​. . . that we, being defended from the fear of our enemies,
may live in peace and quietness.
-- Collect for Peace

It began as a serene Tuesday morning. The rumble of New York City (humming at an ultrasonic low B-flat, in case you were curious) continued unabated as residents hurried to work by various forms of public transit or on foot. The sun shone brightly in the East and everything appeared to be a normal working day in Manhattan. And then horrific events unfolded in semi-apocalyptic form: “. . . the distress of nations in perplexity . . . people fainting with fear and with foreboding of what is coming on the world” (Luke 21:25-26). How did the church respond to this atrocity? In addition to humanitarian efforts and preaching the theology of the cross, she sang. And how she sang, even in the midst of the greatest calamity most of us will ever experience.
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Please join me to explore three biblical concepts—joy, light, and companionship—along with three choral works on these themes. My co-teacher will be Rev. Harold Senkbeil, a dear friend and father in Christ, whose book, Christ and Calamity: Grace & Gratitude in the Darkest Valley, inspired the textual content of this issue of “Lifted Voice.” With a publication date of 2020, Harold was talking primarily about the Christian response to the pandemic. Transcendent truth, however, applies to every time and place for those who take refuge in the shadow of the Almighty. 

​Christ Our Joy

Senkbeil writes, “. . . Christ and calamity are bound together within the grace of God” (p. 73). In other words, there is nothing that can happen on this earth—plague, mass casualty events, war, etc.--that is not outside God’s grace, for He continues to rule over all and work through evil to bring good. The truth of God’s abiding grace, however, was not evident to all after 9/11. Calamities reveal the best and worst in us, and 9/11 was no exception. Many tried to explain the presence of evil under the rule of a gracious God, apparently unaware God has not revealed all and that explanations fall short of scriptural fidelity and therefore offer no comfort. One popular TV celebrity proclaimed that the victims of 9/11 became angels, and her followers uncritically adopted her false doctrine. And others joined in public prayer with those who believe differently, quite content with the shallow slogan, “It’s okay to pray.”

Terrorism was present in America. False doctrine was prevalent in the church. Where did the faithful go for comfort? The Beatitudes (St. Matthew 5:1-12) are helpful here. The first half of each beatitude describes the present state of the believer: “poor in spirit,” “those who mourn,” “the meek,” etc.). This is the life of discipleship and life under the cross of suffering. The Christian faith does not demand an explanation of evil, as if God owes us one or as if He should conform to our tidy, Aristotelean categories. Rather, the Christian rejoices in what God has revealed, as you can see in the second half of each beatitude: “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” Shifting to the future tense, the Beatitudes have an eschatological tone: those who mourn will be comforted, the meek will inherit the earth, and the peacemakers will be called sons of God. Terrorism in American airspace and on domestic soil reminded the faithful of the abiding threat of evil, as sure as the destruction of Jerusalem in 586 B. C. was a wake-up call for old Israel to repent and turn to the Lord. But those who flee to Him in penitent faith will not be disappointed, for theirs is a heavenly kingdom that transcends all earthly splendor.
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Musical settings of the Beatitudes are rare when compared to settings of the Psalms and the Canticles. American composer Craig Phillips, however, has provided a beautiful and accessible setting for choir and organ. Notice how each beatitude is musically divided into two textual and musical phrases, the first phrase depicting the state of the believer now (“poor in spirit,” “those who mourn,” “the meek,” etc.), and the second half of each phrase often shifting to brighter musical palettes to depict God’s blessings in the midst of sorrow. Of special significance is verse 12, “Rejoice and be glad, for great is your reward in heaven,” which features the only textual repetition in the entire work, and an “Alleluia” that seems to reach the very heights of heaven. Again from Senkbeil: “Trusting his sure word, [God] will see you through your present sadness into everlasting joy on the day of his coming” (p. 73).   

​Christ Our Light

The concept of light piercing the darkness is especially poignant for the events of 9/11. Thousands of residents in lower Manhattan scrambled into the nearest building as the first tower fell from the sky. As the rubble filled all of lower Manhattan, many who took shelter from the stormy blast experienced absolute darkness. Unless one counts controlled darkness in the caves of North Carolina, I have not felt the terror of a total blackout. Those who have experienced it, however, testify with one accord that it plunges one into the very terrors of death itself. In the case of 9/11, the situation was especially traumatic because it included not just darkness, but the threat of war, the toxic contents of the debris, and the abiding question of how one was going to return safely home that night.
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It is no wonder that darkness is present throughout the Scriptures in literal and non-literal ways. Senkbeil writes: 

From literal darkness to spiritual darkness, where can you find light in the darkness? Behold the great comfort of the light of Christ! Psalm 139 reminds us that God is everywhere, even when your senses deceive us. When you cannot see Him, He still sees you. From the heights of heaven to the depths of your worst moment, His gracious presence will not fail. When you feel abandoned, His hand still leads you and His love always supports you. Yes, when the rumble of Manhattan’s underground gives way to the quaking of buildings, the sun is eclipsed by the debris veritably falling out of the sky, God is your strength, your rock, and your tower.

The Psalmist writes, “Even the darkness is not dark to you; the night is bright as day, for darkness is as light with you” (139:11-12). In other words, the same God who created the light to pierce the darkness is not shaken by the calamities of this world. He sent His Son, the true Light, into this world to conquer the darkness of sin and death. Under the darkness of Good Friday, He “snatched life from the jaws of death. . . . Three days later, He emerged from the grave victorious over death and hell, transforming this world’s darkness into everlasting life” (Senkbeil, p. 82).
​
The following Anglican chant setting of Psalm 139 allows the text to predominate, with no textual repetition. This Psalm is frequently appointed for Vespers (vespera = evening), allowing the faithful to pray for God’s gracious presence before they lie down and sleep in darkness, knowing that the Lord will grant them a quiet night and peace at the last. 

​Christ Our Companion

As a pastor on Florida’s Gulf Coast from 1995 until 2002, I sheltered in place through many hurricanes. The day after a hurricane, those who rode out the storm emerged from their shelter, assessed the damage, and cleaned up the mess. After 9/11, however, this simply was not possible. Even years after the events of 9/11, I visited a dear soul in lower Manhattan who had barely left her home since the attacks, and she is but one example of the challenge of post-trauma isolation.

What comfort can the church offer to those who suffer long-term loneliness after a calamity? When you are alone, Christ is with you. Psalm 90 is very realistic about the transient nature of human life. Even a thousand years are “like grass that is renewed in the morning: in the morning it flourishes and is renewed; in the evening it fades and withers” 90:5-6). Isaiah uses a similar metaphor, but he adds a note of hope: “The grass withers, the flower fades, but the word of our God will stand forever” (40:8).

When towers fall out of the sky, God’s Word stands tall and His promises remain steadfast. When calamity strikes, Christ is still strong to save, for “in him all things hold together” (Col. 1:17). When your spirit sinks and you do not know how to pray, “the [Holy] Spirit intercedes for [you], with groans that words cannot express,” even as He “intercedes for the saints in accordance with God’s will” (Rom. 8:26-27). Senkbeil writes, “Jesus promises to be with us every step of the way, even in calamity and the darkest valleys of our lives. He ties his eternal presence to his living and abiding word” (p. 93).
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Isaac Watts needs no introduction to readers of “Lifted Voice.” His metrical setting of Psalm 90:1-6 rang true after the collapse of the World Trade Centers, especially the phrase “our shelter from the stormy blast.” The cathedral setting for this recording is another reminder of God’s enduring presence. In contrast to Graeco-Roman ruins and Egyptian pyramids, England’s mighty cathedrals are still used for their original purpose, the worship of God as the source and summit of our life in Christ. As such, they still stand as a reminder of “our eternal home” and the “shadow of [God’s] throne,” where “our defense is sure.”

You might be surprised that none of the compositions featured in this article were written as responses to 9/11. I was surprised as well! There were several commissions in the years following the attack. As a resident of New York City from 2002 until 2015, I was privileged to be a part of several musical performances in New York City and memorial services in Queens. The newly commissioned works, however, had little to do with Christ in calamity. While there was much beautiful and powerful music to be heard, many of the texts embraced multiple faith traditions and false doctrine, indicative of the pluralism of our day. Similarly, many Protestant choir directors quickly realized that “I’ve got the joy, joy, joy, joy, down in my heart” (repeat x666!) did not seem to be fitting as black smoke and soot lingered over lower Manhattan and drifted into nearby suburbs on Sunday September 16th.
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In contrast to the Zeitgeist of ubiquitous pluralism and ephemeral praise music, Lutheran church music at its best did not need to change after 9/11. Dr. Barbara Resch notes that during that tragic week in 2001 she was teaching her children’s choir an anthem that combined the Latin text, “Da Pacem” with Luther’s “Lord, Keep Us Steadfast in Thy Word,” which they began practicing before 9/11 and were rehearsing on September 12th.  She writes, “I hope and expect that when these adolescents are in their fifties they may call on [Luther’s hymns] to give expression to a prayer that they may be helpless to frame themselves” (Christ’s Gifts in the Liturgy: The Theology and Music of the Divine Service, p. 92). These words, set to music by Luther and later by Felix Mendelssohn, rang true in the aftermath of 9/11 and continue to be your prayer to Christ as your Joy, Light, and Companion in the midst of calamity: 

Have mercy on me, O Lord, Son of David;
my daughter is severely oppressed by a demon.
– St. Matthew 15:22

​Faithful readers of “Lifted Voice” know that October is the one month when I depart from the usual rhythm of the church year to recognize Child-Loss Month. Since this year marks eighty years since the liberation of the concentration camps of World War 2, and inspired by Laurel Holliday’s excellent volume, Children in the Holocaust and World War II: Their Secret Diaries (hereinafter Diaries), I would like to focus on the music of the Polish composer, Henryk Górecki  (1933–2010), and his expansive choral work, Miserere. I invite you to give the work a careful hearing as you read letters (including some grammatical oddities) from Polish children who survived the Holocaust, following the topical order in Diaries. This column is designed as a thirty-minute read, but I have no doubt that Górecki’s music and the children’s letters will make it worth your time. Now press “play” and join me to journey into the hearts and minds of those who cry, “Lord, our God, have mercy upon us.” 

