O Musica

I am currently serving as a lay organist in my local congregation. The last time I played, I was assigned a lesser-known hymn for the intermediate congregational hymn. It happened to be a fantastic English hymn arranged by Ralph Vaughn Williams. One way of presenting lesser known hymns to the congregation we talked about in in my group organ class at G.O.D. U. was to start with only the melody line and bring in the other parts phrase by phrase so that the congregation can get a sense of the melody without the other parts. I decided to try that out, also because the song starts out about an angel descending from heaven on his way to earth and I thought it could be a kind of text painting.

I also learned in my classes about registration or choosing combinations of appropriate organ stops. We were also encouraged to change registration between verses to keep the song fresh or to reflect changes in the text. The last verse of this particular hymn was a bit hell-fire-and-damnation iterating why we should "Fear God." The organ in our chapel is a pipe organ and I love playing on it. One of my favorite ranks on this particular instrument is the reed (suppose to sound like a reed or brass instrument). I'm of the inclination that you always need more bass, but even I recognize that pulling the 16' Faggot (bassoon) in the pedal isn't very appropriate for sacrament hymns. But a verse starting with "Fear God"? That deserves pulling out all the stops including the glorious rumbling of the 16' reed.

Sunday came and everything was going well, at least at the organ bench. I start playing the melody for the intermediate hymn like I intended but nobody but the chorister is singing. What the heck was going on? Were they rebelling? Holding out for the four part harmony? Was I playing the wrong hymn? I glanced at the program next to the hymnal. No, I was playing the right hymn. And the chorister was still waving happily from the other side of the stand. My musician's instinct from performing for the last twenty years told me to calm down and keep playing the way I had practiced and do the best I could with out having a nervous breakdown.

Then the first counselor of the bishopric turned around and looked my way and then started to approach. "This is it," I thought, "they're going to call me repentance for adding a little variation to the hymns and release me on the spot." But just before he got to me he made a little turn and grabbed the hymn number board (which from my vantage point, I couldn't see). He fumbled with the number cards and then replaced the board and soon everyone now with the right hymn number started singing along just in time for the last line of the first verse in four part harmony.

I spent the second verse recovering from my panic attack by staring at the music, counting beats aloud, and trying to convince my appendages to stop shaking. Too soon it was the end of the second verse and I had a split second to decide whether I should keep with the same registration or put the "fear of God" in as I had planned and pull out all the stops. Certainly the hymn had already been exciting. But I remembered what every single music teacher has ever said: "if you make a mistake, make it loud." If you're the one still singing "Hallelujah" at that critical pause at the end of the "Hallelujah Chorus," you better belt it out. So I did it. And it was wonderfully loud.

And when it was over, I slinked back to the front pew and tried my best during the remaining talks to pretend like those three minutes never happened so that I would have the energy and courage to play the closing hymn (which was mercifully easy). Let me assure you, I did check the hymn board before I played it.

That's part of the beauty of lay musicians, you never know what you're going to get. I've been thinking about some of my best experiences with church music. I've had some very spiritual experiences with music and some deeply funny ones as well. Here are a couple from the entertaining side, both from my home ward.

One of the organists was an alumna of the major state university north of the G.O.D. U and a rabid fan. Naturally there was a bit of a rivalry within the ward and mostly good-natured heckling. One year the G.O.D U. lost the big football game to its heathen rival. Sister Ute happened to be the organist the next day for sacrament meeting. After the closing prayer we hear the slow and reverent strains of the postlude coming from the speakers: "I am a Utah man, sir and I live across the green . . ." My father, the Utah man himself, was grinning ear to ear. I'm pretty sure he might have been the only one there to recognize it.

Then there are the special musical numbers. I grew up during the period when Christian pop and our own particular version took over. Young women with big bangs and lacy collared dresses would cry to piano accompaniment consisting of arpeggiated chords or perhaps some syncopated octaves following standard chord progressions. When a word or two of the lyrics did make it out of the sobs, my child's mind didn't know if they were talking about Jesus or their boyfriend. It's not that I'm against the kind of mysticism that conflates the two, but it's just not the metaphor one usually hears at church. It was certainly a moving experience as a child, as I always felt sorry for everyone involved. But it seemed to become a futile exercise to repeat it missionary farewell after missionary farewell.

But my favorite instance from my youth doesn't involve blubbering at the podium or missionaries. The young man involved in his adolescent arrogance confused pomposity with profundity (aren't those great words, btw?). For example, he gave the sacrament prayer as if it were a Shakespearean soliloquy. One time he sang one of those MoPop I explained above. The high point was when he went into falsetto for a chorus while trying to look transcendent. My sister and I attempted to giggle “reverently” and “silently” which probably looked like we were having some sort of convulsive seizure. My dad was grinning and tried to catch my mother’s eye. But my mom ignored all of us and stared straight ahead. It was a good plan. If she had looked at us it would have been all over, at least on our pew.

It reminds me of that quote from Jane Austen's Mr. Bennett: "What then do we live for, but to make sport for our neighbors, and laugh at them in our turn." I hope that I sometimes facilitate the congregation having a spiritual experience while singing the hymns. I hope also that they also take the opportunity to enjoy it when I'm up there muttering beats to myself and loving that nice thick pedal sound from the pipe organ. Because I'm certainly laughing at me.

Have you had any similar experiences?