Like numbers and poetry

I took a break from “The Three Musketeers” – this summer’s adventure yarn on my Kindle – to read something my Karen had just finished. Karen has an unsystematic, and surprisingly successful, way of choosing books from the public library. Sure, she’ll take recommendations and she will pursue authors she has enjoyed. But sometimes, when she’s in a hurry, and it’s summer and just too hot or busy to think about it, she just picks titles off the “Staff Recommendations” rack. She has found some of her favorite modern novels that way.

And occasionally, I have been alert enough to carve out time from my own very systematic reading program(s) to share her pleasure.

The Housekeeper andthe Professor, by Yoko Ogawa, is our most recent shared literary pleasure. It is in English translation from a Japanese author – whom now, I am sure, we will both look for! The narrator is the Housekeeper, the unwed mother of a ten-year-old boy. The Professor suffers from brain damage sustained in a car accident 17 years earlier. A brilliant mathematician, his memory only lasts 80 minutes. (How we has learned to deal with that is just one fascinating feature of the story.) Every day the Housekeeper arrives at his cottage and has to re-introduce herself. She has a son, and when the Professor learns this one day, and that he is a latch-key kid, he is agitated and concerned; he insists that the son come to his cottage every day after school. The only character name in the novel is the nickname the Professor gives the son: “Root” – because his flat-top haircut is like the square root sign. “I’m going to call you Root. The square root sign is a generous symbol, it gives shelter to all the numbers.” (27)

The Professor makes sense of his limitations, and his world, and his relationships, through number. The math in the book is way beyond me, but not in a way that interferes with the story-telling. Indeed, the math is the story-telling. (Now that I think of it, this is like the 18^th-century details in the Patrick O’Brian Aubrey/Maturin novels; they just throw the reader into the world of the novel.) In this novel, the poetry is in the explanation. Prime numbers, perfect numbers, number relationships . . . a world of order and beauty from the pages of “God’s handbook.” The writing, like the math, is sheer poetry.

From the earliest pages, I easily justified reading The Housekeeper as compatible with my MA thesis. Not that evening pleasure reading has to be justified! But here was a nice coincidence. I am currently working through a thesis chapter showing how Baroque composers understood music as a vehicle for conveying meaning. Bach was among the last European composers to retain (to some degree) the ancient notion that music was one way of expressing (and discovering) divine order. From Pythagoras and Plato on into the 17^th century, the science of music was related to the order of the universe (musica mundana) and the proper ordering of human life (musica humana); only accidentally, so to speak, was the performance of actual music (musica instrumentalis) important. When the Professor describes ‘amicable numbers’- a completely new concept to me - he says, “They’re linked to each other by some divine scheme, and how incredible that your birthday [220, February 20] and this number on my watch [284] should be such a pair.” (19) That notion of divine order sneaks its way through the novel. Delightful.

Oh, and baseball! Of course, baseball is a game of numbers, statistics, distances, velocity, etc. , and has spawned its own share of engaging writing. The Professor and Root bond through a mutual love of baseball, and the novel takes place over the span of a single season of Japan professional ball. So there you have it, a philosophical, mathematical, poetical baseball novel. The most beautiful thing I’ve read in a long time, and I imagine I’ll pick it up again. How long till next summer?

Coming up for air

Today I made my first editorial pass on a very rough draft of the third chapter of my thesis. Coming up for air, I'd love to write up several book reviews and commentaries on my reading from the past two months. For now, I'll simply cite this tantalizing quotation from Laurence Dreyfuss, Bach and the Patterns of Invention. Styles, he says, "lend a special identity to a genre by imparting a specific meaning congruent with the kind's values." (page 193)

Now, this has something significant to do with my thesis. It also speaks to my personal, grander project (my soap-box, if you will), namely, that musical composition - including style and genre - is not theologically neutral.

In my reading and writing for this chapter I have been excited to stumble upon current literature that takes seriously the idea that music (that is, the stuff of composition, independent of text) has the potential to carry meaning. OK, yes, it is a little irresponsible to just set that out there without all the cautions and guidelines that keep us from going overboard with this. But the literature does exercise that caution, and my job in the thesis is to mind my step and keep the guidelines in front of me.

