Sept. 25, 2023 - Pastor Brian Hamer

+ In Loving Memory: Stephen M. Black, 1967—2023 +

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: 

​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: 

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.

                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.

- 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.

- 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: 

                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

June 8, 2023 - Pastor Brian Hamer

The poor shall eat and be satisfied;
Those who seek him will praise the Lord!
Let your heart live forever!
​- Psalm 22:26 (NKJV)

On Saturday, 22 May 1723, the newly elected Cantor of Leipzig, Johann Sebastian Bach (1685–1750) arrived in Leipzig, along with his wife, Anna Magdalena, their five children, their household goods, and one sister-in-law. After the relatively short trip from Cöthen, they made their way to the south wing of the St. Thomas School to move into the Cantor’s three-floor apartment. Bach and his growing family would need the free space as well as his stipends for weddings and funerals;  his fixed salary at Leipzig was a quarter of what he had been paid in Cöthen. The next day, Trinity Sunday, Bach and his family probably attended services at St. Thomas or St. Nicholas Church, where they might have sat together for the first and last time as a family in Leipzig. Starting the following Sunday he would serve the city with what John Eliot Gardiner rightly calls a “white-knuckled energy” (BACH: Music in the Castle of Heaven, p. 297), managing the music of multiple churches, teaching music and Latin at the St. Thomas School, raising a large family, directing the Collegium Musicum, and much more until his death in 1750. His Leipzig heritage began on 30 May 1723 with Cantata 75, “The Poor Shall Eat and be Satisfied.”
​
The anonymous text of Cantata 75 develops several themes from the Gospel for Trinity 1, the parable of the rich man and Lazarus (St. Luke 16:19–31), with chorale stanzas by Samuel Rodigast concluding Part 1 and Part 2. As you survey the text below, be sure to keep the governing parable in the Gospel lesson in mind. “The Early Music Show” on BBC 3 Radio, for instance, interprets the royal music (think of coronation music) in the opening movement as Bach—who often signed even his secular compositions “Glory to God alone”—self-heralding his arrival in Leipzig. A glance at the Gospel Lesson, however, easily solves the apparent riddle. The royal music in the orchestra depicts the rich man in Luke 15, “clothed in purple and fine linen” (v. 19). This is juxtaposed against the plaintive cry of the choir from Psalm 22 that the “poor [in this life] shall eat and be satisfied” with the fatness of God’s house. Movements 2–6 continue the theological and musical progression of this Great Reversal, that is, God casting down the mighty and lifting up the lowly. The chorale (Movement 7) is especially striking. Stephen Crist writes:

​Now grab a cup of coffee for “Cantatas Over Coffee,” picture yourself in Leipzig 300 years ago, and meditate on the first half of Bach’s first musical offering in Leipzig.

​Following the forty-five or so minute sermon, Part II of Cantata 75 begins with a sinfonia, i.e., an instrumental introduction. Notice the addition of the trumpet, its first appearance in this cantata, playing the melody associated with the chorale text, “What God Ordains is Always Good.” It is also significant that Leipzigers often arrived at church just in time for the sermon, so Movement 8 would have been the first music of Bach to be heard by many of them. The intervening movements (9–13) continue to unfold the mystery of the Great Reversal, encouraging the believer to forsake inordinate love of earthly wealth and to cling to Jesus, come what may, knowing that “after grief, God gives relief” (Movement 14). The following movement presents the chorale text “not in a conventional four-part arrangement, but with the voice lines loosened in polyphony and placed in an independent orchestral fabric” (Gardiner, BACH, p. 296). 

Bach’s first cantata in Leipzig, though beyond the scope of importance that Leipzigers would have known or even could have imagined at the time, was nevertheless heralded in the local papers for its importance for Leipzig, following a year-long vacancy in the Cantorate. One press release reported that Bach’s music was received “with good applause,” a metaphor for saying well received or finding general approval.
​
On the Monday or Tuesday after Trinity 1 (there is a discrepancy in the primary source material), Bach was formally introduced at the St. Thomas School by the chairman of the school board. On this occasion Bach was admonished “to discharge the duties of his office, show the authorities his respect and willingness, cultivate good relations and friendship with his colleagues, conscientiously instruct the youth in the fear of God and other useful studies, and thus keep the School in good repute” (Christoph Wolff, Johann Sebastian Bach: The Learned Musician, p. 245).

