Singing at the Oratoire

On Sunday afternoon, our choir sang here. This is the Oratoire St-Joseph, a huge Roman Catholic shrine and basilica on the side of our local mountain, Mont Royal, overlooking the north-western side of the city.

This was the view in the early afternoon, before our rehearsal began. Starting at the parking lot far below this terrace at the top of the building are sets of steps, which pilgrims climb up on their knees. I walked up, but once inside the building I used the escalator — the most devout go all the way aux genoux. Below the main sanctuary is another chapel, and a shrine room filled with high banks of flickering votive candles, and the crutches of those who believed themselves to be healed by Brother André, founder of this shrine to St. Joseph. Brother André, credited with two "official" miracles but believed by millions to have healed many more, was made Saint André by the pope last year, and the Oratory — whose grandeur I doubt that simple man could have ever imagined — is a site of pilgrimage for people from all over the world and one of the most-visited sites in Montreal.

The occasion was a service celebrating 40 years of dialogue between Roman Catholics and Anglicans, and it was mainly about and for the clergy who have been involved with this mutual listening project over the years. We had been asked by the Bishop of Montreal to represent the Anglicans, and we sang both separately and together with Les Petits Chanteurs, the boys' choir  resident at the Oratory.

Along with the  clergy, we robed in a huge sacristy to the side of the main altar. This is part of our group, getting ready off in one corner of the room.

There were bishops. Lots of bishops.

I quite like the design of the Oratory; some don't. It's very modern, and feels Germanic, which is perhaps odd for Montreal where most of the Catholic churches are ornate, French, and rather baroque. This building has a number of large expressionist wood carvings, extremely beautiful ironwork (the central grille in the photo below, for instance, and you can see some candle stands at the bottom far left), many glittering mosaics (on either side of the grille) and a gigantic organ.

Here's the boys' choir rehearsing; we were seated beyond them on those semicircular benches, behind the crucifix in front of the grille. That rod and semi-circle at the left are a suspension system holding a number of tiny microphones.

They sang Bruckner's "Locus iste," a great piece; they sang the notes well, but (it seemed to me) without much conviction or feeling. We sang a Magnificat and a big Victorian number for double choir, "Hail Gladdening Light," by Charles Wood. In the Oratory's acoutsic, it was quite thrilling to hear our voices, and their overtones, reverberating for many seconds after we had finished the last chord.

And here's the view when I left after the service, around 6:00 pm. I walked down, and by the time I reached my car my knees were protesting a lot! Down a mountain is always worse, for me, than up — somehow I don't think Saint Andre will be fixing my old ski injuries anytime soon. But one of the great pleasures of singing in this choir is the occasional chance to perfom in different venues and circumstances; this was fun.

Montreal Anglicans and Occupy Protesters: A Different Approach

At our Anglican cathedral here in Montreal, I'm very pleased that just today, the Dean opened our undercroft kitchen for use by the Occupy Montreal food people 3 days per week.

J. and I have also both agreed to serve on a newly-forming social justice committee; we'll have our second meeting this Sunday. It feels better to be working in a group, trying to raise consciousness among the congregation, bearing public witness, and eventually taking real action. I want to help make the church and diocese politically responsible, as they should be, and to be a voice for those who have none.

A New Wrinkle at “Occupy London”

Over in London at Blaugustine, Natalie has a very good post about her take on what's happening between the Occupy protesters and their "hosts", St. Paul's Cathedral and the Church of England. St. Paul's Dean resigned today; he has been in favor of seeking an injunction to evict the protesters and has decided to step aside in order to allow other leadership to take over. My comment on Natalie's post states briefly what I think about this, but you can probably guess!

Remembrance and Renewal

 ("The scars of September 11")

Our cathedral community includes a number of Canadian-Americans, many of whom came up during the 1960s and never left. We are the odd ones who came recently, driven by a different war and a different set of national paranoias and persecutions. Each Sunday there is a place in the liturgy for "the Prayers of the People" – a lay-led set of intercessions, fairly freely composed as a litany, in which we pray for the world, for our local community, for the Church, and for each other. It comes right before the general confession, which precedes communion.

