Holiday weekends—civil, holidays, I mean—are interesting. Labor Day weekend is especially fun and slightly strange, because on the one hand everyone’s already back at school so we don’t have tons of travelers the way we do at other times, but on the other hand it’s the semi-official signal for the End Of Summer, so anyone who can get away usually tries to. And attendance at liturgy is usually inversely proportional to the relative beauty of the weather: Saturday 5pm is a tomb, Sunday 7:30 has extra bodies, and Sunday 5:00 is heavily populated by all those who know they need to get to Mass but couldn’t bring themselves to give up any part of the beautiful weekend. (Not knocking this in the slightest, by the way! At least they're going to Mass!)
I also often get asked, not so much for Labor Day as for things like Memorial Day and July 4 weekends (July 4 especially perplexes me because it is not necessarily a Monday and can occur on any random weekday) why I don’t program patriotic hymns on the nearest Sunday to the civil holidays.
(So glad you asked!) The reason is very simple: each Sunday of the church year has its own readings and over-arching emphasis (I hesitate to use the word “theme,” since it gets easily distorted), always focusing in the end on the Paschal Mystery of Jesus Christ. We are a universal church, bound in our baptism to every other human being on the planet, gathered in spirit around a single table to share in the death and resurrection of Jesus Christ.
Ever notice that there is no American flag in the sanctuary? Or ever been to the funeral of a military veteran, and noticed that though the casket is brought in covered by the flag, it is removed and replaced with the white pall (reminding us of our baptism) before being brought into the church? It’s the same symbol: once we enter into the Eucharist, all other signs of outward allegiance are removed, and we are all One in Christ Jesus.
The other, more practical, reason as far as I’m concerned is that for every civil holiday we do have a celebratory liturgy. It’s one of the reasons music ministers never actually get a three-day weekend, or any weekend at all, for that matter! Those Mondays off when other families get to pack up the picnic basket and go somewhere fun for the day, or sleep in and have pancakes for breakfast, I have to get up and play 9:00 Mass. (No, I really don’t mind, except after really long weekends when that extra day off would be really nice!) And we always do some kind of patriotic hymn on those days. Labor Day is actually the least obviously “American” of the civil holidays, so sometimes we won’t then (it just doesn’t feel that appropriate, since that’s not really what we’re praying about). But Memorial Day, Independence Day, etc. always get one or more patriotic hymn.
I always get hot under the collar, just a little, when some person comes up to me with righteous indignation that I didn’t select a patriotic hymn for Sunday, June 30 or whatever, because of Independence Day, who then responds with even more righteous indignation that I would suggest they actually come to church on July 4 if singing those hymns is important to them. (“But that’s our Family Time,” they say primly. “What a wonderful opportunity for the family to come to liturgy together,” I reply. At which point they usually shake their heads in frustration and go tell Father how uncooperative the music minister is… J)
Happy Labor Day!
peace,
Jennifer
Friday, August 31, 2007
September 2, 22nd Sunday in Ordinary Time
September 2, 22nd Sunday in Ordinary Time
Entrance: At that first Eucharist (GC 840)
Psalm: 68—God, in your goodness, you have made a home for the poor (PRM C92)
Presentation: The Cry of the Poor (GC 33)
Communion: Blest are They (GC 636)
Closing: We are Called (GC 710)
We used to have a joke in college (admittedly not a hysterically funny one), where we’d say that most of our prayers seemed to amount to “Oh God, you are so very big. And I am so very small.” That’s ultimately what this Sunday’s readings seem to call us to—they take us deeper into that place of abject humility and trust in God—the place we’ll venture ever more deeply between now and late November when the liturgical year ends. The first reading, from Sirach (incidentally, one of the books of the “Apocrypha,” not found in the biblical tradition of most other Christian denominations) calls us to “humble ourselves the more the greater we are, and we will find favor with God.”
