Monday Morning Music Ministry

Easter, 2024

Every Christmas, Handel’s Messiah is Top-Ten in peoples’ lives. In concert halls, churches, and community sings; on radio and TV we hear the oratorio, or at least the familiar “For Unto Us a Child Is Born” and the “Hallelujah” Chorus. Even if only once a year, this is a good thing, culturally and spiritually.

Handel’s masterpiece encompasses, as its simple title proclaims, the entire life of the Savior, from prophesy to Resurrection. Handel lived his life in Germany, in Italy, and thence to England where he generally is embraced as a British composer. Messiah actually was first performed in Dublin. I was privileged to see his writing desk on display in the Writers Museum in the Irish capital.

More provincial than Handel was his landsman Johann Sebastian Bach, born the same year, 1685, only a few miles away, although the two musical titans never met. Bach’s musical reach, however, arguably is greater than Handel’s geographical realms; as great as that of any mortal who ever hummed a tune or wrote a melody.

They may be compared – just as Christmas and Easter may be compared in the business of our lives – but if their works may be compared, it is unfortunate that Bach’s supernal religious works probably are less celebrated than Handel’s Messiah. Anyway, less “familiar” to the ears of average folks, especially during holidays. This is regrettable, because Bach wrote music of astonishing power, musically and of deep emotional import. The B minor Mass; Magnificat; more than 200 cantatas; motets; and two Passions, St John’s and St Matthew’s.

It might seem like I have begun with a predictable tangent before I have even begun this Easter message. But, no; I want to draw attention to the amazing way the human race’s greatest composer presented the Easter story. I wish it were better known to people: more familiar.

For Holy Week vespers services in Leipzig, Germany, Bach wrote the St Matthew Passion and the St John Passion, which were each performed in the St Thomas and St Nicholas churches on alternate years for decades. Three other Passions apparently have been lost. Bach wrote about 1800 pieces of music in his lifetime, and about 1200 are extant. Approximately half of his output was Christian music.

His Passions were series of cantatas to be performed during Holy Week, and in parts during services. They were similar to oratorios or operas but without costumes or drama – singers were assigned roles, and there was a musical “narrator.” The straight biblical narrative was distributed among soloists (evangelists and individual figures including Jesus, Peter, and Pilate) and choirs (various crowds, high priests, Roman soldiers, and Jews). We can appreciate the spectacle that the congregation beheld: a combination of church and theater, Greek-style drama and opera, music and voice, emotive performances.

Two broad categories commend Bach’s favored Passion (possibly the work of which he was proudest of all his compositions), The Passion According to St Matthew.

Musically, it is a succession of amazing melodies, alternating gentle beauty, then tense drama, then profound emotion. It has musical motifs and phrases interlaced, reflecting the underlying themes and meanings of events during Holy Week. The combinations of solo instruments and voices; unique combinations and harmonies; and grand choruses of voices and full orchestral power are impressive.

All is outpaced, of course, by the spiritual message, the meaning of every scene and biblical phrase, and the skill of dramatization – the masterful presentation of the events – and the spiritual significance of every element. This is not a mere recitation of happenings, or a reading of Bible verses. The “Narrator” guides us, but Bach’s composition is a stunning re-creation of the agony and ecstasy of the Crucifixion story. By the verses and voices, the St Matthew Passion provides the points of view of all the participants and observers – including God, by quoted Bible prophesies; Jesus, by His words; and even us, dramatically through the eyes of the crowds in Jerusalem.

History came to call Bach “The Fifth Evangelist,” the accolade bypassing even his spiritual mentor Martin Luther, because of his clarity of spiritual understanding and the power of his musical talent. Some 15 years ago I wrote a major biography of Johann Sebastian Bach, and with every fact I researched, every work I listened to (and listened again and again) my awe increased. He was, in the end, a theologian who could write music, the greatest that humankind has produced or heard. It will be savored as long as men have ears, in the words of H L Mencken.