To say that Bach fulfilled his charge in Leipzig is an understatement. Over the next twenty-seven years, Bach produced a few hundred cantatas, a handful of passions and oratorios, numerous organ works, and much, much more. Somehow it seems fitting (albeit coincidental) that his first Leipzig cantata dealt with God’s promise from Psalm 22 that the poor shall eat and be satisfied. On that same Sunday, the following words were heard in the Introit: “I will sing unto the Lord for He hath dealt bountifully with me.” Taken together, these two texts preach the good news that those who are poor in spirit are given to sing of Christ. In and through the sacred music of J. S. Bach, the faithful continue to sing the gospel and to be satisfied with the word of Jesus’ cross and resurrection, to the greater glory of God. 

Note: The historical chronology, quotes, and facts contained herein are dependent on
Christoph Wolff, Johann Sebastian Bach: The Learned Musician (Norton, 2000), pp. 243–245.

April 23, 2023 - Pastor Brian Hamer

The pillars of the earth are the Lord’s, and he hath set the world upon them.
​ – 1 Samuel 2:8

​Most of our readers have probably heard of Eton College near London, but the Eton Choirbook may be less familiar. Harry Christophers and his choir, The Sixteen (the ensemble began as sixteen singers singing sixteenth-century music, in case you were curious), have recorded five remarkable CDs of music from the Eton Choirbook. It seems fitting, then, to give Mr. Christophers the first word in this column: 

​And what was this providential miracle? 

The Eton Choirbook contains “awesome, intricate, and often massive compositions from England of the 15th and early 16th centuries” (The Musical Times 133:1787, p. 50). Many of us might be unfamiliar with composers Richard Davy, William Cornysh, and Walter Lambe. Many of the contributors have the dreaded “circa” next to their birth date or death date or, in the case of Robert Wylkynson, both dates!

We will return to the Eton Choirbook from time to time to explore the flowering of genius that laid the musical foundation for Thomas Tallis and William Byrd. Therein we will discover some of the most glorious polyphony ever written, with special focus on settings of the Magnificat. For now, however, let us consider a unique work that is fitting for Eastertide, “Jesus passing through their midst” by Robert Wylkynson (c. 1450–c. 1515).

As you survey the text below, you will easily recognize it as the Apostles’ Creed, but arranged in twelve phrases (instead of three for the three persons of the Trinity) and the twelve Apostles, based on the charming legend that each of the Apostles penned one phrase of the Creed. (Even though this is probably medieval legend, those who promulgated this idea gave it some serious thought, for each Apostle “sings” a phrase that corresponds to his own unique biblical narrative, such as Thomas confessing the resurrection.) This legend aside, the theological connection is truly profound: the Creed is the doctrine of the Apostles, now passed from generation to generation in an unbroken chain of Christian confession, lasting to the end of days.

The three-word antiphon, “Jesus autem transiens,” is unique to the Eton Choirbook. The Latin grammar in the Vulgate appears to echo Luke 4:30, “But passing through their midst, [Jesus] went away”—Luke’s description of Jesus escaping the angry mob in Nazareth as they tried to throw him off a cliff. But I do not think that is the primary referent here because Jesus was escaping in Luke 4, but He does something far different for the Apostles after His resurrection!

In my estimation, this antiphon developed organically some time before 1500 as a theological interpretation of John 20:19, “Then came Jesus and stood in the midst, and saith unto them, ‘Peace be unto you.’” Thus Jesus passed through the midst of ten disciples that first Easter Sunday, offering them peace and proving that He had indeed risen from the dead. He passed through the midst of eleven disciples again a week later and equipped them with the preached word of forgiveness. Jesus continued to abide with them in subsequent resurrection appearances, and to dwell sacramentally with His church until His final appearance in majesty on the last day.