I love verse 5 of the psalm: “Sing to God, praise the divine name; exalt the rider of the clouds.” We have so many beautiful names for God, but “rider of the clouds” isn’t one we see all that often. It reminds me of the praises in psalm 98 which we proclaim at Christmas, when we are told that “the seas clap their hands” to the glory of God: the image of the waves crashing and colliding with each other—all as part of God’s praise—is so powerful…
The second reading is just as full of metaphor and praise—it reminds us that the God we approach is not one of terror and distance, but is approachable and festive, calling us to praise and prayer and closeness. And then the gospel gives us the upside-down kingdom again, calling us to invite the poor, the lame, the lonely, those who could never repay your hospitality—forget what the world tells you about how to celebrate, it says, step outside of your comfort zone and be like Jesus, let your expectations be turned inside-out, free yourself of the expectations of your external life. Remember last Sunday’s “narrow door”? In this Sunday’s readings, we’ve approached it, and Jesus is beckoning to us from the other side. Let go of what you think you know, he says, and recognize that you must love what the world despises, honor what the world ignores, rejoice at what the world mourns.
That, ultimately, is why “Blest are they” is the perfect song for this particular Sunday. (That and the fact that the alternate Communion Antiphon for this Sunday is taken from the Beatitudes as well; despite the single-cycle selection of Antiphons, often they fit beautifully with the readings and other prayers.) The other songs fit the pattern as well: In “At that first Eucharist,” we are reminded that we are called to “one bread, one body be, in this blest Sacrament of unity.” (My hope is that using the hymn as an opening rather than a Communion Hymn might subtly remind us that the “sacrament” it refers to is not necessarily just the reception of Holy Communion but the entire liturgical gathering…) “Cry of the Poor” is a psalm of praise which likewise praises God’s mercy and kindness especially to the lowly and unremarkable, and “We are Called” sends us out with Micah’s call to “do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with God.”
I have a feeling that if I can remember the focuses of this particular Sunday’s readings and songs, the much harsher-seeming readings of October and November might be easier to take, as this autumn progresses…
peace,
Jennifer
Entrance: At that first Eucharist (GC 840)
Psalm: 68—God, in your goodness, you have made a home for the poor (PRM C92)
Presentation: The Cry of the Poor (GC 33)
Communion: Blest are They (GC 636)
Closing: We are Called (GC 710)
We used to have a joke in college (admittedly not a hysterically funny one), where we’d say that most of our prayers seemed to amount to “Oh God, you are so very big. And I am so very small.” That’s ultimately what this Sunday’s readings seem to call us to—they take us deeper into that place of abject humility and trust in God—the place we’ll venture ever more deeply between now and late November when the liturgical year ends. The first reading, from Sirach (incidentally, one of the books of the “Apocrypha,” not found in the biblical tradition of most other Christian denominations) calls us to “humble ourselves the more the greater we are, and we will find favor with God.”
I love verse 5 of the psalm: “Sing to God, praise the divine name; exalt the rider of the clouds.” We have so many beautiful names for God, but “rider of the clouds” isn’t one we see all that often. It reminds me of the praises in psalm 98 which we proclaim at Christmas, when we are told that “the seas clap their hands” to the glory of God: the image of the waves crashing and colliding with each other—all as part of God’s praise—is so powerful…
The second reading is just as full of metaphor and praise—it reminds us that the God we approach is not one of terror and distance, but is approachable and festive, calling us to praise and prayer and closeness. And then the gospel gives us the upside-down kingdom again, calling us to invite the poor, the lame, the lonely, those who could never repay your hospitality—forget what the world tells you about how to celebrate, it says, step outside of your comfort zone and be like Jesus, let your expectations be turned inside-out, free yourself of the expectations of your external life. Remember last Sunday’s “narrow door”? In this Sunday’s readings, we’ve approached it, and Jesus is beckoning to us from the other side. Let go of what you think you know, he says, and recognize that you must love what the world despises, honor what the world ignores, rejoice at what the world mourns.
That, ultimately, is why “Blest are they” is the perfect song for this particular Sunday. (That and the fact that the alternate Communion Antiphon for this Sunday is taken from the Beatitudes as well; despite the single-cycle selection of Antiphons, often they fit beautifully with the readings and other prayers.) The other songs fit the pattern as well: In “At that first Eucharist,” we are reminded that we are called to “one bread, one body be, in this blest Sacrament of unity.” (My hope is that using the hymn as an opening rather than a Communion Hymn might subtly remind us that the “sacrament” it refers to is not necessarily just the reception of Holy Communion but the entire liturgical gathering…) “Cry of the Poor” is a psalm of praise which likewise praises God’s mercy and kindness especially to the lowly and unremarkable, and “We are Called” sends us out with Micah’s call to “do justice, love mercy, and walk humbly with God.”