Lord, our God, have mercy upon us.   Domine Deus nostri, miserere nobis

​Letters

​Hitler has invaded Poland. We heard the bad news on the wireless a few minutes after spotting two aeroplanes circling around each other. Just before breakfast, about ten minutes to ten, I was returning from the privy when I heard aeroplanes in the sky. I thought it was manoeuvres. Then I heard some machine-guns and everybody came out from the house to see what was happening. Grandpa said, “My God! It’s war!” and rushed indoors to switch on the wireless. The grave news came in a special announcement that German forces have crossed the Polish border and our soldiers are defending our country. Everybody was stunned. With ears glued to the loudspeaker we were trying to catch the fading words. The battery or the accumulator, or both, were packing up. When we could no longer even hear a whisper from the wireless set, Grandpa turned the switch off and looked at our anguished faces. He knelt in front of the picture of Jesus Christ and started to pray aloud. We repeated after Grandpa, “Our Father who art in Heaven, hallowed be Thy name . . . ” – Diaries, p. 3

One day we heard that the Germans were coming and we broke through the walls of the ghetto and some escaped. And my father heard that they had broken through the walls of the ghetto and he took me and gave me to a certain Polish woman and said to her, “After the war I’ll come back and fetch my son.” And the Germans came to our house and my mother lay in bed and they said to her, “Get up!” And she said, “How can I get up? I haven’t any strength left.” And they killed her in her bed and the neighbors heard of this and told my father and my father told it to the Polish woman, and the Polish woman, when she sent me away, told it to me.
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And, meanwhile, when my father went with me to the Polish woman, he was delayed among our neighbors and I went by myself to the Polish woman. I don’t know what was said between my father and his friends, but the next day my father came and told me that they had killed my mother and murdered women and babies and that now the Germans were seizing those children that remained and were putting them into tarpaulin bags and putting them on the train in a closed wagon and there they were stifled. And my father said, “It’s good that my only son doesn’t suffer as the other children suffer; but it’s bad that all the Jews suffer; for why are the Jews to blame?” – Diaries, pp. 22-23

Music

​Górecki is no stranger to music related to World War II. His Symphony No. 3 (1976) catapulted him to international fame in 1992 with the recording by David Zinman, Dawn Upshaw, and the London Sinfonietta. Nick Strimple is certainly correct in noting that his musical style “was influenced more by inwardly troubling nonmusical occurrences, such as World War II, persecution by the Communist government, and ill health, than by any teacher or other composer” (Choral Music in the Twentieth Century, p. 129). Miserere is no exception, as it was written in 1981 to protest government intervention against the Polish Solidarity trade union. After martial law was enacted, performances of the work were forbidden. The work was revived in 1987 (two years before the fall of Communism) at the site of a 1984 assassination of a priest by state police. The government forbid the performance, but every seat was occupied. The extended plea for God our Lord to have mercy upon us, especially in the face of persecution, was here to stay.

Letters

The day for deportation arrived. We knew our end was near. The anticipation was unbearable. We wished it were over. We knew we were doomed. I lost all control of myself and wept without stopping. I did not fear my own death as much, or even the shooting of the children, but the terror of seeing children buried alive was too great. Some prayed and chanted in Hebrew. A number of us prayed to be shot immediately. Mother calmed me down and promised that she would blindfold me when the shooting began. My panic subsided and I joined in chanting with the other victims.
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About three in the morning a policeman came and asked Mother to come out with him. He inquired if there was a child with her. We both went out into the corridor and were taken to another cubicle. Here we were prohibited from loud talk and not allowed even to sneeze. On Saturday, at seven in the morning an automobile arrived to remove those condemned to die . . . . Periodically, five of us were taken to the basement, where we heard shots. We were saved. When they led us outside and I breathed fresh air, I fell to the ground like one intoxicated. – Diaries, p. 12

​They’ve taken away a man and a woman from over the road, and two children are left behind. Again it’s rumored that the father of these children has been shot two days ago in the evening. The woman, very ill, was transported to Kielce. The militia was in Slupia and arrested three Jews. They finished them off in Bieliny (they were certainly shot). Already a lot of Jewish blood has flowed in this Bieliny, in fact a whole Jewish cemetery has already grown up there. When will this terrible bloodshed finally end? If it goes on much longer then people will drop like flies out of sheer horror. A peasant from Krajno came to tell us our former neighbour’s daughter had been shot because she’d gone out after 7 o’clock. I can scarcely believe it, but everything’s possible. A girl as pretty as a picture—if she could be shot, then the end of the world will soon be here. If only you could have one quiet day. My nerves are utterly exhausted; whenever I hear of anyone’s distress I burst into tears, my head starts aching and I’m exhausted, as if I’d been doing the hardest possible work. It’s not only me, everyone feels the same. Not enough that in the previous war the Cossacks shot Papa’s father, and he was a witness, and only 11 years old at the time. That’s why nowadays he only needs to see a German and he’s so scared he starts shivering in his shoes. – Diaries, pp. 85-86

Music

Miserere was written specifically for 120 singers, in eight parts (SSAATTBB), and usually lasts about thirty-five minutes. The grand scale, however, is not apparent in the opening. It begins with a simple motif based on Polish chant, A-B-C-B, and repeated several times with slight variations. The entire work only uses the white keys on the piano, maintaining the sound of the minor mode on A-natural. As you listen to each movement in conjunction with the letters you are reading, you will notice that the composer generally adds one voice to each section. The second basses maintain a foundation and each section adds something new. For example, the seventh section is especially striking in texture and harmony, as the alto, tenor, and bass hold an E-natural for nearly the whole movement while the second sopranos sing a cantus. All eight voices join in the ninth movement, before the texture thins in the tenth movement and the text finally resolves to “Have mercy on us,” so that the titular word (Miserere) is not sung until the last few minutes of the piece. Even a few minutes into the work, you might agree with Paul Hillier’s assessment that Górecki’s choral music shows four essential qualities: directness of feeling, transparency of form, austerity of mood, and economy of gesture (Oxford Study of Composers: Arvo Pärt, p. ix). All four qualities are fitting in this context. It is as if the children of the Holocaust are gradually adding their voices to this musical litany for God’s mercy in Christ. No longer able to depend on their own strength or resources, they lay everything at the foot of the cross, the ultimate expression of God’s mercy. 

​ Letters

In Warsaw we found women standing in the doorway of the houses, handing out tea and bread to the refugees who streamed into the capital in unending lines. And as tens of thousands of provincials entered Warsaw in the hope of finding shelter there, thousands of old-time residents of the capital fled to the country.

Relatives in the heart of Warsaw’s Jewish quarter gave us a warm and hearty welcome, but constant air attacks drove us to the cellar during most of our stay with them. By September 12 the Germans began to destroy the center of the city. Once again we had to move, this time to seek better protection against the bombs. . . .
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[One night] we listened to a broadcast in which an American reporter described the Nazi methods of warfare to his American listeners. 

It is difficult to believe that the good times are gone, that our moments of joy, the hours of studying and enjoying ourselves are past, that I must give up forever my thoughts of future goals and the fantasies I hoped to see realized. I would never have believed that it would all disappear so soon, but cut down, burned out, orphaned in so short a time. Emptiness and desolation, saddened aching hearts, are our present constant companions. There seems to be no future for the Jewish population.