The musical form chosen to depict Jesus standing amidst His Apostles stands in contrast to the elaborate polyphony in the rest of the Eton Choirbook. This work is what conductor Peter Phillips calls “a one-off . . . an exercise in extreme sonority” (The Musical Times 158:1939, p. 58). The musical form is a canon (literally “law”), wherein each subsequent voice imitates the opening statement, continuing the pattern in thirteen parts. Thirteen singers—one voice the antiphon and one for each Apostle—sing through the entire score, resulting in a single voice at the beginning and the end, all thirteen voices at the dynamic climax, and every numerical combination (two, three, four, etc.) of voices in between.
​
As you follow the video link below, consider the theological significance of the antiphon and how it shapes the entire musical Creed.

​The net musical effect is arguably a bit chaotic, with thirteen voices singing nine pitches over a range of an octave and a half. And yet, the theological image and musical portrait is profound. During this Eastertide, we remember the good news that Christ is risen, He is risen indeed, and He is passing through our midst every time we confess the Creed. Consider, for a moment, why the simple three-word antiphon is sung continuously throughout this work. Peter Phillips writes, “These will also be the last words to be heard, so it could be said that Jesus has really ‘passed through the midst’ of them” (The Musical Times 158:1939, p. 58). This is a profound musical and theological reminder that the Creed, not unlike the earthly foundation of the cathedrals for which this music was written, is “built upon the foundation of the apostles and prophets, Jesus Christ himself being the chief corner stone” (Eph 2:20).
 
The header quote that I have chosen for this issue of “Lifted Voice” is from the “Old Testament Magnificat,” Hannah’s canticle (1 Sam 2:1-10). Similarly, the CD which first introduced me to Wylkynson’s setting of the Apostles’ Creed is entitled “The Pillars of Eternity: Music from the Eton Choirbook, Volume III” (Collins CD 13422; reissue: CORO CD 16022). The concept of the pillar is particularly fitting for cathedral music. Consider, for instance, that of the three great architecturally-based tourist attractions—the Egyptian pyramids, the Greco-Roman ruins, and the European cathedrals—only the cathedrals are still used for their original purpose, that is, Christian worship. Like the gospel itself, these majestic pillars have withstood the test of time, the ransacking of Henry VIII, the bombs of Hitler’s Luftwaffe, and much more. In contrast to the crumbling architecture, ephemeral trends, and every false doctrine, sacred music for “the church of the living God, the pillar and ground of the truth” (1 Tim 3:15) joins us with the choir of angels and archangels to worship Jesus, who is passing through our midst every time we confess our faith in Father, Son, and Holy Spirit.

  There is one thing to preach, the wisdom of the cross. -- Martin Luther

Robin Leaver describes the St. Matthew Passion of J. S. Bach (1685–1750):

Likewise, Michael Maul writes that the Passion introduced the congregation and musicians to “perhaps the greatest test of the Bach era, but which also strained the attention span of the congregation with it three-hour length” (Bach’s Famous Choir, p. 190). Attention spans have arguably shortened significantly since the Enlightenment, so I will treat our journey through Bach’s Passions as a long-term project. Please join me this Holy Week to explore a magnificent aria from this high point of the liturgical year in Leipzig, “Make Clean, My Heart” from Bach’s St. Matthew Passion.  
​
The aria that I have chosen for this issue of “Lifted Voice” occurs during the narrative of Jesus’ burial, where we read, “When the even was come, there came a rich man of Arimathea, named Joseph, who also himself was Jesus’ disciple: He went to Pilate, and begged the body of Jesus. Then Pilate commanded the body to be delivered” (Matt. 27:57-58). Here the church reaches a key moment in her creedal confession, “He was buried,” and a wonderful opportunity for poetic and musical elaboration. This aria, a perennial favorite for baritone soloists, applies the good news of Jesus’ burial to the believer. Building on the image of Jesus’ pending burial (the narrative of His actual burial follows the aria), the text petitions the Lord to be interred in the believer and to find His rest and sweet repose in His own dear children. What do you think is the theological significance of the lilting, 6/8 meter and the use of two oboes? 