What interests me and excites me most is that the various authors come at this subject from differing disciplines and philosophical perspectives. And none are explicitly religious, which (it may be surprising to say) actually bolsters the argument I make in my theological thesis. However, at the same time I have heard excellent lectures by Ken Myers, who makes exactly these points, from a Christian perspective:
Epiphany Lectures "Ears to Hear: The Possibilities of Musical Meaning."

I'm pretty sure they are lectures during the Epiphany season, but they will be epiphanous for many listeners. The lectures are each an hour long, so - you know - you probably won't have time to listen to all four. If you care to, Lecture 3 - "Form, Meaning, and Listening" - is a good place to start. Lectures 3 and 4 are a good place to go if one is generally literate musically. Those interested in the big idea, but with little musical knowledge would do well to begin at the beginning. (That is, if you always and only listen to songs that last about 3 minutes, you will benefit from the whole series.) If I had my way, every ministry staff in every Christian church would listen to Lecture 3, together, and talk about it, with a music staff person and/or a music professor. Even if this were a single stand-alone lecture in a M.Div program, I have to believe it would begin to make a modest impact on the way pastors think about music in worship. But to be clear: these are NOT lectures about church music!

Look for more from the reading, now that I am in editing mode.

Laurence Dreyfuss, Bach and the Patterns of Invention. Cambridge, MA: Harvard University Press, 2004.

A Humble Quest

When my college friend, Jon, sent me my introduction to A. J. Jacobs, I wasn’t quite sure how to take it. The note included in the gift said simply, “When I saw the title, I thought of you.” The title of the book: The Know It All. Hmm . . . Not usually a compliment, “know it all.” But author A. J. Jacobs is, after all, reasonably modest, and “One man’s humble quest to become the smartest person in the world” (the book’s subtitle) is an hilarious* romp through the Encyclopedia Brittanica, from cover to cover. And, whatever Jon may have meant by his note, yes, reading systematically through the encyclopedia is not far fetched for me. (I’ve actually been described that way, as in, “I don’t know Chuck well, but he strikes me as someone who would read through an encyclopedia.” Why, thank you! I take that as a compliment. I still prefer to look up words in a dictionary, and concepts in an encylopedia, because one always finds such interesting things along the way.)

A. J. Jacobs is a non-religious Jew (“I’m Jewish in the same way that the Olive Garden is Italian”) who writes (now is an editor) for Esquire magazine. His memoirs demonstrate his humble brilliance, and he is laugh out loud funny. (His wife, Julie, is a fair match for him, as he generously demonstrates.) But this particular “Humble Quest” has a touching serious personal dimension to it. The Year of Living Biblically: One Man’sHumble Quest to Follow the Bible as Literally as Possible was prompted by the author’s serious contemplation of his role as a father, by his concern to equip his son (and, by the end of the year, sons) for life in a whack culture in a dangerous world. Should he attend more to the religious aspects of being Jewish? What would that look like, and to what end?

Without belaboring each day, as the weeks go by we find Jacobs grappling with the implications of obeying, as literally as possible, all the commands of the Bible, both the Old and New Testaments. (Is it a function of his secular upbringing, or some assumption about who would read the book, that Jacobs does not refer to the two parts in the scholarly, and political, terms: “Hebrew” and “Christian” scriptures?) He makes quite a bit of the Judeo-Christian heritage, and at the same time clearly chooses to identify specifically, and ultimately concretely, with his Jewish roots. Along the way, Jacobs introduces us to his team of spiritual advisors – rabbis, ministers, pastors, scholars – who answer his questions, introduce him to people, concepts, and movements he should explore, and give him perspective. He dances with the Hasid, and attends a snake-handling church; he pillories the Creation Museum, and is surprised to find Thomas Road Baptist Church (Jerry Falwell) full of nice people. He is clearly most surprised to learn that much of our characterization of others is based on stereotype.