For the Jew the light of day is covered with a thick veil: his road is overgrown with tall wild grasses. Every horizon upon which his eye rests is stained with the tears of lost children searching for their mothers in the dense woods. Convulsed with sobbing until their little souls expired, the youngsters are now lifeless, at eternal rest. Only the quivering trees know of their death and will later on bear witness about the sacrifice of these little ones.
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No human heart can remain untouched and unpained by all this. It is beyond human endurance to see so much trouble and so much suffering experienced. It is painful to see people tortured by people until life is ended. Where is human conscience, to demand the truth, to cry out? – Diaries, p. 338

Music

​Nick Strimple writes that Górecki’s music “is easy to describe but difficult to define.” Moreover, Strimple claims that “[Górecki’s] sounds, even in the midst of great chord clusters, are traditional and unthreatening. Often, an immense sadness is almost palpable” (Choral Music in the Twentieth Century, p. 129). At this point in the work, you might be inclined to heartily agree with Strimple. The score of Miserere is surprisingly simple and unthreatening. After the simple opening chant in the bass line, parallel thirds between the bass and baritone create a dark yet steady foundation through most of the work. Even when the texture reaches eight voices, the music is surprisingly transparent, remarkably expressive, and always transcendent. As for the palpable sadness, consider the tempo markings: Lento for the first and final sections, and some variation of Lento (e.g., Lento molto tranquilo, molto lento, lento maestoso) for sections two through ten. “Lento” is usually defined as slow, but there is more in this context. In the composer’s Roman Catholic faith, Lent is a season of the church year and implies a lengthy (lencten in Old English) period of repentance. Is that not what he has beautifully painted in Miserere? Here the faithful ceaselessly pray, “Lord, our God! Lord, our Lord!” in the sure and certain confidence of God’s merciful deliverance in Christ.

Letters

            Childhood, dear days,
            Alas, so few they were!
            That dimly only I remember them.
            It is only in my dreams that I’m
            Allowed to imagine days bygone.
            Short indeed is human happiness
            In this world of ours! – Diaries, p. 397

I committed this week an act which is best able to illustrate to what degree of dehumanization we have been reduced. Namely, I finished up my loaf of bread at a space of three days, that is to say on Sunday, so I had to wait till the next Saturday for a new one. [The ration was about 33 ounces of bread a week.] I was terribly hungry. I had a prospect of living only from the resort soups [the soup ladled out to forced laborers] which consists of three little potatoe pieces and two decagrams [three quarters of an ounce] of flour. . . . I was lying on Monday morning quite dejectedly in my bed and there was the half loaf of bread of my darling sisters. . . . I could not resist the temptation and ate it up totally. . . . I was overcome by a terrible remorse of conscience and by a still greater care for what my little one would eat for the next five days. I felt a miserably helpless criminal. . . .
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[Am I incapable of] describing what we suffer, what we sense, what we experience, what we are living through? Is it humanly possible? . . . It is as possible to describe our suffering as to drink up the ocean or to embrace the earth. I don’t know if we will ever be believed . . .
Will you, O God, keep silent?

Miserere Nobis

After nearly thirty minutes of the address, “Lord, our God,” the music finally arrives at the eleventh section and the titular petition, “Have mercy upon us.” The text is bolded in the composer’s own hand: MISERERE NOBIS. Each voice moves within at most a four-note range, with minimal harmonic range, resulting in a gentle plea for God’s mercy and clarity of text. In the video of the performance by the Danish National Concert Choir which I have chosen to accompany this article, there is a brief picture of a statue of Jesus in the Copenhagen Cathedral, with His arms stretched out toward the people— a rare departure from pictures of the choir, coordinated with the final petition.

The prayer for mercy is found throughout the Scripture, but one instance in Matthew’s Gospel is especially fitting as we consider the youngest victims of the Holocaust. In Matthew 15, the Canaanite woman addressed Jesus in distinctly Jewish terms with her plea, “Have mercy on me, O Lord, Son of David; my daughter is severely oppressed by a demon” (v. 22). Recall that Jesus initially ignored her and the disciples asked that she be sent away. Then Jesus reminded her that he was sent “only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel” (v. 24) and that he should not cast the children’s bread to the dogs, that is, to the Gentiles (v. 26). But the woman persisted until Jesus said, “O woman, great is your faith! Be it done for you as you desire” (v. 28) and her daughter was healed instantly.
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Will God keep silent in the face of suffering? From the Canaanite woman to the children of the Holocaust to the composer’s original context for Miserere, God will answer the cry for mercy because it is written in Jesus’ shed blood. The Old Testament term “Son of David” reminds us of God’s own self-description: “The Lord, the Lord, a God merciful and gracious, slow to anger, and abounding in steadfast love and faithfulness, keeping steadfast love for thousands, forgiving iniquity and transgression and sin” (Ex. 34:6-7). As theologian Paul J. Grime has written, “Like a golden thread running through the Old Testament straight toward the cross, this description of a merciful and gracious God was repeated generation after generation” (Lutheran Service Book: Companion to the Services, p. 478). From God’s mercy in the Old and New Testaments to the cross as the ultimate expression of His mercy to every child who suffered in the Holocaust, God’s mercy continues to drop down to the lowly in the flesh and blood of the most important Jewish boy of them all, Jesus of Nazareth. Perhaps the opening verses of Psalm 56 put it best for David, for Christ, for children in the Holocaust, and for all: 

And the peace of God, which surpasses all understanding,
will guard your hearts and your minds in Christ Jesus.
​– Philippians 4:7

In his 2024 book, Time’s Echo: Music, Memory, and the Second World War Jeremy Eichler “summons the remarkable lives of four composers [Richard Strauss, Arnold Schoenberg, Dmitri Shostakovich, and Benjamin Britten] central to the repertoire of mainstream classical music and follows their paths through the darkness at the heart of the twentieth century” (p. 13). Eichler’s book is excellent summer reading, especially his narrative on Britten’s War Requiem (1962), its premiere for the restoration of Coventry Cathedral, and all that Britten’s masterwork has come to symbolize in the quest for freedom. Inspired by Eichler’s book and in recognition of the eightieth anniversary of the end of World War 2, please join me in considering three hymns which were sung during three major wars for the United States.

​World War 1: ‘Silent Night’

This beloved carol hails from a well-known collaboration between Joseph Mohr (1792–1848) and Franz Gruber (1787–1863) for Christmas services (1818) in Oberndorf, Austria. As documented in the book, Silent Night, Holy Night, Mohr gave the six-stanza poem to Gruber and requested that he set it to music. It was sung that very night, Christmas Eve, with Mohr on the upper voice and Gruber on the lower part. Mohr accompanied on the guitar since the organ was out of commission. The choir echoed the final phrase at the conclusion of each stanza.

“Silent Night” found a place among soldiers on both sides of the conflict during World War 1, starting with a remarkable Christmas Eve event, depicted in the musical, “All is Calm: The Christmas Truce of 1914.” Here German and English soldiers on the Western Front laid down their arms, sang carols, and even played some football. How profound to think that soldiers briefly traded ammunition for hymnals, rifles for footballs, and the drums of war for a hymn of peace! Similar rituals followed throughout the Great War, following the precedent set on the first Christmas of World War 1.
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The word “silent” and the phrase “all is calm” must have resonated powerfully with all who were on the front lines. Silence and calm are rare in the fog of war and offered a much-needed respite as they laid aside their arms to “sleep in heav’nly peace”—the peace that passes all understanding in Christ. The following arrangement by contemporary composer Dan Forrest captures the essence of this hymn, as performed here by the Pacific Chorale under the capable direction of Rod Istad.

World War 2: ‘Now Thank We All Our God’

This “German Te Deum” hails from Martin Rinckart (1586–1649), with a stately tune by Johann Crüger (1598–1662). It was originally written as a mealtime prayer, based on Ecclesiasticus (the Wisdom of Jesus) 50:22–24, which begins, “And now bless the God of all, who in every way does great things” and ends with the words, “And let [God] deliver us in our days.” Unlike “Silent Night,” “Now Thank We All Our God” was born in the crucible of war, for Rinckart’s pastoral tenure in Eilenburg (1617–1649) coincided with the Thirty Years’ War (1618–1648). The thousands of deaths in Eilenburg included all but three members of the city council, many schoolchildren, a few fellow clergy, and even Rinckart’s wife. In 1637 he officiated for over 1,000 funerals, but his motto remained, “My trust is in Christ alone” (Lutheran Service Book Companion to the Hymns, 1:1418). As this hymn demonstrates, his unwavering trust was in the God who will “guide us when perplexed / And free us from all ills / In this world and the next” (LSB 895.2).
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Rinckart’s hymn was sung during World War 2 for the liberation of allied countries from Germany and the horrors of the Third Reich. Here one must pause and consider the transcultural nature of church music. When Poland was liberated from German armies, for instance, those who sang this hymn did not pause to consider its German origins. (This may state the obvious, but I have seen many rehearsals stopped while the cultural revolutionaries tried to update sacred texts by adjusting pronouns or removing the name “Jesus.”) The confluence of transcultural music with transcendent truth, beauty, and goodness is evident in this and every good hymn, allowing the faithful in every time and place to praise “this bounteous God” who comes “with blessed peace to cheer us” (LSB 895.2), even should war rage around us. It seems fitting to hear it sung from Westminster Cathedral by our truest ally, Great Britain. 