J. and I were asked to lead these prayers on September 11, and although I rarely include prayers here, I thought this time I would, since I wrote them for this occasion and they express pretty well my feelings about this day — and I also thought some of you might be interested in this part of what we liturgy-besotted Anglicans actually do. Constructing and writing liturgical text is a challenge that I like; I've done quite a bit of it but most often for groups of mixed faith traditions. Liturgy is like drama – or perhaps I should say, it is drama — there must be ebb and flow; beauty and rhythm akin to prose poetry; a build-up of tension and release; and an overall control of the flow of emotion and content. It can be very effective and meaningful, or it can fall flat. In our tradition we have a pretty high standard of writing and language, and that's both challenging and helpful.

When I address "God" here I am speaking not to some omnipotent deity "out there" seated on a throne from which he (of course, "he") manipulates us like puppets, but to the force for good that I believe exists not only in the world but inside each of us — what Paul Tillich called "the ground of being" — that we can access when we reflect deeply and are motivated in our decisions and actions by love.

–

On this tenth anniversary of September 11, 2001, let us pray for our world.

Dear Lord, today we remember. We each remember where we were ten years ago, our shock and horror. We remember the strangers whose deaths we witnessed, those we knew who were affected, and those whose heroism saved others. We remember the families of the victims, and the survivors. And we pray for all of them.

(all) Lord in your mercy, hear our prayer.

Ten years ago, a friend wrote:

Another week has come to an end. Some of the people in my neighborhood are able to move back. There is only access by foot and many police checkpoints. People are trying to get back to some kind of normalcy. Our building isn’t open yet. Another, around the corner, may need to come down – the fire damage was extensive from the plane parts that hit and are still in the building. I have concern for the children in the neighborhood who will have to return to this. We, along with the rest of the country, are waiting to see what happens next. I can’t imagine the type of war people are suggesting. Someone wrote on a sidewalk nearby, “An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind.”

Dear Lord, today we mourn. We mourn for our lost innocence, and for a changed world – a world which has become more fearful, and, as a result, more extremist, more paranoid, more violent and oppressive, and much less secure. We mourn our inability to reach toward one another, and our perpetual human tendency to turn to violence because we cannot believe strongly enough in love. We mourn our failure to embrace difference, and our missed opportunities for humility, self-examination, and peace-making. As Christians, we mourn the fact that you have told us again and again to turn away from hatred, and to love one another — and still we have not heard you.

And so, Lord, today we bring to you our sadness, our frustration, our fears for ourselves and our children. We bring our uncertainties, and we bring our hope. Help us to know who we are meant to be, and what we are called to do, and to act with courage and faith for justice, truth and peace, always remembering Jesus’ commandment: love one another.

Lord in your mercy, hear our prayer.

We pray for our country of Canada, and for our unique city of Montreal, home to so many people from all over the world, living in relative harmony. We pray that our country and city may continue to be beacons of peace, freedom, and opportunity, and that our leaders may heed these words from the First Book of Kings: “A multitude of wise men is the salvation of the world, and a sensible king is the stability of his people.”

(all) Lord in your mercy, hear our prayer.

 

Let us pray for the Church

(specific prayers are said for our parish and diocese, and our prayer partner, the diocese of Masasi and this week's prayer cycle-partner, Myanmar.)

Dear God, we pray for the Church. Imbue our leaders with the courage to preach the Gospel as your Son intended: to be peacemakers, to champion the oppressed and the weak, and to stand and speak for peace, justice, and honesty against the powers and principalities of the world. Inspire in all of us faith in your grace and in your presence working among us, and help us to remember these words of Archbishop Oscar Romero: “Do not worry about whether or not you are effective. Worry about what is possible for you to do, which is always greater than you imagine.”