My friend the Pulitzer Prize-winning biographer Edmund Morris wrote me a note wherein he called my Bach biography superior to his own study of Beethoven, if you will permit me a little boast (well, I don’t give you a choice). However, he averred that I painted a portrait of Bach as being too much of a Christian; that spirituality was not a major component of Bach’s character. I am afraid that this opinion reflected more of Edmund than it did of Johann. For all of the old German’s success, Bach confessed that he was proudest of being a follower of Christ; then, a husband and father in his community; then, a music-maker.

And here we meet the Easter theme. We must all be proudest – first importance in our lives; the focus of all we do – of “knowing Christ and Him crucified.” The Easter story, the dramatic Passions, should be read and listened to and meditated upon, every week of the year, not only during Holy Week.

Indeed, the message of the cross, the Resurrection, the Ascension, should be the themes of our lives. Church “days” are useful to help us focus, motivating our faith and devotion, reminding us of how the Savior of our souls suffered on our behalf. His sorrows and pain were endured to fully identify with broken humanity. His death was a substitute for the punishment we deserve as sinners.

God became flesh and dwelt among us, a sublime mystery. And – you know the story – His Incarnate Son’s resurrection from the dead is to show the promise of our eternal life. Unspeakable glory awaits us.

You can experience the story in what may be a new way. I recommend that you set apart a couple hours, open the link to the music video below, and let the story of Passion Week, the genius of J S Bach, and the mastery of conductor Karl Richter bathe your soul. The artistry of the performance matches the innovative music of Bach. Orchestra and choir are in a stark setting here. A giant cross above and behind the musicians changes its position amid bright and dark lighting, reflecting the tones of the unfolding Biblical text. I pray that you find the time to savor this.

And have an even more blessed Easter.

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Click: Bach St Matthew Passion BWV 244 Karl Richter in parts

3-25-24

Mama, I just don’t understand the things in Jerusalem this week. There are strange things happening every day. I am scared, very scared. And just a week ago, on the Sabbath, I was wild with joy, as I wrote you afterward. I write to you now about more recent events.

Maybe you have heard all these things. Or maybe not; maybe it will all be forgotten in a fortnight. I don’t know.

You remember how I wrote about this man called Jesus, the preacher and healer everybody talked about – some called the Messiah, including himself – how he finally entered Jerusalem. I wrote how the people, almost the whole city it seemed, welcomed him and cheered him.

Yes, I was in that happy crowd. I called his name. I put my cloak on the ground before him. I waved palms to honor him. Maybe you heard – he rode on a donkey. Some thought it strange, but you and I talked about how many ancient words and prophecies were fulfilled in his life and the things he did. Too many to number! And this was one of them, the humble king choosing to come as a servant.

Then. Day after day, it was like a nightmare. The Jewish elders accused him of blasphemy. Some people started to doubt who Jesus said he was, and made up stories about the miracles. The religious leaders made demands that the Roman rulers arrest Jesus. They threatened a revolt in the streets.

Pontius Pilate went along with their demands, and the people became a mob, convinced of all the lies being told. The Romans arrested Jesus, but that was not enough. Pilate offered the mob to pardon Jesus, but that was not enough. Jesus was thrown in jail, but that was not enough. In the public square, Jesus was stripped and whipped until the skin on his back was like bloody ribbons, but that was not enough. Usually, for the Romans, that is a virtual substitute for the death penalty, but that was not enough. The religious leaders and the mob screamed that Jesus be nailed to a cross until dead.

Pilate made a show, washing his hands of responsibility… but that was not enough.

No one spoke for Jesus. His mother wept, but all his friends scattered and claimed they never knew him. I am ashamed to say that I hid, too, and was silent. You know who else was silent? Jesus himself – he just quietly suffered. Mama, I just don’t understand.

I did watch as he carried that heavy cross to the Hill of the Skull outside Jerusalem. I watched as they nailed his wrists and his ankles to the wooden cross and raised it. I watched for three hours as he writhed in pain. He finally spoke a few words. You will be interested in things he said – he prayed to God that his tormentors be forgiven, for they know not what they do.

There were two other crosses, one on each side – condemned men. One mocked Jesus; the other called him Messiah, and begged forgiveness. Jesus uttered that the man would be with him in Paradise.

