Sept. 25, 2023 - Pastor Brian Hamer
+ In Loving Memory: Stephen M. Black, 1967—2023 +
The first conductor I worked for in New York City was Stephen M. Black, whom many of us knew best as Music Director of the Central City Chorus. He first introduced me to the musical dialogue between Philippe de Monte (1521–1603) and William Byrd (1529/30 –1623) in his penultimate concert with the Central City Chorus, “Hidden Messages: The Music of William Byrd,” 20 March 2010. This column is dedicated to his memory, with thanksgiving for his kindness, musicianship, and friendship, knowing that he now joins the choir of angels to sing the songs of Zion in the new Jerusalem.
Henry VIII was the type of monarch who would execute three Protestants on the same day that three Roman Catholics were scheduled to be executed, just to keep the score even. After the death of Henry VIII, the blood bath between Protestants and Catholics continued unabated, both inside and outside of England. This tenuous situation shaped the mature years of William Byrd. Byrd, a faithful Roman Catholic in his adult years, enjoyed the patronage of the Protestant Queen Elizabeth I for most of his life, and, in contrast to composers and theologians named “Thomas,” Byrd avoided the dreaded Tower of London and the inevitable execution of its prisoners.
And yet, Byrd did not completely escape harassment by the authorities, who monitored his activities and included his name on what we would call a “person of interest” list, that is, one who was suspected of undermining the official state religion. Indeed, if there were a musical “double agent” in sixteenth-century England, it was William Byrd. On the one hand, as a member of the Chapel Royal, he did what was asked of him, such as writing a “Protestant” motet to celebrate the defeat of the Spanish Armada in 1588. On the other hand, he wrote music for clandestine Roman Catholic worship, such as his various settings of the Mass, believed to have been sung in homes under the cover of darkness.
Stephen Black describes this unique cultural context of Byrd’s setting of selected verses from Psalm 137:
And yet, Byrd did not completely escape harassment by the authorities, who monitored his activities and included his name on what we would call a “person of interest” list, that is, one who was suspected of undermining the official state religion. Indeed, if there were a musical “double agent” in sixteenth-century England, it was William Byrd. On the one hand, as a member of the Chapel Royal, he did what was asked of him, such as writing a “Protestant” motet to celebrate the defeat of the Spanish Armada in 1588. On the other hand, he wrote music for clandestine Roman Catholic worship, such as his various settings of the Mass, believed to have been sung in homes under the cover of darkness.
Stephen Black describes this unique cultural context of Byrd’s setting of selected verses from Psalm 137:
| | There are hidden messages throughout Byrd’s Latin liturgical music, and themes that appear upon examination of these messages include references to Jerusalem (code for ‘Papal authority in England’), captives in exile, persecution, and justice for the oppressor. – Program notes from “Hidden Messages: The Music of William Byrd,” 20 March 2010, p. 9 |
Psalm 137 is the ideal Psalm to address singing one’s native songs in a foreign land. Martin Luther summarizes the unique context of Psalm 137:
| | The 137th Psalm is a psalm of prayer in the person of captives in Babylon. It is a prayer for Jerusalem, that is, for God’s Word and spiritual rule that lay completely destroyed; for thus it was assumed (with good reason) especially by those who fear God, as this psalm shows. – Reading the Psalms with Luther, p. 327 |
Written later in the Old Testament after Israel was carried into Babylonian captivity (circa 586–515 B. C.), the Psalmist describes how the Judahites wept by the waters of Babylon (verses 1–3), laments the absence of the songs of Jerusalem (verses 4–6), and petitions the Lord to execute judgment on Israel’s enemies (verses 7–9). Especially intriguing to musicians through the centuries is verse 3, “Our captors required of us songs, and our tormentors, mirth, saying, ‘Sing us one of the songs of Zion!’” The Babylonians had obviously heard of Israel’s rich musical heritage, especially Psalm-singing in the Levitical tradition, and wanted to hear some “tracks” in person, albeit in mockery.