Each section of each chapter is headed by a biblical verse or aphorism; generally a command. This opens the way to reflect upon such arcane commands as not wearing clothes of mixed fibers, not taking the mother with the young “if you chance upon a bird’s nest,” or blowing the trumpet at each new moon. He struggles with the concrete, daily implications of commands: how will he know whether a woman is in her period, during which he should not touch her? (Here, his wife’s delightful humor is on display, as Jacobs comes home one evening to find that she has sat on all the chairs, out of pique for the oddity of this restriction.) Will he be able to find and stone an adulterer? (Another hilarious moment.)

But what struck me was how Jacobs grew in wisdom, as the scriptures describe it. He fights his own type, and our culture, to keep the Sabbath; and in the end embraces it with delight. He struggles with the daily little white sins about which the Bible has so much to say: lying, gossip, coarse jesting. His Esquire editor throws him a special challenge, to interview Cameron Diaz and not commit the sin of lust. His struggle with all these is honest and all too familiar to any who try to take the Bible seriously as a guide to human behavior. Jacobs finds that his mind is being changed by his attention to the Bible, and for the most part, he likes it. Perhaps of greatest value to him is the birth and nurture of genuine gratitude; he learns to give thanks for everything, and his outlook is changed.

It’s easy to read The Year of Living Biblically and simply observe that, well, after all, of course we can’t literally follow all the commands of the Bible and to do so is simply legalism. Granted. But in the end I admire the Humble Quest, and wonder at how little effort I make to follow any commands of the Bible; how much I need to grow in wisdom; in what danger I am in when I rely on justification by faith apart from works and neglect the works that flow from justification; how I could use a little more of the literal. Even if I only got as far as unceasing gratitude and genuine sabbath rest, I’d be farther along than I am today.

* I just can’t shake the quaint use of the article “an” preceding nouns that begin with the letter “h.”

Ramblings

My reading is pretty focused these days - thesis! - but I'm not finishing much. I'm eager to wrap up my evening, bedtime read, The Year of Living Biblically by A. J. Jacobs. I got such a kick out of his earlier memoir, The Know-it-All. (subtitled: One man's humble quest to be the smartest person in the world) There are some fascinating insights, some important reminders, and a lot of laugh-out-loud moments in the book I'm trying to finish now. And then, it looks like I'll have to find and read Jacobs' Drop Dead Healthy: One man's humble quest for Bodily Perfection.

Thesis reading has taken me down a surprising road this month. I'm behind my own writing schedule, for reasons not entirely in my control; but the month has been fascinating. In short - much more on this later - some of the work I thought I was going to have to do, I find has been done for me. At the  moment I'm thinking specifically of the potential of music to carry meaning, to represent; the prospect that music may be (within careful bounds, and cautiously) interpreted. This is important for my thesis, but beyond that it gets at my larger project, namely, that music matters (that is, the notes, the tunes and accompaniments) and supports or undercuts the words used in worship. Oh, so much more on this, later.

Then, there are all those blog posts that people paste into their Facebook statuses. I don't spend a lot of time following bloggers. I do, but am not the guy who starts or ends each day checking in on favorite sites. I have many more book-marked than I can get to each week, and I generally look at them while I'm filling spare moments between things. There has been a vigorous flurry of posts about why young people are leaving the evangelical church. In general, I note that most of the solutions skirt the issue of gathered worship . . . even though the churches many young evangelicals are leaving for are historically liturgical. There seems to be a blind-spot in non-historical, free-church evangelicalism that believes if we just get our theology and the gospel right, young people will stay with our a-historical, culture-driven, rootless worship services. Now, I don't think the evangelical church needs to adopt the Book of Common Prayer to keep its youth. What I do think is that  evangelical churches need to commit to some historic, theological, liturgical structure - in keeping with their tradition (they have one, they just don't know or admit it) - and work in that context to serve the present age. Solid old theology, dumb new worship; go figure.