The Global War on Terror: ‘O God, Our Help in Ages Past’

Isaac Watts (1674–1748) based this hymn on Psalm 90:1–4, the only Psalm attributed to Moses. Here Moses prays to the God who is “from everlasting to everlasting,” beckoning man to number his days under the Law (v. 12), but also to take refuge in the God who will satisfy His people with steadfast love (v. 14), glorious power (v. 16), and everlasting favor (v. 17). Isaac Watts wrote this Psalm paraphrase during England’s Glorious Revolution (1688) and headed the text “Man Frail and God Eternal,” a solemn reminder that kings and governments come and go, but the Lord is God from everlasting to everlasting (The Handbook to the Lutheran Hymnal, p. 98).  The hymn is sung in the United Kingdom at times of national crisis and on Remembrance Day (November 11), the equivalent of America’s Memorial Day. It is appointed in Lutheran Service Book as the Hymn of the Day for national and local tragedies.

It is no surprise, then, that this hymn has been sung at post-9/11 memorials and commemorations. I served a congregation in Queens, New York (2002–2015) and had the privilege of leading several 9/11 memorial services. This hymn was a staple for obvious reasons. In the midst of the Global War on Terror, how comforting to sing that the saints have dwelt securely under God’s throne (LSB 733.1), and that the Lord will “Be . . . our guard while troubles last” (LSB 733.6). Perhaps above all, in the wake of two towers collapsing out of the New York City skyline, the Lord remained “our shelter from the stormy blast, And our eternal home” (LSB 733.1).
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Composer Ralph Vaughan Williams (1872–1958) took a break from composing to serve in the Medical Corps from 1914 until 1918, even though at age forty-two he could have been excused from military service (see James Day, Vaughan Williams, pp. 40-41). The concepts of war and peace permeated many of his compositions for the rest of his life, including an entire cantata, Dona Nobis Pacem (“Grant Us Peace”). “Lord, Thou Hast Been Our Refuge” combines the entirety of Psalm 90 with “O God, Our Help in Ages Past.” Written for two choirs, organ, and trumpet, it must be counted among the very best of English cathedral works of the twentieth century. It opens with a simple unison plea, builds to a massive tutti, until the dam finally breaks and the majesty of God sweeps over the hearers, with the trumpet sounding the final summons to eternal life. When the last echo fades from the massive vault of the Chapel of King’s College Cambridge, the sense of homecoming is unmistakable. 

My friend and colleague at this website, Bryan Wolfmueller, offers a helpful analogy for the peace that passes all understanding. Building on the verse quoted as the header to this article, Wolfmueller invites us to picture peace as the sentry who watches over you at all times. Suppose, for a moment, that you hear footsteps outside your residence one night and ask your spouse, “Who is out there?” And your spouse replies, “Oh, that’s Peace; he’s guarding our hearts and minds in Christ Jesus, our Lord.” Amen to that! And He never abandons His post.
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The peace we pray for in all three of these hymns, then, is not the absence of conflict in the world, but the presence and peace of Christ amidst the bedlam of the fray. Perhaps the following hymn stanza, written during the Thirty Years’ War, puts it best: 

‘And you are my witnesses,’ declares the Lord, ‘and I am God.’
– Isaiah 43:12

​This past April several men in our seminaries received their Divine Calls into the ministerium. Following graduation ceremonies in May, many pastors-elect are being ordained into the office of the holy ministry this month. There is much to sing about here, so please join me to explore three accessible choral works for the parish choir, following selected readings from the ordination service in Lutheran Service Book Agenda. 

Recall the first Easter Sunday, when ten of Jesus’ disciples were gathered in the upper room. Their Lord has been denied, betrayed, crucified, dead, and buried. The disciples were huddled together in fear, uncertain about their future. And then Jesus came and stood in their midst. And what was the first word they heard from the risen Christ? “Peace.” There is peace for Peter, who denied Him; peace for the three disciples who slept during Jesus’ hour of need; yes, peace in the flesh for all eleven of Jesus’ faithful disciples. If the first sharing of the peace comforts the disciples, then the second sharing of the peace sends them to the ends of the world as witnesses to the Divine peace that, as Luther says, “surpasses reason and understanding; this peace comforts a person and sets the trouble heart at rest” (LW AE 69:335).
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Many of our parish choirs probably know the setting of a parallel text from John’s Gospel, “Peace I Leave with You” (John 14:27) by Walter Pelz (b. 1926), which might have worn thin for some of our congregations by now. The Norwegian composer Knut Nystedt (1915–2014), perhaps best known for his setting of “O Crux,” also has an accessible setting of this text. The word “peace” is repeated three times in the opening measures, similar to our Lord’s repetition of the word in His resurrection appearances. Nystedt alternates between textual homophony (all voices singing together) and occasional counterpoint, perhaps depicting the dialogue between Jesus and His disciples. The composer creates a sense of peace at “Let not your heart be troubled,” finally settling on a major chord, where the sense of arrival and homecoming is evident. Again, from Luther: “Amid [the troubles of the world], the [Christian] has peace when others have discord” (LW AE 69:335). 

These words to Jesus’ disciples speak of prophecy, fulfillment, and sending. What was written of old has been fulfilled in Jesus’ suffering, death, and resurrection. Now what? At the cusp of His ascension, Jesus sends them as He Himself was sent: with a message of repentance and forgiveness for all nations. This message began on the Day of Pentecost in Jerusalem, and it must continue until Jesus returns and preaching is no more.
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Readers are no doubt familiar with Handel’s (1685–1759) Messiah oratorio, as are church choirs around the world. Movement #37, “The Lord Gave the Word,” is a fitting choral response to accompany this reading from Luke 24, especially as the attending clergy gather around the candidate for ordination. The same God who gave us the prophetic and apostolic Word has given us the incarnate Word, which the newly ordained will soon preach to his flock. The opening unison declaration by the tenors and basses is followed by a march-like declamation in four-part harmony with rapid sixteenth-note melismas, as befits the good news of the resurrection and its worldwide promulgation. Jens Peter Larsen writes, “Strong in their conviction of victory . . . God’s messengers set out to preach . . . that mankind has been liberated from the power of death” (Handel’s Messiah: Origins, Compositions, Sources, p. 158). 

In the Old Testament, the watchmen stood on Zion’s heights to guard the earthly city. In the New Testament, pastors keep a theological watch over the doctrine and practice of the churchly Zion. If the watchmen (pastors) are faithful, then their call to repentance, faith, and holy living must be obeyed and their work will be a joy.

An appropriate choral response to this reading is “He Watching Over Israel” by Felix Mendelssohn (1809–1847), from his oratorio Elijah. These two Psalm verses stand together in the oratorio to remind Elijah that, even if his call to repentance is disobeyed, the Lord is still with him to strengthen and him and to bless his preaching. Sung in an ordination service, this popular anthem reminds the congregation that the Chief Shepherd watches over them through their under-shepherd, the pastor.
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Those who have sung this work appreciate the two against three dynamic through most of the work, with the orchestra playing triplets and the choir singing in duplets. The form is what one might call “vintage Mendelssohn”: An initial section (“A”) through “nor sleeps”; a second or “B” section starting at “Shouldst thou walking in grief”; and finally a masterful combination of the two sections (“AB” or “C”). Do the triplets pulsing throughout the work depict the Lord who never sleeps? The final combination of themes reminds the hearers of life under the cross, where they languish in the daily battle against temptation, but their watchful Lord never abandons them. The highly melismatic passage at the end of this chorus (starting at 2:50 in this recording) is a profound statement of penitent faith and musical beauty from a composer who died the same year as the founding of the Lutheran Church—Missouri Synod, and whose musical legacy is alive and well in our congregations.

​The common theme in these excerpts is the faithfulness witness of the prophets, apostles, and their successors to their Lord. The witnesses have nothing of their own to give. They do not shape the flock in their own image, but in the image of Christ. The Swedish Bishop Bo Giertz (1905–1998), perhaps best known for his novel, The Hammer of God, put it this way in a 1963 sermon for the ordination of two candidates for the ministerium:

I see him, but not now; I behold him, but not near.
​- Numbers 24:17

Advent in J. S. Bach’s Leipzig was a closed season of the church year, that is, a time when weddings and other social affairs were not scheduled and sacred music (including cantatas) was scaled back. So why do we have three cantatas for Advent 1 in Leipzig (BWV 36, 61, and 62 [Cantata 132 for Advent IV hails from Weimar]) if it was a closed season? Günther Stiller explains the custom of the day: “[T]he first Sunday in Advent, which begins the new church year, was often emphasized as a special festival day over against the rest of the season, which was usually observed as a time of penitence” (Johann Sebastian Bach and Liturgical Life in Leipzig, p. 58). Our Advent treasury of sacred music from Bach, then, is quantitatively modest. Please join me to make the most of Bach’s Advent offerings as we explore Cantata 62, “Savior of the Nations, Come.”