(all) Lord in your mercy, hear our prayer.

Let us pray for members of our own community:

(a list of names follows of those in special need) 

And let us take a moment to pray for those closest to us, and for those we love who have departed from this life. (silence)

(all) Lord in your mercy, hear our prayer.

And so, let us bring ourselves before God, asking his forgiveness and renewal:

(all) Have mercy upon us, most merciful Father; in your compassion, forgive us our sins, known and unknown, things done and left undone, and so uphold us by your Spirit that we may live and serve you in newness of life, to the honour and glory of your name; through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

A)    On this tenth anniversary of September 11, 2001, let us pray for our world.

Dear Lord, today we remember. We each remember where we were ten years ago, our shock and horror. We remember the strangers whose deaths we witnessed, those we knew who were affected, and those whose heroism saved others. We remember the families of the victims, and the survivors. And we pray for all of them.

Lord in your mercy, hear our prayer.

 

Ten years ago, a friend wrote:

Another week has come to an end. Some of the people in my neighborhood are able to move back. There is only access by foot and many police checkpoints. People are trying to get back to some kind of normalcy. Our building isn’t open yet. Another, around the corner, may need to come down – the fire damage was extensive from the plane parts that hit and are still in the building. I have concern for the children in the neighborhood who will have to return to this.

We, along with the rest of the country, are waiting to see what happens next. I can’t imagine the type of war people are suggesting. Someone wrote on a sidewalk nearby, “An eye for an eye leaves the whole world blind.”

 

Dear Lord, today we mourn. We mourn for our lost innocence, and for a changed world – a world which has become more fearful, and, as a result, more extremist, more paranoid, more violent and oppressive, and much less secure. We mourn our inability to reach toward one another, and our perpetual human tendency to turn to violence because we cannot believe strongly enough in love. We mourn our failure to embrace difference, and our missed opportunities for humility, self-examination, and peace-making. As Christians, we mourn the fact that you have told us again and again to turn away from hatred, and to love one another — and still we have not heard you.

And so, Lord, today we bring to you our sadness, our frustration, our fears for ourselves and our children. We bring our uncertainties, and we bring our hope. Help us to know who we are meant to be, and what we are called to do, and to act with courage and faith for justice, truth and peace, always remembering Jesus’ commandment: love one another.

Lord in your mercy, hear our prayer.

 

We pray for our country of Canada, and for our unique city of Montreal, home to so many people from all over the world, living in relative harmony. We pray that our country and city may continue to be beacons of peace, freedom, and opportunity, and that our leaders may heed these words from the First Book of Kings: “A multitude of wise men is the salvation of the world, and a sensible king is the stability of his people.”

Lord in your mercy, hear our prayer.

 

 

B) Let us pray for THE CHURCH

In our Cathedral Parish, we pray for Paul and Rhonda, our clergy; we pray for the ministry team and servers, for the vergers, for the greeters, for all those involved in our music ministry, for the support and office staff, and for the members of cathedral Forum and Corporation.

We pray for the renewal of commitment to Christian Life in our community; for our ecumenical fellowship with neighbouring churches; and for La Communauté du Rédempteur, and we pray for a new spirit of interest and cooperation with those of other faiths.

We pray for our Diocese, especially for St Mary’s Church in Kirkland, and their priest, The Revd Lorne Tardy, and for our bishop, the Rt.  Rev. Barry Clarke.

We pray for The Anglican Communion – for our Prayer Partners in The Diocese of Masasi, and especially this week for Sittwe in Myanmar and its bishops, The Rt Revd Barnabas Theaung Hawi, and The Rt Revd Sein Aung, and for Rowan Williams, the Archibishop of Canturbury

 

Dear God, we pray for the Church. Imbue our leaders with the courage to preach the Gospel as your Son intended: to be peacemakers, to champion the oppressed and the weak, and to stand and speak for peace, justice, and honesty against the powers and principalities of the world. Inspire in all of us faith in your grace and in your presence working among us, and help us to remember these words of Archbishop Oscar Romero: “Do not worry about whether or not you are effective. Worry about what is possible for you to do, which is always greater than you imagine.”