​The oboes “ride the wave” up and down the largely stepwise melody in what Michael Steinberg calls “a masterpiece of serene euphony” (Choral Masterworks: A Listener’s Guide, p. 31). The baritone soloist follows suit, asking Jesus to enter his heart and find rest in him. The music changes dramatically for the quasi-exorcistic admonition, “World depart,” and returns to the A section to recap the petition for Jesus’ indwelling in the believer. 

The timing of this aria in its original context is a gem unto itself. The Passion Vespers in Leipzig started at 3:00 p.m. on Good Friday. Since the St. Matthew Passion is about three hours long and this aria comes towards the end of the work, it would have been sung at about 6:00 p.m. on Good Friday—the very hour of Jesus’ burial before the Sabbath. Musically, however, there is no hurry to keep the old laws, which have been fulfilled. Rather, the believer is at rest in his heart because Jesus’ body is about to be laid to rest. As the hymn puts it, “O Ground of faith, Laid low in death, Sweet lips, now silent sleeping!” (The Lutheran Hymnal 167.5).

As for the two oboes and the 6/8 meter, this is pastoral music– shepherd’s music–depicting Christ as the Good Shepherd, who laid down His life for His sheep and now leads them with the rod and staff of the Law and the Gospel. As you meditated on the text of this aria, did you think of Holy Baptism and what it means for daily living? You were made clean in Holy Baptism, robed with the righteousness of Christ Himself. Now what? Live baptismally, that is, in daily repentance and faith. Martin Luther summarizes your baptismal pattern of daily living in the Small Catechism:

That is to say, “World, depart! Let Jesus in.” Yes, crucify worldly vice that lurks in your body and soul through repentance. And dwell at the foot of the cross, where Christ is your light and your life.
​
Taken together, Luther’s theology and Bach’s musical sermons stand together to preach one thing—the wisdom of the cross—but with one nuanced difference: 

​This is most certainly true! This aria, along with every word of Bach’s various Passion settings, do not merely speak of Jesus’ Passion. Even more so, they preach, present, and proclaim in a rich palette of musical vocabulary the Passion of Christ for the sake of the hearers. Here we see, perhaps more than any other point in the history of sacred music, the shape of the cross in speech and in life. Christ died and rose again. And so you, O Christian, die to sin through repentance this Good Friday, that you may live with Christ now and in eternity. “Christ is risen! He meets our eyes. Savior, teach us so to rise” (The Lutheran Hymnal 159.4). 

+ + + + + + +

​Extra Choral Credit:  Hearing Bach’s St. Matthew Passion in its Entirety

In his last recorded interview before his death in 1999, choral conductor Robert Shaw (1916–1999) expressed his regret that he never had a chance to record the St. Matthew Passion. But he also noted that perhaps a masterwork dealing with sacred mysteries should only be heard in person, not recorded. This would-be minister and preacher’s son from California was certainly onto something, and perhaps in more ways than one. Sacred music, like preaching itself, is intended to deliver the comfort of the Gospel in person; in a mouth-to-ear interaction, wherein faith comes by hearing.
​
That said, live performances of this nearly three-hour work only come along every now and then, so I invite you to set aside some time to listen to the entire Passion (perhaps in small doses?), following the English translation as you listen. Here is the link to a superb performance of the entire Passion by the Netherlands Bach Society, from which the previous link was extracted: 

https://gbt.org/music/St_Matthew_text.pdf

You who have suffered for us, have mercy upon us!
​​

One Bach scholar claims that “[J. S.] Bach is known as the Fifth Evangelist [because] his music and his message go where the preacher cannot go, namely, to the concert hall” (Logia XXX:2, p. 13). This writer drew his conclusion in part based on the 1962 tour of the Robert Shaw Chorale behind the Iron Curtain. The ensemble was dubbed “a sleeper act” by the Department of State, but it caused a sensation, especially with its ten performances of Bach’s Mass in B Minor. Please join me on the sixtieth anniversary of this “mission trip” to explore how Bach’s music sings of life.
   