The text of Cantata 62 is based on the hymn, “Savior of the Nations, Come” (LSB 332), one of a handful of hymns attributed to St. Ambrose (AD 339/40-97), the “father of Latin hymnody.” As the story goes, Ambrose, the Bishop of Milan, was faithfully resisting the Arians, a heretical group which denied the divinity of Christ. When the Empress Justina, who was sympathetic to the Arians, tried to force Ambrose to open the Basilica Portina for her adherents, Ambrose rightly refused. Fearing reprisal from Justina, Ambrose gathered the faithful together to sing psalms and hymns. When the soldiers sent by the Empress arrived as the basilica, they were so moved by the faithful sung confession of the people that they laid down their arms and joined in the singing, thereby disarming the Empress and her evil intentions (adapted from Carl Schalk, First Person Singular, p. 17). This anecdote explains the strong emphasis on Jesus’ divinity in Ambrosian chant, including the hymn at hand.
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Martin Luther, always aware of the strengths and weaknesses of pre-Reformation church music, knew a good treasure when he saw one. Luther appears to have translated the hymn (and adjusted the meter from 88 88 to 77 77 to accommodate the German language) in Advent 1523, the same year that he started his remarkable burst of hymn writing and translation. It was included in several hymnals in Luther’s lifetime and certainly deserves its place as the Lutheran Advent hymn par excellence (adapted from Lutheran Service Book: Companion to the Hymns, 1:6). The anonymous librettist uses the first and last stanzas of Luther’s hymn as movements 1 and 6, with loose paraphrases and adaptations for the intervening movements. The following chart was adapted here from Handbook to Bach’s Sacred Cantata Texts by Melvin Unger: 

The musical structure is typical of Bach’s early Leipzig cantatas: an elaborate opening chorale fantasia, a series of recitatives and arias, and a concluding “four-square” chorale, which the congregation likely joined in singing. Listen for the melody in the first and last stanzas and for a sense of hope and expectation throughout this cantata, now 300 years old.

​​The triple meter of the lively opening movement might reflect the threefold advent of Jesus: in the manger, in the means of grace, and at the end of days. The second movement is in ABA form, with a lengthy melisma in the tenor’s upper register on the second syllable of Beherrscher, as befits the highest ruler. After a straightforward recitative (Movement 3), the fourth movement calls forth the “dread warrior” of Jeremiah 20:11, coupling textual imperatives with equally direct music: Streite, siege, starker Held! “Fight, conquer, (O) strong champion!” The recitative-duet for soprano and alto is a relatively rare form in Bach’s cantatas, presumably to reflect the first person plural (“We honor,” etc.) in the text, based on the shepherds’ visit to the manger. The final chorale joins all the voices together in a high and holy doxology, with echoes of the Gospel for Advent 1, St. Matthew 21:1-9, especially the cry, “Hosanna to the Son of David! Blessed is He who comes in the name of the Lord!” (v. 9).
 
As discussed at the beginning of this article, keeping Advent is a challenge, resulting in some inconsistencies and misunderstandings, both in Bach’s day and in ours. Joseph Bottum puts it well in an article appropriately titled “The End of Advent”: 

To make the most of Advent and to properly distinguish Advent from Christmas, the church has historically celebrated Ember Days (Wednesday, Friday, and Saturday), usually expressed today as mid-week Advent services. Similarly, a host of hymns in our “embarrassment of riches” lends a sense of expectation to Advent, properly distinguishing Advent from Christmas. The Advent wreath, candle, and calendar mark the days until Christmas. And Bach’s cantatas for the season make Advent truly adventual, “a time before.” Perhaps Balaam said it best when he saw Israel camped in the wilderness and understood the nature of Old Testament prophecy and fulfillment: “I see him, but not now; I behold him but not near. A star shall come out of Jacob, and a scepter shall rise out of Israel” (Num. 24:17).

​Even so, Lord Jesus, quickly come!
 
 
Nota bene: The text of Cantata 62 is reprinted with permission from www.bach-cantatas.com, with English translation by Francis Browne.

Each of the living bore a name . . . . Each of the dead became a number.
​– Timothy Snyder on those murdered under Hitler and Stalin, 1930—1947

In a rare departure from the rhythm of the church year, every October we pause to highlight sacred music for Child-Loss Month. Please join me to explore a work by René Clausen (b. 1953), In Pace (“In Peace”), which honors those murdered during the Holocaust.

The slaughter of six million Jews under Hitler is a well-known fact of the history of World War 2, but what about the numerous children who perished during this mass genocide? According to the online encyclopedia of the United States Holocaust Memorial Museum, children were often targeted on racial grounds, especially the Jews. Others were slaughtered for their mental or physical disabilities, categorized as “life unworthy of life.” The aforementioned encyclopedia highlights three key facts:

First, the Nazis did not target children specifically because they were children, but for their alleged membership in supposedly dangerous biological, racial, or political groups.

Second, children and the elderly had the lowest survival rate in concentration and death camps. In Auschwitz and other camps, for example, individuals over fifty years of age, pregnant women, and children were immediately sent to the gas chambers.

Third, thousands of Jewish children survived because they were hidden. By compassionate advocates, new identities, and physical concealment, many escaped the Holocaust, but they still faced fear, danger, and the challenge of building a new life.

The statistics alone are staggering. Nazi Germany and its collaborators murdered about 1.5 million Jewish children and tens of thousands of Romani (Gypsy) children, thousands of German children with physical and mental disabilities, as well as many Polish children and children in German-occupied Soviet Union. Only able-bodied adolescents (ages 13-18) had a reasonable chance of survival, since they could be used for forced labor, especially the use of their small fingers to clean gun barrels.
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The tragedy of Hitler’s slaughter of the holy innocents made a deep impression on Clausen when he visited Auschwitz in 1996. He describes his rationale for In Pace in the liner notes to the CD Eternal Rest:

The text he selected for this choral benediction, known simply as “In Peace,” is the last verse of Psalm 4 and the final verse of Psalm 132. Psalm 4 is a prayer for God to answer the psalmist and to give him relief in his distress. The psalmist acknowledged the ongoing threat of his enemies, puts his trust in the Lord, and concludes, “In peace I will both lie down and sleep” (v. 8). Similarly, Psalm 132 is a psalm of trust in God, with a realistic view of one’s enemies and a desire to lie down and sleep in peace. The psalmist quotes David: “I will not enter my house or get into my bed, I will not give sleep to my eyelids, until I find a place for the Lord, a dwelling place for the Mighty One of Jacob” (132:3–5). Taken together, the verses from these two psalms petition the Lord for His protection through the night, the time when man is most vulnerable.

Clausen’s musical setting of this relatively brief text shows some of his trademark compositional traits, such as a thick texture (In Pace is scored for SSAATBB), gently unfolding melodies, long phrases, and softly-clashing dissonances. But the specific application of this text by the composer to the youngest victims of the Holocaust adds both a unique context and an emotive element. Even if their deaths were by ruthless slaughter under Hitler’s cruel sword or the murderous famine under Stalin, their heavenly Father was watching over them, giving sleep to their eyelids and the peace that passes understanding.
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Clausen is among the most voluminously published composers of our day, but after listening to this work, you will no doubt see why he describes In Pace as being among the works that are “closest to [him] in terms of compositional satisfaction” (Star of the North magazine, accessed 5 September 2024). What do you think the significance is of the bright chord at 4:50 and the sense of arrival 5:13 and again at 6:24?

– Psalm 4:9 and 132:4

As you listened to this performance under the capable direction of Charles Bruffy, you might have been struck be the constant sense of peace. The music starts in the lower registers and gradually swells, as if the psalmist is being lifted above his enemies and gradually ascending to heaven by faith. This progression from despair and hopelessness to a quiet and confident trust in the Lord is typical throughout the Psalter, and this Law-to-Gospel dynamic is painted here with a beautiful musical paintbrush, what Nick Strimple calls a “lush impressionistic style” (Choral Music in the Twentieth Century, p. 261). Notice, for instance, how the three climactic moments that I highlighted all occur in the partial Gloria (the ancient text sometimes omits “As it was in the beginning,” etc.), highlighting the good news that all good gifts flow from the Father through the Son by the Spirit. Having arrived at the gates of heaven, the music settles to a close that is the very definition of the peace that passes understanding.
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The comfort in this anthem for all who have a lost a child is manifold. One immediately recalls Jesus’ words to Jairus regarding his daughter, “The child is not dead but sleeping” (Mark 5:39). Sleep is an ancient metaphor for the death of the Christian. Jesus died. Believers sleep. And those who go to sleep will wake up, as Jesus said to Jairus’ daughter, “Little girl, I say to you, arise” (Mark 5:41). Similarly, the liturgy of Compline is laden with sleep as a metaphor for death, as evident in the following prayer, with striking parallels to the In Pace text: 

​And one can hardly surpass the child-like simplicity of the following stanza of Thomas Ken’s “All Praise to Thee, My God, This Night”:

​Devoted readers of “Lifted Voice” know well that my original inspiration for my annual column for Child-Loss Month hails from a ceremony at Naval Air Station Lemoore (central California). There military families gather annually in the flagship chapel of Navy Region Southwest to share stories of losing a child, to light a candle in remembrance of their son or daughter, and to explore the healing power of sacred music. One striking aspect of the stories of child loss that remains endearing to me was the proclivity to consistently refer to their deceased children by name. In the case of not-yet-named children, the pronoun “he” or “she” was employed, but the majority were called by name, regardless of whether they died in utero or as adults. The contrast to Hitler and Stalin, who treated humanity as a disposable commodity, is striking. Far from being a mere number, God calls His own by name and transforms their death into peaceful sleep, through Him who is the Resurrection and the Life, Jesus Christ our Lord.