Jesus looked down on his mother, and said “Behold, your son.” Her sorrow was wrenching. Then he looked, it seemed, into my eyes too! And it was like he saw into my soul. It was like he saw all humanity. It was like he looked toward eternity.

Just before he died, he said, “It is finished,” and I wondered whether he meant his life… or his mission, his purpose. Maybe we will never know. Will this all be forgotten? It looks like the religious leaders, the government, maybe Satan himself, have won.

Mama, I don’t understand any of this. A week ago, the only things that many of us could think of were his teachings, his miracles, his healing. His love. And now… this. Please don’t condemn me. I went along with the crowd. They couldn’t all be wrong, could they? I went along with the government rulers. They couldn’t all be wrong, could they? I went along with the religious leaders. They couldn’t all be wrong, could they?

I must go to you, and let us search the scriptures together. For I seem to remember that he foretold that he would overcome death. And we have been taught that the Messiah would suffer the punishments for sin that we deserve. And he said he would rise again.

But, Mama, I have to tell you that he did die. I saw it. The skies turned dark and the earth trembled. It felt like all of creation groaned. A Roman centurion looked up and called him the Son of God. But they took his dead body from the cross. They prepared it for burial. They put him in a tomb, and they sealed it.

Mama, two days have passed, and he has not come back to life.

There are strange things happening every day, but Jesus rising from the dead is not one of them. Mama, I just don’t understand.

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Click: O Sacred Head, Now Wounded – Bach’s St Matthew Passion

3-18-24

There is an “Irish Shop” a few towns away from where I live. It sells imported items and offers annual tours to the Ould Sod. The American-born woman who operates the shop with her husband always seemed to appreciate our visits, and, like my late wife, is a kidney transplant recipient, so there was never a shortage of conversation.

Once my daughter Emily, who has lived in Northern Ireland for 20 years, visited with us. She shared the reasons she move there – visits as a missionary to street kids in the “troubled” neighborhoods wracked by sectarian violence and the well-documented ancient hatreds; how her ministry was scrupulous about being “Christian,” not Protestant or Catholic in its outreach; about the many severe dangers in neighborhoods they entered with hot coffee and warm words. And how, soul by soul, hatred is dying and love is rising. Her heart is with those people – so is mine, especially now that I have two Irish-American grandchildren.

One time I entered the shop alone, and by way of introduction – for she has many customers – I said, “I’m the guy with the daughter who works with the street kids of Derry…” She remembered and said, matter-of-factly, “Oh, yes. Teaching the Protestant kids to hate Catholics.” No tongue-in-cheek. She was not kidding. Automatic reaction. Despite having heard testimonies, even having talked with Emily.

That remark, that attitude, knee-jerk prejudice, taught me anew about the lingering presence and power of hate.

I am sadly reminded that hatred and prejudice persist in this world. Some people seem happy only when they hate. Some people are virtual professional haters about causes and issues halfway around the world, even when they have never been to those places. These tendencies are in the news every day. For me, I still nervously listen to short-wave radio newscasts from Londonderry/Derry, on the border of Northern Ireland and the Republic of Ireland, where, yes, bombs still explode.

St Patrick knew about hatred. He was not a legend; that is, he really existed, unlike some other “saints” who nevertheless are celebrated. He lived in the late 400s, born in western England and kidnapped by Irish marauders when he was a teenager. As a slave he worked as a shepherd, during which time, somehow never despondent, his faith in God grew. He escaped to Britain, became learned in the Christian faith, and felt called to return to Ireland. On that soil he converted thousands, he encouraged men and women to serve as pastors, he worked against slavery, and helped quash Druid paganism and heresies. Among his surviving colorful lessons is using the shamrock to explain the mystery of the Trinity to converts.

He left Ireland on occasion… to travel through European lands, preaching, sharing Christ, explaining the Gospel, establishing church communities. Four hundred years after Christ, it is notable that even when the mighty Roman Empire adopted Christianity as the state religion, it was Patrick who first preached to alien and hostile tribes and barbarians. Roughly contemporaneous with St Augustine in Northern Africa, he was the first great missionary since Saint Paul himself.

