Monday, September 25, 2017

An Open Letter to the ND Folk Choir

Dearest Folk Choir, past and present,

A year ago, on this day, my wife and I had our final days on the campus of the University of Notre Dame.  I chose to get up very early, walking around the place that had been both home and vineyard for the past 35 years.  And I contemplated it all – the dorms (some newly built), the spire of the Basilica, the statue of the Sacred Heart.  As do many pilgrims, I made my way down to the Grotto, praying to the one who so many years before had said her own "Yes" to the unknown.

A year now.

This morning, I took another walk, but instead of a pristine, sleepy campus, my journey took me to Grafton Street and its environs in city centre Dublin.  Little did Michele and I know what our yes would entail: a choir gallery littered with broken timbers, chicken wire, and years of dirt; a congregation that barely counted four dozen; an organ with acute bronchitis; a Lady Chapel that was, literally, filled with mould and on the verge of collapse. But it is like so many things we say "yes" to – and the reason why marriage is a sacramental Yes.  It was the launching into the Unknown.  And it is wise to approach both the launch and the journey with reverence.

There have been victories, both large and small.  As with anything holy, it is the small ones that are seared into your soul. Here's one: every morning, I open up the doors of Newman's University Church at 7:30am.  It is not the grand, dramatic parting of the portals that announce Bishop Barron's Catholicism production; it's a simple gesture of service.  But time and time again, as I open those doors, I notice all kinds of people – business suits, city street cleaners, garbage collectors.  And quietly, almost imperceptibly, some of them make a sign of the Cross as they pass our entrance.

The large victories are the stuff of common knowledge now: two broadcasts on RTÉ in six months (one, a first, on television; the other a radio broadcast two weeks ago); the creation of a choir of young professionals where once there was nothing; the growth of the Sunday congregations, both morning and evening.

But I keep going back to that quiet signing of the Cross: it never ceases to capture my imagination. Generations ago, the Irish were persecuted if they dared do such a thing. Nowadays, the persecution endures – but not because of an Anglo invasion.  This time, it is a far more subtle and dread foe: secularisation.  It is a menacing adversary, one that says you're a fool to believe, and an even crazier fool to talk or (God forbid) sing about it.

Yet quietly, almost secretly, a good many of the Irish still cling to their faith.

I had a moment today – an almost Merton-like moment, when that ridiculously talented Trappist monk stood at the corners of Fourth and Walnut in Louisville, Kentucky, and was caught up in a profound love of the people he saw passing by.  As I walked around Dublin, taking in the blue sky, looking at the hands of the clock near Pete's Pub and Snug, watching the merchants opening their own doors, I realised that I had, in fact, embraced this city and her people in ways far deeper than I had ever imagined. To be sure, sometimes only three-quarters of the work is accomplished, the newspapers never arrive as promised, and bills take months to sort out.  But they love song, and story, and their faith is in their bones.  They only need permission to own it once again.


You who gather twice a week on the third floor of the Coleman-Morse Ministry Center, you who diligently practice and so often bring joy and inspiration to countless worshipers: I know you, and I know the question you are always carrying around in your back pockets: What am I to do?  It is the great question of anyone who attends a place of higher learning.  It is also the great question of the family of mankind.

And I can tell you this: there are not many things that can compare with the joy of unlocking the power of the human voice.  That, essentially, is what we are doing here.  Giving permission to people to sing once more.

From my office window, I can see where John Cardinal Newman started his Catholic University.  I can see the window of the room where Gerard Manley Hopkins passed away.  Above my computer screen is a picture of the ND Folk Choir, and it has a place of pride. I look at it often: not in a spirit of melancholy ("I'll never know that again!"), but rather as an icon of hopefulness – what was created there can, in its own unique way, be created here.  We often sing "We are fed by the hand of the Lord; every need is answered by our God."  If we believe the psalmist's words to be true, then the same will happen here in Dublin.

And so, as you make your way through the year, I predict that sly question will continue to pursue you like the hound of heaven: "What am I to do?" Consider answering it wisely. Remember that your own voice is the embodiment of the Holy.  Use it well.  Sing well.  Never keep from singing, from letting your voice be heard, from unlocking the voices of those with whom you journey.

With my undying admiration,

Steve