 

Lord in your mercy, hear our prayer.

 

 

 

Let us pray for members of our own community:

For those In Special Need: Scott Harding, Swanne Gordon, Andrew, Christopher Marlow, Joshua, Barbara Smith, Tobias, Gerry

 

Continued Support: Nancy Gilbert, Carolyn Edmonds, Duncan Peter, Lisa, Christopher Coolidge, Alice Knewstubb, Gloria Hall, Nathalie, Roger, Alain, Marie-Claire, Jonathan Fleming, James

 

And let us take a moment to pray for those closest to us, and for those we love who have departed from this life.

 

 

And so, using the form printed in the bulletin, let us bring ourselves before God, asking his forgiveness and renewal:

 

Have mercy upon us, most merciful Father; in your compassion, forgive us

our sins, known and unknown, things done and left undone, and so uphold

us by your Spirit that we may live and serve you in newness of life, to the

honour and glory of your name;

through Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.

Feral Capitalism

OK, a rare rant.

This morning I got a note from a Canadian friend with whom I often discuss politics and religion. He was sending me a link to an article by David Harvey, professor at CUNY, about the British riots, where he picked up on the Daily Mail's phrase "nihilistic and feral teenagers" and wrote about the larger phenomenon he calls "feral capitalism." This was my reply to my friend:

I was appalled by (Archbishop of Canterbury) Rowan Williams' remarks to the House of Lords, and even more surprised that The Guardian, of all places, lauded what he said.

"Feral capitalism" is a perfect phrase for what we're seeing. We are so free to talk about "bad parenting" and "criminality" while our governments bomb innocents, rob billions of dollars from the economies to pay for their wars, send all the available manufacturing jobs offshore, and allow millionaires and giant corporations to evade taxes while cutting social services — and then are astonished when people who have nothing take the things they want, the same things that are touted daily in mass advertising and the media and give prestige in a society that cares mainly about consumption and wealth. What, exactly, are criminality and morality, I'd like to ask? Shall we go back to the Book of Kings and see what's written there? Perhaps Williams ought to read the prophets as well as the Gospels in addition to Dostoyevsky and Marx!

Then too, we seem astounded to discover large segments of the population who are basically nihilistic. We already know that 50% or more of the people don't vote. They already don't feel they are part of this "society" we're defending; they were dropped from it long ago, especially in class societies like England. In the U.S., which I don't often defend, at least poor kids have a chance of moving up; fewer doors are barred, and rising from poverty through education and hard work is a narrative built into American culture — look at Bill Clinton — such people are not successfully discriminated against by people with titles or inherited wealth. I can't help but feel that a backdrop of royal wedding excess, Olympic fever, as well as the constant barrage of media messages have contributed. Michael Adams' charts of trends in North American social values, in his books like "Fire and Ice" show this very clearly and disturbingly.

David Harvey writes:

Thatcherism unchained the feral instincts of capitalism (the “animal spirits” of the entreprenuer they coyly named it) and nothing has transpired to curb them since. Slash and burn is now openly the motto of the ruling classes pretty much everywhere.

This is the new normal in which we live. This is what the next grand commission of enquiry should address. Everyone, not just the rioters, should be held to account. Feral capitalism should be put on trial for crimes against humanity as well as for crimes against nature.

Sadly, this is what these mindless rioters cannot see or demand. Everything conspires to prevent us from seeing and demanding it also. This is why political power so hastily dons the robes of superior morality and unctuous reason so that no one might see it as so nakedly corrupt and stupidly irrational.