I have a feeling that if I can remember the focuses of this particular Sunday’s readings and songs, the much harsher-seeming readings of October and November might be easier to take, as this autumn progresses…
peace,
Jennifer
Monday, August 27, 2007
Of Carpets, Journeys, and Narrow doors (What I learned)
Whether I remember to continue this particular variety of blog entry or not, I think it might be a good idea...to go back and take a look at a given Sunday and consciously think about how the morning went and what happened.
So: yesterday, two main things come to mind:
1. I learned that Marty Haugen's "Come and Journey with a Savior" is a really solid and well-written hymn. We used it through all of Lent a couple of years ago and haven't revisited it much since then. Yesterday we pulled it out as an opening song, and I played it on the organ rather than piano. The people sang it solidly and well, it was easy to adapt for organ, and it felt as well-rooted and solid as any "traditional" hymn. I hope more people discover this piece...the verses are a bit odd (not bad, just odd), but it sings very very well.
2. I learned that carpet which looks dry isn't necessarily dry, so if your church flooded in the wake of a terrible storm and the sewage system backed up and soaked the carpet around the font and music area, it's better to forego receiving Communion if that means you have to walk on the wet carpet in your organ shoes and soak the soles so they don't slip nicely on the pedalboard and your rendition of "Here I am, Lord" sounds about like you used to play it 16 years ago when you were just figuring out this foot thing. (Plus, it's just gross to walk around in sewage-soaked carpet.)
I also heard a new take on the "Narrow Door" theme, something I somehow haven't heard before. (It's not too often at this point that I discover a new metaphor:-). Ken approached the idea sort of from the perspective of "the road less travelled"--that we are given the choice between taking the habitual, expected, path of least resistance, or to deliberately choose to take the path that seems less popular, less anticipated, less expected of us. I liked it.
I love how much the assembly sings during late summer, when people are getting back from vacations and the different liturgies are filling up again. Sometimes it was almost thunderous. I remember how for several months I had to get on the cantors right and left about not singing the people's part of the Alleluia with them, to strengthen the sense of dialogue and the assembly's own role--no reason to "support" people's singing of something they can sing in their sleep. The cantors are starting to forget, or else some of them never quite "got" it to begin with, but the job has been done--the people sing their part so loudly that it no longer even matters, which is the best thing in the world, as far as I'm concerned.
This is a good parish.
peace,
Jennifer
So: yesterday, two main things come to mind:
1. I learned that Marty Haugen's "Come and Journey with a Savior" is a really solid and well-written hymn. We used it through all of Lent a couple of years ago and haven't revisited it much since then. Yesterday we pulled it out as an opening song, and I played it on the organ rather than piano. The people sang it solidly and well, it was easy to adapt for organ, and it felt as well-rooted and solid as any "traditional" hymn. I hope more people discover this piece...the verses are a bit odd (not bad, just odd), but it sings very very well.
2. I learned that carpet which looks dry isn't necessarily dry, so if your church flooded in the wake of a terrible storm and the sewage system backed up and soaked the carpet around the font and music area, it's better to forego receiving Communion if that means you have to walk on the wet carpet in your organ shoes and soak the soles so they don't slip nicely on the pedalboard and your rendition of "Here I am, Lord" sounds about like you used to play it 16 years ago when you were just figuring out this foot thing. (Plus, it's just gross to walk around in sewage-soaked carpet.)
I also heard a new take on the "Narrow Door" theme, something I somehow haven't heard before. (It's not too often at this point that I discover a new metaphor:-). Ken approached the idea sort of from the perspective of "the road less travelled"--that we are given the choice between taking the habitual, expected, path of least resistance, or to deliberately choose to take the path that seems less popular, less anticipated, less expected of us. I liked it.
I love how much the assembly sings during late summer, when people are getting back from vacations and the different liturgies are filling up again. Sometimes it was almost thunderous. I remember how for several months I had to get on the cantors right and left about not singing the people's part of the Alleluia with them, to strengthen the sense of dialogue and the assembly's own role--no reason to "support" people's singing of something they can sing in their sleep. The cantors are starting to forget, or else some of them never quite "got" it to begin with, but the job has been done--the people sing their part so loudly that it no longer even matters, which is the best thing in the world, as far as I'm concerned.
This is a good parish.
peace,
Jennifer
Thursday, August 23, 2007
St. Elvis?
from the popular blog "Whispers in the Loggia":
"On a final note, my resident expert on All Things Elvis said the other day that the King bristled at what's become his most common nickname. So the story goes, seeing a sign while onstage that read "Elvis is the King," Presley pointed it out, saying into the mic 'Jesus is the King -- not me.' "
Well, it made me smile.