For de Monte and Byrd, more important than this musical request, however, was the use of the word “Babylon” as a metaphor for the Roman Catholic rule in Europe. After the English Reformation, the religion of the ruler was usually considered to be the religion of the realm. As the successors to Henry VIII were inevitably staunch Roman Catholics or faithful Protestants, church musicians in England (and elsewhere) were in a bit of a bind: How could Catholic composers such as William Byrd sing the Lord’s song under Protestant Elizabeth?
Psalm 137 provided the answer for de Monte and Byrd. De Monte, a Flemish composer of great renown, had come to England in 1554 as a member of Philip’s Chapel. In 1583 he sent Byrd a double-choir motet setting of the first few verses of Psalm 137, but with an interesting twist. If you compare de Monte’s text with Psalm 137 in your Bible, you will see that he rearranged the text to end with the words, “We hanged up our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof,” that is, in Babylon. In application, de Monte was lamenting not being able to sing the full slate of Roman Catholic texts in Protestant England. De Monte’s music conveys a sense of contemplation for those who sing in exile and who long to return to their own “Jerusalem.” The final cadence resolves to a climactic major chord, leaving the hearer with a sense of hope for the restoration of the songs of Zion.
For de Monte and Byrd, more important than this musical request, however, was the use of the word “Babylon” as a metaphor for the Roman Catholic rule in Europe. After the English Reformation, the religion of the ruler was usually considered to be the religion of the realm. As the successors to Henry VIII were inevitably staunch Roman Catholics or faithful Protestants, church musicians in England (and elsewhere) were in a bit of a bind: How could Catholic composers such as William Byrd sing the Lord’s song under Protestant Elizabeth?
Psalm 137 provided the answer for de Monte and Byrd. De Monte, a Flemish composer of great renown, had come to England in 1554 as a member of Philip’s Chapel. In 1583 he sent Byrd a double-choir motet setting of the first few verses of Psalm 137, but with an interesting twist. If you compare de Monte’s text with Psalm 137 in your Bible, you will see that he rearranged the text to end with the words, “We hanged up our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof,” that is, in Babylon. In application, de Monte was lamenting not being able to sing the full slate of Roman Catholic texts in Protestant England. De Monte’s music conveys a sense of contemplation for those who sing in exile and who long to return to their own “Jerusalem.” The final cadence resolves to a climactic major chord, leaving the hearer with a sense of hope for the restoration of the songs of Zion.
By the waters of Babylon, there we sat down and wept
when we remembered thee, O Zion.
For there they that carried us away captive required of us a song.
How shall we sing the Lord’s song in a strange land?
We hanged up our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof.
when we remembered thee, O Zion.
For there they that carried us away captive required of us a song.
How shall we sing the Lord’s song in a strange land?
We hanged up our harps upon the willows in the midst thereof.
- Psalm 137:1–4 (excerpts)
Byrd sent an extraordinarily accomplished motet in reply, known in Latin as Quomodo Cantabimus, “How shall we sing?” If you compare de Monte’s selected verses above with Byrd’s selected words below, you will notice one common phrase: “How shall we sing the Lord’s song in a strange land?” So while de Monte’s text emphasizes captivity in Babylon (“Zion” is the only hint of the promised land), Byrd’s text focuses on Jerusalem, that is, his own “Rome, sweet home.” The textual message was clear: Byrd also longed to escape the theological-musical captivity of the Elizabethan era and to return to his true mother, the Roman Catholic Church, to whom his loyalty was undying. After you listen to the music, as performed here by the choir known simply as “ORA,” you might agree with Sydney Grew: “[Byrd] was great among the 16th-century musicians by virtue of a quality he owned as completely as Palestrina, and more completely than any other English musician of his school” (The Musical Times 63:956, p. 699).
How shall we sing the Lord’s song in a strange land?
If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning.
If I do not remember thee, let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth.
If I prefer not Jerusalem above my chief joy.
Remember, O Lord, the children of Edom in the day of Jerusalem.
If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning.
If I do not remember thee, let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth.
If I prefer not Jerusalem above my chief joy.
Remember, O Lord, the children of Edom in the day of Jerusalem.