Today, almost 1600 years later, in an odd way St Patrick is more of an American saint than Irish or universal. Why do I have that opinion? In America, not Ireland, cities hold massive parades, dye entire rivers green, and festoon homes and schoolrooms, even those of Blacks and Jews and Hispanics, in green. I once was in Dublin on St Patrick’s Day, and in the Temple Bar section of the city there were uncountable drunks in funny green hats, green vests, and “Kiss Me, I’m Irish” buttons. To a person, they were all… American tourists.

The Irish, north and south (and in the Anglican Communion too) revere St Patrick in a more proper and reasonable manner. My son-in-law Norman McCorkell, Emily’s husband, shares some thoughts here. He is a BA (Hons) graduate of the Irish Bible Institute in Dublin, and is passionate about discipleship and mission.

Patrick passionately embraced the best of Irish culture, redeeming it for the Gospel by firmly standing against elements that were incompatible – ending the slave trade; reducing tribal warfare and murder. His life was an example of a new and different kind of courage – one that lived fearlessly and peaceably through God’s promises in an atmosphere containing daily threats of those horrors: murder, betrayal, and enslavement.

Despite the violent, and even magical, opposition from locals (Druids and chieftains), and criticism from church leaders (conventional bishops in Britain), Patrick used his lack of formal church training to work creatively within his context. Instead of employing church structures used by the civilized Roman Empire – based in cities, where bishops were supreme – Patrick formed an ecclesiastical model more like the Irish, who were rural and tribal. The inhabitants of Ireland had no settled towns, roads, currency, written law, government bureaucracy, or taxation. Society was decentralized, and organized around tribes led by local “kings.”

With Patrick’s influence, monasteries were established and developed as places of spiritual devotion and learning. Young men who had once given their lives to clan feuds were now transformed by the good news of Jesus Christ. Monasteries became “sending centers,” noted church scholar Steve Addison: “the Irish church took on the character of a missionary movement.” And thus Ireland became a glowing spiritual base for sending out monks into western and northern Europe to “be pilgrims for Christ.” This made Celtic monasticism “highly flexible, adaptable, and able to be transplanted – everything that the Roman Empire was not.”

“Sending Monasteries” grew rapidly throughout Ireland and Europe, bringing with them unprecedented prosperity, art, and learning. These population centers on the continent would eventually develop and become cities.

And by the way, Monasticism became bastions of civilization and Christianity during the long “Dark Ages.” I thank Norman for these words from “the Ould Sod” itself. These are lessons for today: what we can do, too, even by ourselves and against great odds, to bring the revolutionary message of Christ’s Good News to others. Love, not hatred.

Patrick was a saint for all, and is a Saint for today. He taught us not to drink green beer, but how to overcome challenges, hear the Holy Spirit, formulate a vision, and change the world. Not just his land but the world; and the world ever after.

Click: St Patrick’s Breastplate (Be Thou My Vision)

3-11-24

Certain phrases catch the public’s attention all the time, appearing and disappearing. Some legitimate ideas have names that fade; some casual terms become part of the language. Among the latter, I was reminded this week as I wrote an essay for RealClearPolitics, is “ticket” – as in a political party’s slate of candidates.

Until 1888, generally, the separate political parties printed the ballots that voters used at polling places. This was less for the sake of convenience than it was to influence and, especially, hold voters under the watchful eyes of party workers at polling places. Those printed “tickets” were large and colorful and could be seen as voters inserted them in glass bowls (further eliminating secrecy) and in some districts voters were obliged to state their preferences aloud!

Times have changed. Coercion and corruption might be as pervasive, only subtler, today.

Anyway, “State Of the Union” is a phrase that is uttered uncountable times around this time every year. The Constitution uses the term, but not capitalized, as it urges but does not require the president to deliver what is, in effect, a corporate report on the government. Article II, Section 3: The president “shall from time to time give to the Congress information of the state of the union, and recommend to their consideration such measures as he shall judge necessary and expedient.”