So did this:
http://www.allmercifulsavior.com/icons/Icons-Elvis.htm
(copied from THAT website:)
Feast: September 12
When St. Patrick arrived in Ireland, St. Elvis was already an active Bishop. He founded a monastery in Emly. It is said that he implored the King of Cashel to grant the Aran islands to the newly arrived St. Enda of Aran, disciple of St. Ninian of Whithorn. St. Elvis was also one of the earliest Saints of Ireland to sail northwards in search of "white martyrdom" (voluntary exile for Christ's sake). He landed at "farthest Thule," that is, Iceland, where he reposed. On their voyages, St. Brendan and his monks later visited those monks of St. Elvis' community who were still alive, describing their way of life to be so thoroughly centred upon Christ as to approximate the life of those that dwell in Paradise.
I wonder if the good people of St. Ailbe in the city realize their patron is also known as St. Elvis? I wonder how many eighth-grade classes know that Elvis would be a perfectly acceptable Confirmation name?
--Jennifer
"On a final note, my resident expert on All Things Elvis said the other day that the King bristled at what's become his most common nickname. So the story goes, seeing a sign while onstage that read "Elvis is the King," Presley pointed it out, saying into the mic 'Jesus is the King -- not me.' "
Well, it made me smile.
So did this:
http://www.allmercifulsavior.com/icons/Icons-Elvis.htm
(copied from THAT website:)
Feast: September 12
When St. Patrick arrived in Ireland, St. Elvis was already an active Bishop. He founded a monastery in Emly. It is said that he implored the King of Cashel to grant the Aran islands to the newly arrived St. Enda of Aran, disciple of St. Ninian of Whithorn. St. Elvis was also one of the earliest Saints of Ireland to sail northwards in search of "white martyrdom" (voluntary exile for Christ's sake). He landed at "farthest Thule," that is, Iceland, where he reposed. On their voyages, St. Brendan and his monks later visited those monks of St. Elvis' community who were still alive, describing their way of life to be so thoroughly centred upon Christ as to approximate the life of those that dwell in Paradise.
I wonder if the good people of St. Ailbe in the city realize their patron is also known as St. Elvis? I wonder how many eighth-grade classes know that Elvis would be a perfectly acceptable Confirmation name?
--Jennifer
Wednesday, August 22, 2007
August 26, 21st Sunday in Ordinary Time, cycle C
August 26, 21st Sunday in Ordinary Time
Entrance: Come and journey with a Savior (GC 686, vs. 1, 2, 6)
Psalm: 117—Go out to all the world (C91)
Presentation: The Cloud’s Veil (GC 619)
Communion: I am the Bread of Life (GC 822)
Closing: Here I am, Lord (GC 671)
There are weeks when the music selected for a given set of liturgies is a subtle blending of theological implication, cross-seasonal correspondence, filled with underlying meaning which, though it may not be immediately discernable, nonetheless works upon the unconcious mind of the participant and leads them to deeper understanding of the Paschal Mystery.
This...isn't one of those weeks. :-)
The readings are fairly straightforward: In the first reading, Isaiah proclaims God's glory to all the nations and the return of all nations to Jerusalem. The psalm calls us to "go out to the world and tell the good news." The epistle to the Hebrews implores us to take the discipline of God as a source of strength, and not of sorrow or disdain. And the Gospel is the one about the infamous Narrow Gate (side note: I must have been a senior in college on the 21st Sunday in Ordinary Time, Cycle C, because I distinctly remember the new chaplain preaching this homily at the orientation liturgy and using the phrase "Narrow Door" about seven hundred times; we joked about it all year. That was the same day I had dinner with Paul Sorvino, whose daughter Amanda was starting at CUA as a freshman, and I was probably the only person there who had never seen any of his movies...what can I say, I was a piano student, I didn't get out much. But I digress.) where Jesus tells many of those who thought they knew him that in fact the last will be first and the first last.
The readings for autumn of Cycle C are exceedingly Doldrummy. Hardest ones to choose music for of the whole Lectionary. Every three years I'm tearing my hair out until blessed Advent.
