your God is listening.

Preached by Mother Erika Takacs

27 October 2013

Saint Mark's, Philadelphia