Robert Shaw (1916–1999) conducted the Robert Shaw Chorale from 1948 until 1967 and toured thirty countries at various times, all sponsored by the U. S. State Department. During this time the Chorale became a household name, with a popularity akin to today’s best known classical musical performers. Keith C. Burris did not overstate the situation when he wrote, “The Robert Shaw Chorale became the nation’s, and then the world’s, best-known and most-respected professional touring vocal ensemble” (Deep River: The Life and Music of Robert Shaw, p. 118). For Shaw, the highlight of the Chorale was the choir’s tour of Russia in 1962. “Shaw said so many times” (Burris, Deep River, p. 121).  ​

Of thy mystical supper, O Son of God, accept me today as a partaker.
 – Liturgy of Holy Thursday

—Martin Luther (after a Latin hymn)
​

​Peter Bender describes the text of the Agnus Dei, “Lamb of God”:

In Christ, the Lamb of God, the two-part plan of the Passover is fulfilled: kill the lamb and eat the lamb. The death the of Lamb of God is a once-for-all, calendar-day event. But the eucharistic eating of the Lamb continues around the world until Christ returns. We are accustomed to singing the three-fold Agnus Dei one time, but Art Just notes the Medieval precedent for singing it ”as long as there was bread to break” (Christ’s Gifts in the Liturgy: The Theology and Music of the Divine Service, p. 41). How fitting that Jesus is described as the Lamb of God thirty times in the eschatology of the book of Revelation, where Jesus is enthroned as the Lamb who is worthy “to receive power and wealth and wisdom and might and honor and glory and blessing” (Rev. 5:12).
​

—Antiphon for Trinitytide
​

​Peter Bender describes the role of the Sanctus (please see the Latin and English text below) as the fourth of the five pillars (along with the Kyrie, Gloria, Credo, and Agnus Dei) of the Divine Service:

Isaiah’s encounter with the holy set the precedent for the Lord’s Supper as “the holy things for the holy ones,” i.e., the holy body and blood of Christ are only for those who have been made holy through Baptism and have heard the cleansing word of Absolution. The Lord’s words to Isaiah in his temple vision also apply to us in the means of grace: “Your sin is taken away and your guilt is atoned for.”
​

—From the Tenth-Century Latin Hymn,
​“Be present, holy Trinity”

In our five-part survey of the settings of the ordinary of the Mass by Frank Martin (1890–1974) and Ralph Vaughan Williams (1872–1958), we now come to the heart of the Mass ordinary and its unique opportunities for text painting, the Nicene Creed. Consider, for a moment, the five parts of the Mass which have inspired countless composers through the centuries:

Kyrie (“Lord, have mercy”)
Gloria (“Glory be to God on high”)
Credo (“I believe in one God”)
Sanctus (“Holy, holy, holy”)
Agnus Dei (“Lamb of God”)
​

—St. John 1:14
​

Recall from the first installment of this special series on settings of the Mass for double choir by Frank Martin (1890–1974) and Ralph Vaughan Williams (1872–1958) that these two choral masterworks overlap historically and stylistically. Martin began writing his Mass in 1922, finished it in 1926, but curiously concealed it until the early 1960s. Vaughan Williams (hereinafter RVW) wrote his Mass in G minor in 1922, but with no idea that Martin was writing a similar work, much less any notion that the two works would become unofficial ‘choral companions’ a century later. Stylistically, both works draw upon older compositional methods, perhaps most notably the motet, a compositional process in which the musical themes change with each word or phrase of the text. But both composers also employed newer compositional methods, earning both works a permanent place in the choral repertoire. Please join me during this, the latter portion of the Easter season, to explore how these composers treat the Gloria.
​