The opening hymn was chosen for two reasons, one deep, one not: First, it has the element of journeying outward and inward, evoking the journey of the Isaiah reading and the unity in Jerusalem to which it calls us--as well as the calling together of all the nations at the end of the Gospel passage. Second...well, we haven't done it for a while, and I wanted to get it back on the lips of the people. It's a good song, and I tend to forget about it sometimes.
Presentation is actually more of a carry-over from last week, since Cloud's Veil also hasn't been on the lips of the people much lately, for no particular reason, and it's a great song. But it also is intended to echo the Hebrews reading with its call for comfort and trust in the face of difficulty. The choice of "I am the bread of life" for Communion was directly from the Communion Antiphon posed as an alternate for the week: John 6:54, "The Lord says, the one who eats my flesh and drinks my blood will live forever; I shall raise him to life on the last day." This is one of those cases where we happen to have a corresponding hymn in our repertoire, so there it is.
For closing we're doing "Here I am;" In a lot of ways "Go to the world" (SINE NOMINE, the tune from "For all the Saints") would be more directly appropriate for the readings of the week, and I do kind of hope the Sunday 5pm uses Ed Bolduc's "Go out in the world" song for their closing, but there's enough not-quite-familiar music this week that I wanted to close with an also appropriate oldy-moldy that everyone can sing with their eyes shut, and one which also evokes the coming forward of those who were formerly somewhere out in the darkness, and their sending back into the difficulties of the world.
peace,
Jennifer
Entrance: Come and journey with a Savior (GC 686, vs. 1, 2, 6)
Psalm: 117—Go out to all the world (C91)
Presentation: The Cloud’s Veil (GC 619)
Communion: I am the Bread of Life (GC 822)
Closing: Here I am, Lord (GC 671)
There are weeks when the music selected for a given set of liturgies is a subtle blending of theological implication, cross-seasonal correspondence, filled with underlying meaning which, though it may not be immediately discernable, nonetheless works upon the unconcious mind of the participant and leads them to deeper understanding of the Paschal Mystery.
This...isn't one of those weeks. :-)
The readings are fairly straightforward: In the first reading, Isaiah proclaims God's glory to all the nations and the return of all nations to Jerusalem. The psalm calls us to "go out to the world and tell the good news." The epistle to the Hebrews implores us to take the discipline of God as a source of strength, and not of sorrow or disdain. And the Gospel is the one about the infamous Narrow Gate (side note: I must have been a senior in college on the 21st Sunday in Ordinary Time, Cycle C, because I distinctly remember the new chaplain preaching this homily at the orientation liturgy and using the phrase "Narrow Door" about seven hundred times; we joked about it all year. That was the same day I had dinner with Paul Sorvino, whose daughter Amanda was starting at CUA as a freshman, and I was probably the only person there who had never seen any of his movies...what can I say, I was a piano student, I didn't get out much. But I digress.) where Jesus tells many of those who thought they knew him that in fact the last will be first and the first last.
The readings for autumn of Cycle C are exceedingly Doldrummy. Hardest ones to choose music for of the whole Lectionary. Every three years I'm tearing my hair out until blessed Advent.
The opening hymn was chosen for two reasons, one deep, one not: First, it has the element of journeying outward and inward, evoking the journey of the Isaiah reading and the unity in Jerusalem to which it calls us--as well as the calling together of all the nations at the end of the Gospel passage. Second...well, we haven't done it for a while, and I wanted to get it back on the lips of the people. It's a good song, and I tend to forget about it sometimes.
Presentation is actually more of a carry-over from last week, since Cloud's Veil also hasn't been on the lips of the people much lately, for no particular reason, and it's a great song. But it also is intended to echo the Hebrews reading with its call for comfort and trust in the face of difficulty. The choice of "I am the bread of life" for Communion was directly from the Communion Antiphon posed as an alternate for the week: John 6:54, "The Lord says, the one who eats my flesh and drinks my blood will live forever; I shall raise him to life on the last day." This is one of those cases where we happen to have a corresponding hymn in our repertoire, so there it is.