Addendum: Funeral Antiphon

God’s own child, I gladly say it: I am baptized into Christ!
 –​ Lutheran Service Book 594.

Sacred music for the Nativity of St. John this Baptist (24 June) celebrates a double anniversary this year. J. S. Bach’s Cantata 7, “To Jordan Came the Christ, our Lord” for this festival is, at 300 years, ageless. Johann Walter’s chorale melody used in the opening and final movements was first published in 1524, thus marking its 500th anniversary, when it was first paired with the hymn text, “May God Bestow on Us His Grace.” Please join me and the musicians of the J. S. Bach Foundation to explore the theological and musical riches of Luther, Bach, and of course the heavenly treasure of Holy Baptism.

The Nativity of St. John the Baptist is celebrated sixth months before the Nativity of Our Lord, reflecting the age difference between the Messiah and His forerunner. Readings for the day in Leipzig included St. Luke 1:57–80, the account of the circumcision of John the Baptist and Zechariah’s joyful response, the Benedictus. This reading is traditionally paired with Isaiah 40:1–5, Isaiah’s proclamation of comfort for God’s people and the prophecy that John the Baptist will prepare His way and “make straight in the desert a highway for our God” (vs. 3). John’s proclivity to draw attention away from himself and point to Jesus seems fitting as we consider the cantata text below. John is only mentioned in the opening stanza, so the hymn says very little about John—just as John, who most certainly would have denounced modern social media in the most unmerciful terms, would have wanted it!

Leaving the subject of John’s circumcision and ministry to the Scripture lessons and the sermon in Leipzig, open your hymnal to Luther’s hymn and compare it with the cantata text below. You might recognize the first and seventh stanzas from Luther’s hymn on baptism, originally headed “A spiritual song of our Holy Baptism, which is a fine summary of what it is, who established it, and what its benefits are“ (Lutheran Service Book: Companion to the Hymns, 1:209). The intervening movements are poetic paraphrases of the corresponding stanzas of Luther’s hymn. Following the structure and content of Luther’s hymn, the cantata text focuses on the baptism of Jesus (stz. 1–4) and on Christian baptism for all nations (stz. 5–7). The words “Go out to ev’ry nation, And bring to them the living word” (LSB 406.5) might explain why Luther, having used Walter’s tune for the missionary hymn, “May God Bestow on Us His Grace” (LSB 823), also thought it was fitting for the missional focus of his hymn, “To Jordan Came” (see Robin Leaver, Luther’s Liturgical Music, p. 138). 

Bach’s music for this cantata follows the structure of Luther’s hymn, with direct quotes in the first and last movements and poetry for the intervening movements based on Luther’s text. Bach also follows a typical structure from his early years in Leipzig: an elaborate opening chorus or choral fantasia, several solo movements (recitatives and arias), and a final chorale setting for all voices and instruments, possibly including the congregation. The melody of the first and last movements is rugged, irregular, and rhythmic in its original form by Luther’s friend and colleague, Johann Walther. (In Bach’s more elaborate setting for voices and instruments the melody loses some of its rhythmic vitality, but it is fitting for baptism all the same.) The jarring rhythms, syncopations, and unexpected voice leading seem to depict the unpredictable waters of the river Jordan. Nicholas Anderson writes, “A pervasive image of the undulating waters of the Jordan, it would seem, is affectingly evoked by the predominantly flowing quavers [eighth notes] of the oboes d’amore set against the restless, lapping semiquavers [sixteenth notes] of the ripieno strings” (Oxford Composer Companions: J. S. Bach, p. 106).
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To get the full effect of the original “water music,” I need to send you to an external link for the J. S. Bach Foundation, whose videos do not play on third-party websites. I recommend using half of your screen for the text below and half for the video. (If you are not sure how to ‘split’ your screen, just ask the nearest ten-year-old to do the honors between lunch and recess.) So grab a cup of coffee for “Cantatas Over Coffee” and join Luther, Walter, Bach, and the J. S. Bach Foundation for a musical journey to the waters of the Jordan and to the waters of your own baptism into Christ. 

• www.youtube.com/watch?v=06PQgj_K8dI&t=6s

1.Chorus (Full Choir and Orchestra)  00:55
To Jordan came the Christ, our Lord,
To do His Father’s pleasure;
Baptized by John, the Father’s Word
Was given us to treasure.
This heav’nly washing now shall be
A cleansing from transgressions
And by His blood and agony
Release from death’s oppression.
A new life now awaits us. – LSB 406.1
 
2. Aria (Bass)  6:55
Mark and hear, you children of men,
What God baptism calls.
       True, there must be water here,
       But not simple water only.
       God's word and Holy Ghost
       Baptizes and cleanses sinners.

3. Recitative (Tenor)  11:43
This hath God shown
In words and in examples clear to all;
At the Jordan the Father plainly let
His voice resound while Christ was being baptized;
He said: This is my beloved Son,
In whom I have now found great pleasure;
He comes from heaven's lofty throne
To help the world
In meek and humble form descended
And has the flesh and blood
Of mankind's children to him taken;
Receive him now as your Redeemer true
And hear his precious teaching!

4. Aria (Tenor)  12:56
The Father's voice itself resounded,
The Son, who bought us with his blood,
Was baptized as a man.
The Spirit came, a dove appearing,
So that our faith would never doubt that
It was the Holy Trinity
Who established baptism for us.

5. Recitative (Bass)  16:51
When Jesus there after his suffering
And after the resurrection,
And from this world would go to his Father,
He said to his disciples:
Go forth to all the world and preach to all the gentiles,
He who believes and is baptized on earth now
Shall then be righteous and blessed.

6. Aria (Alto)  18:04
O mankind, trust now in this grace,
That ye not in error die,
Nor in hell's foul pit decay!
Human works and holiness
Never count before God's throne.
Sins are ours innately given,
We are lost by our own nature;
Faith and baptism make them clean
That they not perdition bring.

7. Chorale (Full Choir and Orchestra)  20:28
All that the mortal eye beholds
Is water as we pour it.
Before the eye of faith unfolds
The pow’r of Jesus’ merit.
For here it sees the crimson flood
To all our ills bring healing;
The wonders of His precious blood
The love of God revealing,
Assuring His own pardon. – LSB 406.7

In addition to the constant flow of water through the cantata, you might have heard a few other gems. The music of the bass aria “bubbles along” amiably, in contrast to the opulent opening chorus. The tenor aria heralds the Father’s voice at the top of his vocal range, set against the solo violins, whose music represents the other two persons of the Trinity. Following the structure of Luther’s hymn, the fifth movement transitions from Jesus’ baptism to your own baptism, with the cross as the hinge between the two. Jesus’ baptism looked ahead to His cross. Your baptism looks back at His cross and plunges you into His death. The text of the alto aria reminds us of the eternal consequences of baptism and what it means for daily living, that is, daily repentance and faith. The final chorale points us beyond mere water to our participation in Jesus’ death and the power of Jesus’ merit, with inventive harmonizations.
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It is just a coincidence that on June 24th of this year, as the church celebrates the Feast of the Nativity of St. John the Baptist, hundreds of Lutheran youths will arrive at a “Higher Things” youth gathering to explore the theme, “Who am I?” From ancient philosophers to modern self-help books and beyond, this question has been a fundamental question of human existence. It has also been answered in fundamentally wrong ways, by a myriad of false teachers, both ancient and modern. John the Baptist points us to Christ, who came to do the Father’s will. Jesus’ command to baptize all nations, in turn, directs us to our own baptismal identity. The following hymn stanza by Bach’s contemporary, Erdmann Neumeister, answers the question in baptismal terms: 

For the pillars of the earth are the Lord’s, and on them he has set the world.
                             -- 1 Samuel 2:8

Our Lenten installment of “Lifted Voice” focused on Robert White’s musical lament for the old Jerusalem. As the calendar has now transitioned from forty penitential days to the fifty great days of Easter, please join me this Eastertide to rejoice over the new Jerusalem with Edward Bairstow’s (1874–1946) anthem, “Blessed City, Heavenly Salem.” 

Bairstow was an English organist, composer, and conductor. He was associated at various points in his life with the Royal College of Music, Chichester Cathedral (site of his burial), and perhaps above all with York Minster (see the image above), where he directed the music from 1913 until his death in 1946. Of his twenty-nine anthems for the church, he is perhaps best remembered for three works: “Save Us, O Lord” (1902), “Blessed City, Heavenly Salem” (1914), and “Let All Mortal Flesh Keep Silence” (1925). Writing in Grove Music Online, Francis Jackson says that these three works “are possessed of a deeply felt sentiment and enduring quality,” as our survey of “Blessed City” seeks to demonstrate. (Readers who wish to explore Bairstow’s music in greater detail are directed to Jackson’s book, Blessed City: The Life & Works of Sir Edward Barstow, 1874--1946 [Hyperion 1997]).