For more than a century the information was delivered as an “Annual Address,” although it was transmitted only in writing until 1913. Occasionally, presidents skip the report… but recently, of course, it has become an elaborate production with applause-lines, guests to be introduced, and as a prime-time televent.

Routinely the presidents have assured the country that “the state of the union is sound.” But it has morphed into a shopping-list of priorities and legislative wishes. Occasionally, as this year, it is a virtual convention-style rally and an opportunity to scold political rivals.

Since the phrase is bandied about these days, I propose thinking about the state of the union in terms that presidents no longer confront.

The state of the union – let us say the spiritual state of the union; the real state of things; the health and well-being of our society – sucks. I apologize for using that term, but its general acceptance (as you will note unless you don’t watch TV or read newspapers or overhear little children chatting) actually illustrates my point. Our standards have been lowered; our discourse has grown coarse; our self-respect is disappearing. Otherwise I apologize.

But it is almost impossible to use words and phrases or point to shocking news and statistics in order to make my point about the real state of the union. Crime is rampant. Drug use is widespread. Almost half of births are to single mothers. Many school districts are “graduating” students who are functionally illiterate. Half of marriages end in divorce. Neglect, abuse, addiction, suicide, and such malignancies touch almost every family.

Such problems have been trending, if not cascading, in recent years. But newer pathologies are parts of the state of the union. The government’s excessive spending sprees will bankrupt our children. And foreign wars bankrupt our resources. An invasion by hordes of Unknowns is changing the state of the “union” in incalculable ways. A tsunami of drugs kills millions. Smash-and-grab crime and unpunished criminality make daily life a dangerous proposition in cities and towns. Censored thought, a “cancel culture,” inhibits free speech, free association, free thought.

America has always faced challenges and problems, even occasional crises, but by no measure can we claim to live in a Land of the Free anymore. The economy is unstable; daily activities are danger-filled; the future is uncertain. Such is the state of the union.

Oh, yes, a majority of the population no longer believes in God. In this case, we may ask, which is the chicken and which is the egg? No matter: it is a rotten egg.

My weekly essays promise to “put a spiritual song in your heart.” Today, am I committing false advertising? Well, things are rotten; and things s… stink. Neither wishing nor lying about our state of affairs will make them different. Students of Bible prophecies can discern some news about End Times that we might see, as through a glass darkly. The anti-Christ? We see signs. A ten-nation confederation? That might be the European Union. The “Kingdom of Rosh”? Russia, perhaps. But we see no hint of the United States in those scriptures. Will there be an America in the world’s next days?

I am glad that the Bible is ambiguous about certain things. For instance, there will be a period of Great Tribulation, and scholars are unsure at what point Believers will be “raptured” – taken to Heaven, as predicted often throughout the Bible. But it will happen.

Worldly people believe all manner of things, some of them nonsensical. I used to be Editor of Marvel Comics; I know what kids are eager to believe. Adults, too: Many people have “itching ears” for lies and nonsense. But the End Times – the “Midnight Cry” – is not strange in the sense of being un-believable. It is very believable… indeed is to be hoped, and embraced. At midnight there was a cry made… watch therefore, for ye know neither the day nor the hour wherein the Son of man cometh. – Matthew 25:13.

In the meantime, let me say: If you don’t know Jesus, you can go to hell.

Ah. For this phrase I will not apologize. Because you will go to hell. When He comes at the End of Time it will be too late to alter your destiny. The Bible tells us to recognize the “signs of the times.” It is not a difficult thing – look around you, at the state of the union.

As we work to make things right again, whether we succeed or not, it is our calling. And as we work, seeing the Right as God gives us the vision, knowing that we will meet Jesus in the air, we can have a spiritual song in our hearts.

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Click: At the Midnight Cry

3-4-24

Jesus.

Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus.

Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus.

Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus.

Jesus.

Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus.

Jesus. Jesus. Jesus.

Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus.

Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus.

Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus. Jesus.

Jesus.

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Immediately after a devastating tornado hit his house, but with his family safe, a Kentucky man was able to praise the Name of Jesus.

Click: There’s Something About That Name