But he does go on to point out places where instances that give hope for change. In my lifetime, the "Powers and Principalities," to use Walter Wink's phrase, have only become more powerful, into which the institutional Church is inextricably entwined, so it is hard to imagine the process reversing. I too am appalled by mindless rioting and looting, especially by children, but I am not surprised, not at all.

I was not poor myself, but grew up among the rural poor, and have lived most of my life in mixed neighborhoods where I've interacted daily with disenfranchised people. People whose lives include education, love, opportunity, mentors, expectations, and hope cannot apply their standards to those who have none of those things.

A very small example: I've always grown flowers, both in front of my house and in the backyard. Every year, I'd lose some of the front flowers to poor local children wo lived in Section 8 housing down the street. Once when I saw two girls heading down the street with the hands full of bright tulips, I followed and caught up with them. They stopped, chagrined, and I asked them why they had taken the flowers. "Because we wanted them," one said, with perfect honesty. "Because they're so pretty," said the other, "and we don't have anything like that at home." I told them they could always have some flowers to pick, if they'd ring the doorbell first and ask rather than just taking them. They said fine, and did that.

I don't tell that story to excuse the behavior of the rioters and looters, simply to say that the inequalities have grown far too great, and that "because I wanted them" is a very basic rationale for the non-thinking, impulsive behavior we've just witnessed. Bad parenting or failed education are, of course, huge factors, but in my opinion they're not the end reason but further symptoms of a much deeper underlying problem. These phenomena don't arise out of a vacuum, but against a cultural background of savage, rampant capitalism where great crimes by the powerful — from the highest institutions to the richest individuals, often in collusion with one another — are not only unpunished, but rewarded.

Advent I

Forgive me for not writing much tonight, but I've been at the cathedral all day long and I'm very tired.

Our guests in the cathedral community during this special week (which is the 150th anniversary of our building) have been the Suffragan Bishop of Cuba, the Rt. Rev. Nerva Cot Aguilera, and her husband, the Very Rev. Juan Ramón de la Paz, who is the Dean of our sister cathedral in Havana. At the 10:00 am service today, Juan preached and Nerva co-celebrated; his sermon was about the great importance of equal friendship between peoples of different cultures – not judging, not feeling superior/inferior because of wealth or opportunity or political idealogy, but simply meeting each other as friends. At the big Advent Lessons&Carols Evensong later in the day, Nerva read one of the lessons in Spanish, and other readings were in French and in English, which was very nice indeed.

Yesterday evening there was a dinner and dance in celebration of this anniversary. I hadn't expected to have such a good time, but I did — dancing until late in my high heels (and I didn't even feel sore today.) We had delicious Caribbean food served by another Montreal Anglican congregation, who do catering as part of their ministry. But the highlight was watching this couple from Havana dancing to Latin rhythms: so elegant, so dignified, and so joyful. They'll go home in a few days, taking off the sweaters, parkas, and mufflers that have been protecting them during these northern days, but hopefully full of memories of the warmth with which they were greeted here.

I wish I knew what they've been thinking.

The Poaching Pope

 

Charlemagne and the Pope

Pope Benedict announced yesterday that the Vatican is establishing a way for disaffected Anglicans to become Catholics.

By means of a decree known as an apostolic convention, the Pope has
created a new structure allowing Anglicans to join the Catholic Church
while maintaining their own liturgy – in particular the historic Book
of Common Prayer – and in some cases having their own bishops. 

Reaction has been, to my mind, confused and wishywashy, but several points seem obvious and need to be made. (And I write this with some reluctance: after the publication of my book in 2006 about Bishop Gene Robinson and church politics, especially with regard to homosexuality, I felt very weary of the entire subject, and have largely stayed on the sidelines of the ongoing debate. However…)

1) This is a calculated economic and strategic move. Pope Benedict may be retrograde, but he is also shrewd. As Catholic parishes dwindle, and his insistence on "holding the line" against progressive movements that would bring Catholicism into the 21st century fails to result in Catholics "returning to the fold", the Vatican is looking elsewhere to fill its pews, clergy lists, and coffers. Many of the disaffected Anglican parishes are both conservative and wealthy. A drop in the bucket, in international terms, perhaps, but every bit helps. I'm quite sure the Vatican looked around and said, "If these parishes are leaving and aligning with African Anglican bishops, why shouldn't we try to get them to come over to us?"