The text of “Blessed City, Heavenly Salem” (printed below the video link) is drawn from John Mason Neale’s translation of the ten-stanza Latin hymn, Urbs Beata Jerusalem, literally “Blessed City of Jerusalem.” Bairstow set stanzas 1–4 and 7 of the sixth-century chant, now conveniently available in Latin and English in Liber Hymnorum: The Latin Hymns of the Lutheran Church (Emmanuel Press 2016). Also drawn from the ten-stanza hymn is another five-stanza cento, the hymn “Christ Is Made the Sure Foundation” (Lutheran Service Book 909), which follows similar themes and is fittingly sung to the tune ‘Westminster Abbey’ by Henry Purcell, who served as church musician at Westminster. As the titular phrase implies, the ten-stanza text describes Christ as the foundation of the churchly Jerusalem and expounds on the gifts of salvation therein.

Scriptural foundations for the text include Ephesians 2:20–22, where we read that the church is “built on the foundation of the apostles and prophets, Christ Jesus himself being the chief cornerstone” (v. 20); Ephesians 4:15–16, where St. Paul admonishes the church to “grow up in every way into him who is the head, into Christ, from whom the whole body . . . makes the body grow so that it builds itself up in love”; St. John’s vision of “the holy city, new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God” in Revelation 21:1–4; and not to be overlooked is the influence of Solomon’s prayer of dedication of the Temple, especially 2 Chronicles 6:18–21, most notably the petition for God to “have regard to the prayer of your servant and to his plea . . . listening to the city and to the prayer that your servant prays before you” (v. 19, emphasis added). It is no surprise that “Blessed City” is often sung for church dedications and anniversaries.

As one who spent more time in England’s mighty cathedrals than perhaps any other contemporary, Bairstow was certainly a perfect match to set this thoroughly ecclesiastical text to music. It begins with an organ flourish, fitting for the “angel hands apparelled” in stanza 1, accompanied by unison proclamations that the singers and the hearers are in the city of God. The boy sopranos carry the weight of stanza 2, as is fitting for phrases such as “new and ready,” “fair adorned,” and “of pure gold.” The gentlemen of the choir take the lead in stanza 3, as if an English garrison of choral vicars is opening the gates of heaven for the faithful. The most dramatic change is probably for stanza 4 to paint the texts “blow and biting sculpture” and “stones elect / In their places compacted” on a vivid musical canvas. Following a brief organ interlude, a treble soloist paints a serene picture of Solomon’s prayer for the Lord to “hear Thy servants as they pray.”
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As you listen to “Blessed City,” musically you might agree with William McVicker’s assessment that it is “a curious and fascinating mix of Brahmsian harmony with plainsong, Elizabethan and Jacobean musical influences” (liner notes to Hyperion CDA66374, p. 7). Theologically, consider significance of the contrast between the opening flourish and the serene ending. Why is it fitting to bring this generally grandiose work to a peaceful close? 

The header verse that I have chosen for this column (“The pillars of the earth,” etc.) is from Hannah’s canticle, the Old Testament “Magnificat” (1 Sam 2:1–10). Recall that Hannah was barren and prayed fervently that the Lord would grant her a son, whom she in turn would dedicate to the Lord’s service (1 Sam 1:11). The Lord granted her request and she bore Samuel, who became a pivotal figure in Israel’s rise to Davidic and Solomonic glory. Consider this theme verse in its fuller context: 

See how the abundant grace granted to Hannah has also been given to the new Jerusalem! Left to ourselves, we are alienated from God, strangers to the heavenly city, and without hope from one generation to another. But the Lord provided the ultimate miraculous pregnancy when Christ was conceived by the Spirit and born of the Virgin, “Out of heaven from God descending.” He makes the spiritually poor rich in heavenly treasure and raises them from the ash heep of death itself. Jesus grants eternal citizenship in the churchly Jerusalem, where He is the cornerstone and His benediction is “shed within its walls alway.”
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And perhaps this ongoing benediction or blessing is what the composer had in mind when he designed an ending of solitude and contentment? God’s Bride is at home in the new Jerusalem, for she leads an earthly life in heaven and a heavenly life on earth. In either case, God surrounds her with songs of deliverance and graciously bestows all the gifts of the gospel. 

Jerusalem, my happy home, when shall I come to thee?
When shall my sorrows have an end? Thy joys, when shall I see?
  – Sixteenth-century Hymn

Jerusalem has been the city of deep wailing and great rejoicing for thousands of years. The Lamentations of Jeremiah are a case in point, and the angst of the prophet’s lament has not been lost on composers for the church. Sixteenth-century Europe, for instance, was blessed with settings by the finest composers of the day, including Alfonso Ferrabosco (the elder), Thomas Tallis, Antoine Brumel, Giovanni Pierluigi da Palestrina, and Robert White. Since this is an anniversary year for White (c. 1538—1574), please join me in a lament over the old Jerusalem with his setting of Lamentations 1:8-13 for five voices.

White was a Roman Catholic composer in England, often mentioned in the same breath with John Sheppard, Christopher Tye (whose daughter he married), Thomas Tallis, Robert Parsons, and Gyles Farnaby. He served three major posts as church musician:  Ely Cathedral (please see the image above), Chester Cathedral, and Westminster Abbey. Choral works by White that are fitting for Lutheran worship include several settings of the Mass, Latin motets (including two settings of Lamentations, one for five voices and one for six voices), and about half a dozen English anthems. David Mateer and Irwin Spector describe his two sets of Lamentations as “particularly fine” and “a high point of Elizabethan choral music” (Grove Music Online).
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The context for singing the Lamentations is Matins for the Triduum, that is, the three-day liturgy that encompasses Maundy Thursday evening through the dawn of Easter Sunday. Deeply penitential in nature, you can see as you survey the biblical verses below the video link how the strength of the law permeates Jeremiah’s message. Writing in Hebrew strophes (similar to hymn stanzas), the prophet looks ahead to Babylonian captivity and the desolation of Jerusalem. She had sinned grievously and become filthy (v. 8), was bound for a dramatic fall (v. 9), was susceptible to the enemy from Babylon (v. 10), and would soon trade earthly treasures for food (v. 11). These verses recall the Good Friday reproaches (improperia), wherein the voice of Christ, spoken by the pastor, calls God’s people to repentance: 

​Pastor:
Thus says the Lord:
"What have I done to you, O my people,
And wherein have I offended you?
Answer me.
For I have raised you up out of the prison house of sin and death,
"And you have delivered up your Redeemer to be scourged.
For I have redeemed you from the house of bondage,
And you have nailed your Savior to the cross.
O my people!"
 
Congregation:
Holy Lord God,
Holy and mighty God,
Holy and most merciful Redeemer;
God eternal, leave us not to bitter death.
O Lord, have mercy!
 
At verse 12, however, the text shifts to the voice of Christ, “All who you pass by [O vos omnes] look and see if there is any sorrow like my sorrow.” These words foreshadow the voice of Christ from the cross, as He suffered outside old Jerusalem and inaugurated the era of the new Jerusalem. The final verse of this setting continues the lament from the cross, so that these verses naturally lead the hearer from the service of foot-washing on Maundy Thursday to the veneration of the cross on Good Friday and into a period of waiting in quiet faith at the Easter Vigil, anticipating the news of Jesus’ resurrection.
As with most motets of this period, the biblical verses are set to imitative music, with each voice equal in importance and the music changing as the text changes. So far this is conventional for the high Renaissance. But there is a unique feature to White’s setting Lamentations that give it an enduring quality beyond some motets of this era. The verses below are acrostic, that is, each verse starts with a sequential letter of the Hebrew alphabet (Heth, Teth, Iod, etc.). These literary markers are probably not intended to be set to music, but some Renaissance composers included them. Peter Phillips summarizes the effect:

The musical changes yet again for the corporate cry (perhaps drawn from the Liturgy of the Triduum?), “Jerusalem, Jerusalem, turn to the Lord, your God.”
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I hesitate to offer a track of nearly twenty-minutes of music in Latin, but you might find yourself immersed in the music and the message as you follow along with the text and let White be your musical and expressive guide. After listening to this work, you might agree with one scholar who placed it “among the most remarkable works bequeathed to us by an English composer of the 16th century” (The Musical Times 67:1004, p. 894). 

HETH
Jerusalem sinned grievously;
    therefore she became filthy;
all who honored her despise her,
    for they have seen her nakedness;
she herself groans
    and turns her face away.

TETH
9 Her uncleanness was in her skirts;
    she took no thought of her future;
therefore her fall is terrible;
    she has no comforter.
“O Lord, behold my affliction,
    for the enemy has triumphed!”

IOD
10 The enemy has stretched out his hands
    over all her precious things;
for she has seen the nations
    enter her sanctuary,
those whom you forbade
    to enter your congregation.
                Jerusalem, Jerusalem, turn to the Lord, your God.