For closing we're doing "Here I am;" In a lot of ways "Go to the world" (SINE NOMINE, the tune from "For all the Saints") would be more directly appropriate for the readings of the week, and I do kind of hope the Sunday 5pm uses Ed Bolduc's "Go out in the world" song for their closing, but there's enough not-quite-familiar music this week that I wanted to close with an also appropriate oldy-moldy that everyone can sing with their eyes shut, and one which also evokes the coming forward of those who were formerly somewhere out in the darkness, and their sending back into the difficulties of the world.
peace,
Jennifer
Thursday, August 16, 2007
Entrance and Communion Antiphons
My newest step in sketching out what we will sing through the next church year, simply because I was unaware of its existence for many of my years of music ministry, is to go to the Sacramentary and look at the Entrance Antiphons and Communion Antiphons. These long-overlooked little gems are real treasures, and they can root us ever more deeply in our tradition and place in the ever-circling liturgical year.
These are listed in the GIRM (General Instruction on the Roman Missal) as an option (the first listed option, but still just an option, so it's not a requirement or anything) for the Entrance and Communion songs. Debate rages heatedly among liturgical musicians about whether their placement at the beginning of the list of choices means that we should be doing them, and that the other options are there only if we can't pull off this ideal choice. My own sense is that they are valuable, and it might be very worthwhile to look toward them for the future, but that using them exclusively would be to all but wipe out the body of liturgical congregational song and put a large pointy dagger into whatever ecumenical strides have been made in past decades as some of the best of the Protestant hymnody has found its way into our worship. (That some of the hymnody that's found its way in isn't necessarily the "best" is immaterial, though sad:-)
So...while I have neither intent nor desire to replace our customary congregationally embraced singing with the Antiphons from the Missal, I do look at them for direction and guidance in planning. For one thing, they can be used simply to help choose the liturgical song for that moment in the liturgy: For example, the fourteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time has "Taste and see the goodness of the Lord" as the Communion Antiphon; that week, even though it's not until next June, I can tell you with some surety that we'll be singing Moore's "Taste and See." The Fourth Sunday in Ordinary Time, February 3, has "Happy are the poor in spirit; the kingdom of heaven is theirs!" We will very likely sing "Blest are They" at Communion that week. and so on.
Another possibility, for the liturgies with choirs, is to employ a choral "introit," sort of like a final prelude, immediately before the opening hymn. I wrote a setting of the Advent antiphons a few years ago, where the choir hummed "O Come Emmanuel" in harmony under a cantor's solo singing of the introit text. There are books like On Flowing Waters and Psallite (both from liturgical press, www.litpress.org,) with really nice settings of these texts, and we could start using these either as a prelude to Mass or as a "first" Communion song, during that space of time when the Communion Ministers are getting themselves organized (and then maybe repeat it after Communion).
In any case, these are some gorgeous texts which, even if we don't use them weekly (and there are parishes who do, by the way, with great success--the Psallite settings, especially, people seem able to pick up and sing very well very quickly), these antiphons can point the way for music and seasonal planning, and since discovering them some years ago my understanding of music ministry has deepened a great deal.
peace,
Jennifer
These are listed in the GIRM (General Instruction on the Roman Missal) as an option (the first listed option, but still just an option, so it's not a requirement or anything) for the Entrance and Communion songs. Debate rages heatedly among liturgical musicians about whether their placement at the beginning of the list of choices means that we should be doing them, and that the other options are there only if we can't pull off this ideal choice. My own sense is that they are valuable, and it might be very worthwhile to look toward them for the future, but that using them exclusively would be to all but wipe out the body of liturgical congregational song and put a large pointy dagger into whatever ecumenical strides have been made in past decades as some of the best of the Protestant hymnody has found its way into our worship. (That some of the hymnody that's found its way in isn't necessarily the "best" is immaterial, though sad:-)
So...while I have neither intent nor desire to replace our customary congregationally embraced singing with the Antiphons from the Missal, I do look at them for direction and guidance in planning. For one thing, they can be used simply to help choose the liturgical song for that moment in the liturgy: For example, the fourteenth Sunday in Ordinary Time has "Taste and see the goodness of the Lord" as the Communion Antiphon; that week, even though it's not until next June, I can tell you with some surety that we'll be singing Moore's "Taste and See." The Fourth Sunday in Ordinary Time, February 3, has "Happy are the poor in spirit; the kingdom of heaven is theirs!" We will very likely sing "Blest are They" at Communion that week. and so on.
Another possibility, for the liturgies with choirs, is to employ a choral "introit," sort of like a final prelude, immediately before the opening hymn. I wrote a setting of the Advent antiphons a few years ago, where the choir hummed "O Come Emmanuel" in harmony under a cantor's solo singing of the introit text. There are books like On Flowing Waters and Psallite (both from liturgical press, www.litpress.org,) with really nice settings of these texts, and we could start using these either as a prelude to Mass or as a "first" Communion song, during that space of time when the Communion Ministers are getting themselves organized (and then maybe repeat it after Communion).