2) Contrary to sentimental Anglican notions, the Vatican doesn't care about closer ties. Throughout the history of the Anglican Church, a portion of Anglicans have sought to reunite with what they see as "the one true church." These Anglo-Catholics have sought closer ties with Rome but have been repeatedly rebuffed; instead they have formed parishes which have, in many cases, refused to use the revised Book of Common Prayer (revised especially to use inclusive language) and steadfastly opposed the ordination of women. Even so, the Vatican has not made any offers until now – when it sees these parishes leaving the Anglican Communion anyway because of the ordination of gay bishops and priests. This isn't about closer ties that might ultimately lead to a rapprochement with Rome, which would, in fact, require ideological movement by both churches toward one another: it's an acknowledgment of irreconcilable differences and an indication that no movement by the Catholic Church is forthcoming whatsoever.

3) Therefore, the Vatican is essentially saying "welcome" to homophobic, anti-female, anti-progressive Anglicans: you're just the kind of Catholics we want — rather than seeing what's happening in the Anglican Communion as an indication that fundamental change is required within Catholicism. It may also be a silent tit-for-tat reaction to Catholic defection by progressives and gay people to the Episcopal and Anglican churches.

4) Racism. Anglican and Episcopal leaders have reacted vaguely, but generally positively. I find that extremely disturbing, for the following reason. Besides the AngloCatholics, the other group outraged by gay ordination have been the evangelicals, led by bishops of the so-called Global South, particularly African bishops from provinces such as Uganda and Nigeria. When these Anglican bishops wooed American bishops, held illegal ordinations for new bishops, and circumvented Anglican rules of behavior, it was rightly called "poaching." Now we have Anglican spokespersons making statements like "there's no reason to see the Vatican's move negatively," (Canon Eric Beresford of Canada) or as "a comment on problems within Anglicanism" (Archbishop of Canterbury Rowan Williams).

The black African bishops spoke openly about the end of the colonial legacy, and triumphally about the success of evangelical Anglicanism in the developing world, where the numbers are greatest and the church is actually growing. That attitude didn't go down well in North America and Europe, but a white European pope, wearing the same outfit and saying the same mass and preaching in the same restrained way? Well, this is something familiar; he is, for all intents and purposes, one of us – we northerners are all, so to speak, cut out of the same ecclesiastical cloth, and so we'll extend professional courtesy to one another. In my opinion, that's racist.

5) why should anyone care? A good question, and on that has been brought up in the comments in every article I've read about this development. The answer is that there are still people who find comfort and faith in the liturgical tradition maintained by Catholicism and Anglicanism, and – as Canon Eric Beresford so rightly pointed out, "people need to find a home." Here in Quebec, where the Catholic church has been so discredited, and deserted by the French Canadians who once filled every parish pew and balcony, we have an example of what the future looks like if churches refuse to acknowledge the past and look toward a future that keeps pace with the world. In our Anglican parish, the largest group of newcomers are gay former Roman Catholics who have found a home where they are welcome as full participants in the mass, and in the life of the parish. I've writtten already about the enormous damage done to gay men and women who were refused communion and rejected by priests and, in some cases, their own Catholic families as unredeemable sinners. Their personal stories are well known to me now, as is the pain that they've endured and their relief at finding a place with a different message, but the same basic liturgy of the mass. I understand why simply rejecting the church and leaving for good was not an option for many of them (and I also see why this is hard for people to understand who weren't raised in a Catholic tradition.)