Which brings me to a post I was pointed to this morning. I don't know who Paul Washer is, and frankly I don't have the time or interest to find out nor to read what I'm sure is an excellent series of books. And as far as I know, I've never read Tim Challies' blog, and no I won't bookmark it and follow it. Though I have no doubt that I would benefit from doing so. But thanks to a Facebook friend's status and link, I appreciated these thoughts today. Challies interviews Washer about the "New Calvinism." After affirming some positive aspects of the movement, Washer ticks off seven concerns. The first four I recognize, but  have not rubbed shoulders with "new Calvinists" who exhibit these traits. Two of the last three, though. Oh my:
5 - embracing the great doctrines of the Reformation, without letting go of unbiblical models of ministry.
7 - the attempt of many young reformed to appear "contemporary, hip, cool, or even avant-garde."

Which simply sets up a critique I've kept to myself for a while: when it comes to worship especially, this movement would rather be trendy than right.

A Privilege I Don't Covet

I admire good preaching. For three decades I have had the privilege of planning Christian worship centered on well-crafted, intelligent, thought-provoking, life-changing preaching. I have worked with four senior pastors, good preachers all but not at all like each other in the pulpit. I’m a church musician whose métier is planning a service around the sermon scripture; it’s a partnership I thrive in . . . and currently miss.

Over the years, I have had a number of opportunities to preach. My earliest sermons are embarrassing, my later ones personally unsatisfying. Thankfully, I believe that God blesses sincere preaching that comes from faithful study of God’s Word, and the Holy Spirit graciously sorts out the preached word to accomplish divine purposes in expectant listeners. Otherwise, you know, I’m pretty much hosed as a preacher!

I’ve had good models for preaching all my life. But when I came to College Church seventeen years ago, I was thrust into a hothouse of expositional preaching. First, the examples of two sermons every Sunday, all year round, with duties shared by an amazing pastoral staff led by a world-class preacher. That sort of rubs off on you. But there were also the annual Workshops on Biblical Exposition – a “spring training” event for preachers of all levels of experience and ability. As a member of staff, this was one of those other duties as assigned, and it wasn’t limited to being the music guy who got the workshop singing, then went back to his – you know – job. No, I was politely required to participate fully in the workshop: study certain texts in advance, sort out how to preach them, then in a small group of (actual or wannabe) preachers make my case for preaching a passage in the way I had arrived at.

Intimidating? Well, yes and no. Yes, because I was always the one in the group who wasn’t preaching or aspiring to preach; I was out-gunned. No, because after all I was the “music guy” and no one really expected that much of me. Thankfully, some of the small group leaders over the years didn’t let me off that easily, and encouraged me along the way. Still, this was always going to be a required course, and preaching a sideline at best.

I will say this: those Workshops helped in my personal Bible study, in my occasional role as a Bible teacher, and especially as a worship planner. While I never spent anywhere near the time in a sermon passage as the preacher would, I grew immensely in my ability to work from the preaching text to song selection and service order. And for that reason alone, I have long encouraged other church musicians to find some similar enterprise. (And I still wonder, why aren’t more preaching pastors bringing their worship leaders to such workshops? Actually, I have a cynical answer to that, but that’s for another post.)

Over the years, I will admit, I’ve been pleased with one or two sermons. A 20-minute sermon on Israel’s monarchy (part of a series in the Storyline of the Bible), preached in an Evensong context. In a series on the Women of the Bible, I got to choose and preach on Deborah, the judge of Israel. (They wouldn’t let me preach on the Whore of Babylon.) I rather liked that one. I like to think I can put together a rather nice homily for a funeral or a wedding. In those contexts, I’m your 12-minute preacher. (Time me.) For the most part, though, preaching has always been added to my regular duties, and I have felt that the sermons did not get the time they warranted.

All of which is just some background to the delightful opportunity I had to worship with, and preach for, the Lombard Mennonite Church this past Sunday. My friend Curtis is the chairman of the congregation; he invited me to preach in their summer series on the Fruit of the Spirit. I was handed the “love” card. The church is in a pastoral interim, and the summer series was covered by members of the congregation  and guests like me. It was a privilege, enhanced by the warmth of the fellowship of the congregation, the thoughtful worship leader, and vibrant a cappella singing.