In any case, these are some gorgeous texts which, even if we don't use them weekly (and there are parishes who do, by the way, with great success--the Psallite settings, especially, people seem able to pick up and sing very well very quickly), these antiphons can point the way for music and seasonal planning, and since discovering them some years ago my understanding of music ministry has deepened a great deal.
peace,
Jennifer
Tuesday, August 14, 2007
The choral year
This is the time of year when I'm trying to look at the big picture, get a general view of the entire liturgical year. I generally sit down with the Lectionary on one side of me and the Sacramentary on the other, moving back and forth Sunday to Sunday and season to season, trying to deliberately notice the forest without getting too hung up on the trees...
At the moment, I'm specifically thinking about the choral music the choir will sing this year, the "anthems," or pieces the choir will sing on their own, without assembly participation. These can be a hit or miss effort, largely depending on which general tack the homilist for that particular Sunday takes. Sometimes we absolutely nail it, other times we're way off base, and there's really no predicting one way or the other which way it will go. That's where we have to trust to the kindness and weird sense of humor of the Holy Spirit.
I like to begin the choir season with all the music for the year at least tentatively chosen. For one thing, it makes it much easier to pace rehearsals and general flow. It's generally a bad idea to have a month of familiar choral music followed by 5 weeks of brand-new and difficult music. My methodology is sort of scattered and imprecise, but it allows for giving all the variables their due weight. (Sort of like an Impressionist painting; lots of little dots that make very little sense at first but which eventually form a coherent and recognizable picture.)
1. Usually first I scan through the year as a whole, and jot down for each Sunday whatever major themes or concepts strike me from the combination of the readings and Sacramentary texts. For some weeks a particular piece we've sung before and really enjoy will just leap to mind ("Christus Paradox," that glorious anthem based on PICARDY, tends to pop up on Christ the King...when the Gospel is the Beatitudes, one way or another it's a given that we'll sing the Orthodox chant of the text.) and get immediately slotted for that week. That gives a good overall sense of how the year will flow.
2. Then I look at my annual summary of what we sang last year, to pull up the anthems we did for the first time but were a bit shaky, and which I want to make sure we repeat, and I see which Sundays they may work for. Sometimes it's a no-brainer; Victoria's O Magnum Mysterium is a Christmas piece however you slice it, so this year we'll do it on Christmas Eve at the Midnight Mass, and then probably again on Holy Family if the whole tenor section isn't on vacation that week or something.
3. I then go to summaries of the previous few years, to see if there's anything really lovely we learned a few years ago that has moved off the radar and been lost by the wayside. (Sometimes, of course, things that moved subliminally off the radar really should stay there--not everything is a Greatest Hit, but we have to try stuff before we know if it'll be a hit or not.) I do the same thing with those, scanning through the year to see if there's a perfect Sunday for it that jumps out at me.
4. Finally, I go to my stack of "new music" collected from choral packets, conventions, reading sessions, and such. I give it another good and fearless examination to see how much of it really seems worth our trouble (honestly, most years I get over a hundred octavos to review, and we're lucky if we can do a dozen in a year--very lucky at that), and look at the Sundays of the year to see what pieces seem perfect for what weeks or seasons.
5. At this point I usually have a pretty good overview of what's possible for the year. Some tweaking is always necessary, of course--like I said, you don't want too many brand new things stacked several weeks in a row, or 2 months of oldy moldies. (They only get moldy when there are too many of them at a stretch.) And there are always Sundays with nothing there, and other Sundays with 3 pieces, so things get moved around. So now I am looking at the specific Sundays with nothing yet chosen, and making specific efforts to find something for that week. Often those are the weeks that end up with something more general (like "We Remember You," a very pretty but general anthem based on "Adoro Te Devote") or seasonal (something basically Lenten or Advent-y on one of the Sundays of that season) instead of a very specific piece.
There are always some weeks that are a bit of a stretch, and it's never fully set in stone until we've actually rehearsed the piece and know whether it's going to work us or not, but at least now I know what needs to be ordered and how to pace the early rehearsals.