Finally, what disturbs me the most is the Anglican leadership's equivocation when they act as if these two divides are somehow equal, natural and right. All that says is "what we care about is not truth, not the existence of moral principles and justice, but the preservation of the institution by whatever means are necessary." Breaking into multiple divisions rather than struggling together is the easier way out, but even if that happens, why should we sidestep what it really means and what we are saying when we support it? Are women and gay people to be endlessly excluded from full participation, or do we actually stand for something? If we do, then it should be said courageously, with no mincing of words, and lived out as fact. Without this, is it any wonder people who can detest hypocrisy are deserting the church in droves?

micropoem

Cathedral baptism:
a family of forty
in high heels and suits
takes vows,
provides a cake –
but they'll be gone
before the icing
is licked from our
fingers.

Lavabo

From a letter to a friend. She had been talking about ways to read literature more closely and deliberately – by copying parts of it, for instance – and was musing about the other arts, and how much time pianists must spend examining the structure of each piece they play. I replied:

You're right about
close readings – it's the same reason for drawing things in order to see them
better.  Pianists, though, don't
necessarily read that way when they're engaged with the sheet music. If you are
a good sight-reader you can simply move through the music without thinking
much about the structure at all. I'm finding this with the choir: churning through
music at such a fast pace with professionals and experienced amateurs, your goal is
to get it into performance shape as quickly as possible. But that may mean you
barely read the text, don't think about the keys or harmonic structure; you
make sense of the shape and feeling of the music by fitting it into what you
already know about the period, adjust the breathing and the rise and fall of
the lines according to your developed musicality, and perform it. Then it goes
back onto the shelf for another six years. But you certainly haven't
"lived inside it," and I miss that – it is not, in other words,
study.

Last night, along with a mass setting by Herbert Howells, we sang a Thomas Morley motet – absolutely beautiful – a sustained contrapuntal exploration for five vocal parts of this text:

Laboravi in gemitu meo.

Lavabo per singulas noctes lectum meum.

Lacrimis meis stratum meum rigabo.

I am weary
with my groaning
Every night I make my bed to swim
I water my couch with my
tears.

How terrific an Ash Wednesday text is that? But it was in Latin,
and we had only fifteen minutes of rehearsal time allotted for putting it
together. The performance was very good, but I felt my own experience of the
music had barely begun…I did laugh inside as it went by, though, thinking how "lavabo" is a word I first discovered in IKEA  — that's "bathroom sink" in French-Canadian stores. (I discovered later, from the New Advent Catholic encyclopedia, that "lavabo," Latin for "I shall
wash," is "the first word of that portion of Psalm 26 said by the
celebrant at Mass while he washes his hands after the offertory, from
which word the whole ceremony is named." From the liturgical rite, the word came to mean a basin for the washing of hands.)

Last night the Dean, who's retiring this year and getting even more forthright
than ever – which is saying something – preached an excellent sermon about how difficult faith is in the
21st century when the God we were taught about is simply impossible to believe
in anymore. But he talked about the "thin places" which were
important in Celtic spirituality, and where we might find them now. Music and
poetry of course were two of the places important to him, and he quoted a long
section of Eliot's "Little Gidding" while I sat there with Howells
and Morley on my lap, watching the reflective face of our director as he too listened, looking off into the chancel. I felt
fortunate — though rather like a rare bird that knows it's being kept alive in a hot-house — and somewhat renewed after a few weeks of not being in the best frame of mind. Caring for one another, and finding time to spend in these
thin places, is about all we can do in the modern world, I think.