- Psalm 137:4–7 (excerpts)
Stephen M. Black was especially fascinated by the three-part canon contained in Byrd’s motet. In the aforementioned program notes from 2010, he wrote, “Through the entire section Byrd wrote an ingenious three-part canon in inversion, as if to emphasize that he had not forgotten his cleverness!” Also significant is the final cadence on the words, in die Jerusalem, “in the day of Jerusalem.” Byrd’s final cadence sounds remarkably similar to de Monte’s, with the voices gradually converging on a bright major chord—a literal and figurative note of hope for him and for his fellow countrymen.
What is one to make of this musical exchange of hidden messages, 400 years after Byrd’s death? Let us ask the question in the words of the common textual denominator between these two motets, “How shall we sing the Lord’s song in a strange land?” Sacred music has never been without its opponents, from English monarchs to German dictators to government officials who forbade all faith groups to sing during Covid. The abuse of music has left musicians through the years and across the miles with a sense of captivity and a longing for Jerusalem above.
But there is one fact with which the opponents of sacred music have not reckoned: the church’s song thrives under pressure. It may go underground from time to time, but it will not die. Martin Luther said of Psalm 137, “Israel and God’s Word shall remain forever and ever” (Reading the Psalms with Luther, p. 327). Thus the songs of Zion have been sung in captivity and in catacombs, in concentration camps and in jail cells. But the songs of Zion will never die, for they soar above all earthly song to join “With all Christ’s followers true, Who bore the cross and could the worst disdain / That tyrants dared to do” (The Lutheran Hymnal 619.6).
The hymn that I have just cited, “Jerusalem, Thou City Fair and High” by Johann M. Meyfart, is dated 1626, just three years after Byrd’s death. Even though the three men never met, Meyfart’s hymn seems fitting for the Byrd anniversary year and for the memory of Stephen M. Black:
What is one to make of this musical exchange of hidden messages, 400 years after Byrd’s death? Let us ask the question in the words of the common textual denominator between these two motets, “How shall we sing the Lord’s song in a strange land?” Sacred music has never been without its opponents, from English monarchs to German dictators to government officials who forbade all faith groups to sing during Covid. The abuse of music has left musicians through the years and across the miles with a sense of captivity and a longing for Jerusalem above.
But there is one fact with which the opponents of sacred music have not reckoned: the church’s song thrives under pressure. It may go underground from time to time, but it will not die. Martin Luther said of Psalm 137, “Israel and God’s Word shall remain forever and ever” (Reading the Psalms with Luther, p. 327). Thus the songs of Zion have been sung in captivity and in catacombs, in concentration camps and in jail cells. But the songs of Zion will never die, for they soar above all earthly song to join “With all Christ’s followers true, Who bore the cross and could the worst disdain / That tyrants dared to do” (The Lutheran Hymnal 619.6).
The hymn that I have just cited, “Jerusalem, Thou City Fair and High” by Johann M. Meyfart, is dated 1626, just three years after Byrd’s death. Even though the three men never met, Meyfart’s hymn seems fitting for the Byrd anniversary year and for the memory of Stephen M. Black:
Jerusalem, thou city fair and high,
Would God I were in thee!
My longing heart fain, fain, to thee would fly,
It will not stay with me.
Far over vale and mountain,
Far over field and plain,
It hastes to seek its Fountain
And leave this world of pain.
Unnumbered choirs before the shining throne
Their joyful anthems raise
Till heaven’s glad halls are echoing with the tone
Of that great hymn of praise
And all its host rejoices,
And all its blessed throng
Unite their myriad voices
In one eternal song. – The Lutheran Hymnal 619.1, 8
Would God I were in thee!
My longing heart fain, fain, to thee would fly,
It will not stay with me.
Far over vale and mountain,
Far over field and plain,
It hastes to seek its Fountain
And leave this world of pain.
Unnumbered choirs before the shining throne
Their joyful anthems raise
Till heaven’s glad halls are echoing with the tone
Of that great hymn of praise
And all its host rejoices,
And all its blessed throng
Unite their myriad voices
In one eternal song. – The Lutheran Hymnal 619.1, 8
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