And the really nice part of doing it this way is that now, before I even begin looking at the congregational music, I have already spent some time sort of steeping in the flow of the liturgical year. I'll be tangling with trees soon enough, and this is my only chance to really check out the forest before I'm in the thick of it, so it's nice--and worth it--to take the time.
peace,
Jennifer
At the moment, I'm specifically thinking about the choral music the choir will sing this year, the "anthems," or pieces the choir will sing on their own, without assembly participation. These can be a hit or miss effort, largely depending on which general tack the homilist for that particular Sunday takes. Sometimes we absolutely nail it, other times we're way off base, and there's really no predicting one way or the other which way it will go. That's where we have to trust to the kindness and weird sense of humor of the Holy Spirit.
I like to begin the choir season with all the music for the year at least tentatively chosen. For one thing, it makes it much easier to pace rehearsals and general flow. It's generally a bad idea to have a month of familiar choral music followed by 5 weeks of brand-new and difficult music. My methodology is sort of scattered and imprecise, but it allows for giving all the variables their due weight. (Sort of like an Impressionist painting; lots of little dots that make very little sense at first but which eventually form a coherent and recognizable picture.)
1. Usually first I scan through the year as a whole, and jot down for each Sunday whatever major themes or concepts strike me from the combination of the readings and Sacramentary texts. For some weeks a particular piece we've sung before and really enjoy will just leap to mind ("Christus Paradox," that glorious anthem based on PICARDY, tends to pop up on Christ the King...when the Gospel is the Beatitudes, one way or another it's a given that we'll sing the Orthodox chant of the text.) and get immediately slotted for that week. That gives a good overall sense of how the year will flow.
2. Then I look at my annual summary of what we sang last year, to pull up the anthems we did for the first time but were a bit shaky, and which I want to make sure we repeat, and I see which Sundays they may work for. Sometimes it's a no-brainer; Victoria's O Magnum Mysterium is a Christmas piece however you slice it, so this year we'll do it on Christmas Eve at the Midnight Mass, and then probably again on Holy Family if the whole tenor section isn't on vacation that week or something.
3. I then go to summaries of the previous few years, to see if there's anything really lovely we learned a few years ago that has moved off the radar and been lost by the wayside. (Sometimes, of course, things that moved subliminally off the radar really should stay there--not everything is a Greatest Hit, but we have to try stuff before we know if it'll be a hit or not.) I do the same thing with those, scanning through the year to see if there's a perfect Sunday for it that jumps out at me.
4. Finally, I go to my stack of "new music" collected from choral packets, conventions, reading sessions, and such. I give it another good and fearless examination to see how much of it really seems worth our trouble (honestly, most years I get over a hundred octavos to review, and we're lucky if we can do a dozen in a year--very lucky at that), and look at the Sundays of the year to see what pieces seem perfect for what weeks or seasons.
5. At this point I usually have a pretty good overview of what's possible for the year. Some tweaking is always necessary, of course--like I said, you don't want too many brand new things stacked several weeks in a row, or 2 months of oldy moldies. (They only get moldy when there are too many of them at a stretch.) And there are always Sundays with nothing there, and other Sundays with 3 pieces, so things get moved around. So now I am looking at the specific Sundays with nothing yet chosen, and making specific efforts to find something for that week. Often those are the weeks that end up with something more general (like "We Remember You," a very pretty but general anthem based on "Adoro Te Devote") or seasonal (something basically Lenten or Advent-y on one of the Sundays of that season) instead of a very specific piece.
There are always some weeks that are a bit of a stretch, and it's never fully set in stone until we've actually rehearsed the piece and know whether it's going to work us or not, but at least now I know what needs to be ordered and how to pace the early rehearsals.
And the really nice part of doing it this way is that now, before I even begin looking at the congregational music, I have already spent some time sort of steeping in the flow of the liturgical year. I'll be tangling with trees soon enough, and this is my only chance to really check out the forest before I'm in the thick of it, so it's nice--and worth it--to take the time.
peace,
Jennifer
Sunday, August 12, 2007
Blessed the people...
I suppose it is not auspicious that I am beginning this blog on a Sunday when I barely heard the readings and couldn't quite remember why I made any of the choices even while playing them. Maybe it's partly my hope that keeping this blog will increase my own sense of responsibility regarding the music I choose...
And now I am summoned to play "toreador" with a small boy and a red blanket...
peace,
J
And now I am summoned to play "toreador" with a small boy and a red blanket...
peace,
J
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