Still, I was reminded why I am not a preacher, and reminded again that preaching is a privilege I don’t covet. There is a certain something that distinguishes preaching – an ethos, a connection to peoples’ lives, a knack for making the scripture come alive and for vividly making application to real life. I know it when I hear it, and I always know when it is missing from my own sermons. I realized that it is not just a matter of having “enough time” to prepare in the midst of other pressing duties: after all, in my current transition, time is a gift I have in abundance. Still, I have this confidence that the God who speaks is not bound by human frailty; that the Holy Spirit always accomplishes more than we can expect or predict. And that, in any case, someone will come along next week to preach again. And as long as I’ve been diligent and faithful, perhaps I will have done no harm.

I Want You to be My Pastor Now, OK?

The summer has brought quite a change for my Karen and me. Late in the spring, Karen and her brother learned that their mother had a brain tumor. Karen’s already established monthly trip to the parental home (don’t ask) became bi-weekly. By June Mom was in the hospital, then a nursing home. Karen drove  her parents to the University Hospital for a consultation with a neurological oncologist. Later, the children took the parents back, together, to meet with a surgeon.

Then things went quickly. Before addressing the prospects for surgery, the medical staff felt that Mom needed other, more critical attention. The “day trip” ended with a hospitalization, and lots of questions. Karen came home, then turned right around and spent most of the July 4 week sitting with her mother in hospital. Then, after another two-day trip home, we went back together. By now it was becoming clear that whatever would happen with Mom’s health, coming back to her home was not likely to happen soon, if ever.

I have a sister who lives conveniently close to the Hospital, and that is where Karen stayed – and later where we both stayed – while sitting with her Mom. We were not sleeping well through Thursday night, but from whatever sleep we were woken at about 2:30am Friday, with a call from the nurse. No, we didn’t need to come just then, she just wanted to be sure someone could be there before the 9am transfer to a hospice care facility. Well, then of course we weren’t sleeping at all.

At 4:30am the nurse called again. Yes, now perhaps we should call Karen’s brother and father, and come in. We threw ourselves together and hopped in the car. That’s when Karen said to me:

“I want you to be my pastor now, OK?”

Well, I’d like to think I would have been. But I probably needed the prompt. Maybe it isn’t common for a music pastor to have a lot of hospital experience. A little death bed experience. I don’t know. I’ve had enough that I hope I know how to comport myself, what to say (and not say), what to read, how to pray. But I’m not sure that would have been my natural mode in the wee hours at my mother-in-law’s bedside. My Karen is very pulled together, capable, thoughtful but not emotional, and I’m not entirely certain I would have slipped on my pastoral shoes for her. But of course, she had never sat and watched someone die. And here she was headed to sit with her dying mother.

I don’t really have a set litany of bedside readings. There are some obvious passages; and then there’s the Holy Spirit, whom we have to trust to lead us in our reading and our praying. We entered Mom’s room, spoke to her, stood by her bed, and took our (unprofessional) stock of her condition. Karen did what she could to help her mom be comfortable. She held her hand, spoke with her, stroked her forehead and put Vaseline on her dried lips. I stood on the other side and read scripture, and prayed. We were mostly quiet. Karen had some music on her iPad, that Mom had enjoyed in previous days.

First I read John 14, “let not your hearts be troubled.” 1 Corinthians 15, on resurrection. Revelation 21 and 22, on heaven. Psalm 84, “How lovely is your dwelling place . . . The Lord God is a sun and shield, blessed are all who take refuge in him." We prayed. We were quiet. More hymns. Then I read from Psalm 62 and 63. Our friend Jerry Sundberg’s recording of our friend Ed Child’s arrangement of “This is my Father’s world” was the last thing Karen’s mother heard on this side of heaven. (We are told that hearing is the last remaining sense.) She was gone, and Karen put on a piano recording of Mom’s favorite hymn, “Holy, Holy, Holy” (arranged and recorded by our friend Levi Henkel).

So, in the end, I was Karen’s pastor. I was also her husband. I may give a pastoral hug to the grieving, but not a neck rub, not an embrace, and different tender words. I didn’t need an invitation to be her husband. But I’m glad that Karen reminded me to be for her what I also have been for others. If only for those ninety minutes, twenty-seven years of preparation were worth it.