CAPH
11 All her people groan
    as they search for bread;
they trade their treasures for food
    to revive their strength.
“Look, O Lord, and see,
    for I am despised.”

LAMED
12 “Is it nothing to you, all you who pass by?
    Look and see
if there is any sorrow like my sorrow,
    which was brought upon me,
which the Lord inflicted
    on the day of his fierce anger.
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MEM
13 “From on high he sent fire;
    into my bones he made it descend;
he spread a net for my feet;
    he turned me back;
he has left me stunned,
    faint all the day long.
                Jerusalem, Jerusalem, turn to the Lord, your God. 

​Upon hearing White’s Lament for five voices, one scholar said, “Sad as the mourning Prophet’s words fall on the ear, more sad to me the music’s tones appear” (The Musical Times 67:1004, p. 894). That is to say, the Lamentations demonstrate White’s ability “to manipulate large musical structures while at the same time exploiting the expressive potential of the text” (Grove Music Online). And this expressive potential is rightly used in the service of the law to bring sinners in the new Jerusalem to repentance, similar to Jesus’ own lament over His beloved city in Matthew 23: 

​But the Lord has not abandoned Jerusalem! The joy of Easter Sunday awaits, with the full consolation of the gospel for those who have been crushed by the full strength of the law. The new Jerusalem of all believers—Jewish and Gentile, living and departed—has dropped down from heaven in Christ, who rejoices over her this Eastertide with celestial joy, as depicted in John’s vision in Revelation 21: 

The header quote above, from “Jerusalem, my happy home,” was written about the same time as Robert White’s Lamentations. This hymn lifts your thoughts beyond this earthly life to the Jerusalem above, who is your mother:
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                Apostles, martyrs, prophets, there
                Around my Savior stand;
                And soon my friends in Christ below
                Will join the glorious band.
 
                O Christ, do thou my soul prepare
                For that bright home of love
                That I may see Thee and adore
                With all Thy saints above. – LSB 673.5-6
 

We have thought of thy lovingkindness, O God, in the midst of thy temple.
–​ Psalm 48:9 (Introit for Candlemas)

I am categorizing this column as part of my occasional “Cantatas Over Coffee” series, but it actually does triple duty as “Cantatas Over Coffee,” “Anniversaries in Sacred Music,” and “Hymns of the Reformation.” In addition to being a wonderful cantata, it was written and performed 300 years ago for Bach’s first Candlemas in Leipzig. And the work incorporates a stanza from Martin Luther’s Nunc Dimittis hymn, “In Peace and Joy I Now Depart,” which is 500 years old this year. Please join me to explore briefly all three facets of Candlemas under the theme, “We have thought of Thy lovingkindness, O God, in the midst of thy temple.”

Candlemas is a principal feast of Christ in the church year, taking precedent over any Sunday that might fall on the same day. The custom of lighting candles for Christ, the Light of the world, dates at least back to Egeria, a fourth-century pilgrim whose famed travel diary documented the celebration in Jerusalem. The title “Candlemas” appears to be a later addition to an older title, “The Meeting,” which indicated the fulfillment of the Old Testament reading, Malachi 3:1-4, “The Lord, whom ye seek, will suddenly come to His temple” (v. 1). The gospel lesson for the day, St. Luke 2:22-32, which includes the presentation of Jesus in the Temple and Simeon’s canticle, the Nunc Dimittis.

The text of Cantata 83 (the number is neither liturgical nor chronological) is by an anonymous librettist and incorporates images and echoes of the appointed liturgical texts of the day, along with a few quotes from Simeon’s canticle and one stanza of a Luther hymn. As you survey the English translation below, you will see that it begins with the transition from the Old Covenant to the New Testament, as befits the Gospel for the day. As with any good sermon, however, the poet eventually places the good news of Christ into the ears and hearts of the modern hearer, especially when and if the congregation joins in the familiar hymn stanza in movement 5.

The scoring of the cantata is for alto, tenor, and bass soloists, a four-part choir for the final movement, and a small orchestra of strings, woodwinds, two horns, and continuo. Since this is a cantata for solo voices, regular readers of “Lifted Voice” will immediately notice that there is no opening chorus, leaving most of the work to the three soloists, with the addition of the soprano line (sung by the boys of St. Thomas, perhaps?) for the final chorale. The transparent textures and individual vocal lines paint a vivid and expressive musical picture as you journey from the old temple to the new and greater Temple, Christ Himself, who is present for you in the new Jerusalem.
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So grab a cup of coffee, follow the translation and commentary below, and behold the One who has suddenly come to His temple. 

1.   00:00    Aria: O joyful time of the new covenant

​This da capo (ABA) aria is richly scored for the full orchestra. Its first section celebrates the "joyful time,” depicted in the opening dotted rhythms, major key, buoyant, and upward melodic direction on “O joyful” (Erfreute), all joining to create a “basic tone of cheerful confidence” (Oxford Composer Companions: J. S. Bach, p. 157). The second section contrasts the first section to depict our “resting place” (Ruhestatt), highlighted by the violin imitating funeral bells by striking the open strings. The middle section concentrates on "our resting place, our grave", the violin imitating funeral bells by repetitions on open strings.

2.   6:47       Aria: Lord, now let Your servant depart in peace

​Konrad Küster makes the bold claim that this movement “is quite unlike anything else in Bach’s music” (Oxford Composer Companions: J. S. Bach, p. 157), and I for one certainly agree. The canticle of Simeon is sung by the bass to the traditional plainchant (just a few notes, as you will hear), but with Simeon’s words placed at the beginning and end of the movement, thereby forming an antiphon for the intervening text. The poetic text in the center is one of great comfort;  indeed, this movement alone is an excellent sermon on the art of dying, wherein a good death is a gift from God, who calls His children to Himself. Underlying this text an instrumental canon, Bach’s favored musical form to depict the canonic or fixed nature of the law, is played by all strings in unison as “choir 1,” with the continuo echoing as “choir 2.” The result is a law-gospel juxtaposition, with the soloist singing the gospel in the foreground and the instruments depicting law in the background. 

3.   10:36    Aria: Make haste, heart, full of joy

​This solo for tenor depicts the faithful rejoicing in the good news preached in the preceding movement. The violin plays seemingly endless triplets, echoed by the tenor in extensive vocal runs and acrobatics. They join together to depict the opening phrase of the movement, “Hurry [Eile], my heart, full of joy” to the throne of grace. The imperative to step (treten) before God’s throne would grow importance for Bach in Leipzig. Near the end of his tenure (he died in office in 1750), Bach left “The Art of the Fugue” unfinished to complete his setting of the text, “And Now I Step Before Thy Throne,” his life having been lived to the greater glory of God.

4.   16:19    Recitative: Yes, even though your faith is aware

​This short recitative is a transition to the final chorale. Listen for the prominence of “Yes” (Ja) and “light” (Licht), as if Simeon himself is still among us, proclaiming that Christ is indeed “a light to lighten the Gentiles.”

5.   17:01    Chorale: He is the Hope and saving Light

​He is the Hope and saving Light
Of lands benighted;
By Him are they who dwell in night
Fed and lighted.
He is Israel’s Praise and Bliss,
Their Joy, Reward, and Glory – The Lutheran Hymnal 137.4

Martin Luther’s hymn on Simeon’s Canticle was written in 1524 to be sung as a “tight” German paraphrase in place of the Latin text. Each stanza of Luther’s four-stanza hymn echoes one verse of Simeon’s canticle. In this case, stanza 4 of the complete hymn captures the theology of Luke 2:32, with the previous verses of the Nunc Dimittis (vss. 29–31) having already been sung in the second movement. The music is simple compared to the preceding movements, but it is still expressive music, with a substantive melody and rich harmony. Do the upward leaps of the opening statement depict the ascent of the soul to heaven? The congregation in Leipzig probably joined in this final stanza, which could also double as a description of the nature and function of Bach’s sacred music, itself a proclamation of the “joy, reward, and glory” of the Christ Child. 

The header quote that I have selected for this Candlemas column is from the older Introit or entrance Psalm for Candlemas:

Of special interest here is the Psalmist’s phrase “in the midst of Thy temple.” When Mary and Joseph brought Jesus to the old temple, they redeemed Him from Levitical service because He was not of the tribe of Levi. In addition to bringing the new and greater Temple to the courts of the old temple, then, Joseph and May paradoxically redeemed the Redeemer! Thus Christ, the new Temple, was free from full-time service to the old temple, set aside to serve as the new place of worship for the newly constituted Israel of all believers.
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O joyful time in the new covenant as the mystery of salvation unfolds! The same gifts given to old Simeon are now delivered to you this Candlemas as you hold Christ, the new Temple, in your hand in the Blessed Sacrament of the new Jerusalem. You hasten to His throne of grace, where He hears your prayers according to His lovingkindness. The candles for the liturgy of Candlemas remind you of Christ, whose light shines in the darkness. And you are ready, with Simeon and all the faithful, one day to depart this world in peace and to praise God in the choir of the heavenly Jerusalem.