O Magnum Mysterium

Side door of old parish church, rural Quebec

The sun has set on this Christmas day, but the roast is yet to go into the oven, the fire to be lit, the small pile of presents still to be unwrapped. It's quiet here in the late afternoon of a much-needed restful day. I didn't get to bed last night until 1:45 am, after singing two services with rehearsals that began at 2:30 in the afternoon. I was tired but exhilarated, and although my shoulders and back still ached this morning from standing many hours holding my music folder I felt happy to have this aspect of Christmas back in my life. We're glad, too, to be celebrating the holiday here in Montreal for the first time. Although we miss the three parents who are no longer with us, there's a sense of relief and release at not worrying about a mother or father who is declining or ill – which has been a constant reality for us this entire decade. My father drove up last week to meet us in Vermont, and we visited some of our old friends who've also known him now for many years. At 84, he's absolutely remarkable, and for the first time since my mother died he is starting – cautiously – to date a little bit. And while there is some sadness in the letting-go and change that that entails – for both him and me – there's a lightness and spirited hopefulness in him that I haven't seen for years.

In his sermon at the midnight service, the Dean, who is nearing the end of his formal ministry career, spoke about his disappointment in the institution of the church – still so invested in power and the preservation of a formal structure – and so resistant to change. But in reflecting on what this night can mean to us, beyond the traditional stories and the pagan rituals of solstice they incorporated, he suggested that it was a time to think about what needs to be born in each of us, as we pass out of darkness into light, with hope. Of course I thought about my father, and other family members who seem to be emerging from long difficulties, and the way that – later in life – you can't return to a former untouched innocence, but instead go on somehow holding the darkness and light in both hands. I also looked around at the red-robed choir members around me in the organ loft, some listening to the sermon, some reading or reviewing their music, some leaning their heads back, eyes closed, trying to catch a few minutes of rest after a long day, and felt a surge of affection for all of them. What has needed to be born in me again, and what I felt so grateful for last night, is music.

At the end of the midnight service, we sang a setting of "O magnum mysterium" by Malcolm Archer, organist and choirmaster of Wells Cathedral. This text, which tells of "the great mystery" of Christ's birth and is taken from the Christmas Day responses for the service of Matins (morning prayer), has been set by many composers through the centuries. Malcolm Archer had this to say about his own composition:

O magnum Mysterium is a very still and homophonic setting of arguably the
most inspiring of Christmas texts, a text which I have wanted to set for some
time. The piece was not a commission but a response to a feeling of the moment,
where I wished to create a timeless mood where pulse loses significance and
where the harmony unfolds slowly and voices are held in suspension rather than
urged forward. It has always struck me that the great settings of Victoria and
Poulenc managed this, in their own way, with consummate success and I wanted to
try and achieve the same effect using my own language. These great words
transport you from earth and give, for a moment at least, a glimpse of heaven.

We had sung the piece earlier, at the 4:00 service, and it went very well. But in the night, after communion, our choir stood in the baptistry – where the acoustics are best both for the audience and for us to hear one another – and sang Archer's beautiful music again. I don't know, of course, what the composer means personally by "a glimpse of heaven", but for me, it is the experience of unity, and that is what happened during O magnum mysterium last night.

I've made music with other people all my life, for the challenge and enjoyment of it, but also because it affords an opportunity for those rare moments when a group of people and the conductor become one organism, all our attention and preparation and skill centered on a single experience. Breathing together, feeling one another, and – most of all – entering with heightened awareness into the music, the group moves together through a final door that has before been closed, or only partly ajar. You feel it happening – all of you feel it – but there is a suspension of conscious thought, akin to meditation, where you know but aren't distracted. And the gift you are receiving becomes a gift you are also giving, so the unity – that momentary glimpse – expands to the listeners, if they are open to receiving it.

O great mystery: seen in the dark eyes of a well-dressed middle-aged woman that met mine during the recessional, and in the clear blue ones of the homeless man in camouflage fatigues who had come inside for the service and who would later go out to sleep not in a stable but on the stone steps of an inner city cathedral.

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I couldn't find a performance of the Archer setting, but here is one of the Victoria Magnum that inspired him, along with a modern setting by Morten Lauridsen, somewhat similar to the Archer but better known. (headphones recommended.) Happy Christmas to all of you!