Saturday, December 23, 2017

An Invasion, Made of Straw

Last week my wife and I headed down to Nassau Street in Dublin – a formidable journey given that Grafton Street, the main artery by which one makes this trip, is the human equivalent of an L.A. freeway.  

We were meeting a friend at K. C. Peaches, a lovely establishment for breakfast or a little noshing.  And no, it's not Bob Evans, but it'll do....

Anyway, here we were munching on coffee cake and sipping our cafĂ© Americano.  And as any musician would do, I had one ear turned to the music that was playing in the background.  Here's a partial list of what I overheard:

"It's the Holiday Season"  –  Andy Williams
"O Come, All Ye Faithful"  –  Bing Crosby
"Hallelujah Chorus" –  Neville Marriner, St. Martin in the Fields
"O Tannenbaum"  –  Vince Guaraldi 
"Santa Baby"  –  probably Madonna, but by then I stopped listening

I found myself fascinated by this soundtrack, accompanying our caffeine and cake.  

For at what other time of the year does sacred music invade the marketplace in such a manner?  When, lunching with a friend, a triumphant song about Jesus blasts from the Muzak speakers above your head?  And does so, unabashedly, without apology?  As if this is the most normal thing in all the universe.

It is an invasion, that's what it is – manufactured of straw and circumstance, manure and makeshift plans.  The most vulnerable of stories, born of poverty.  And yet it has permeated every corner of our secular world, in ways that no ad campaign, no sum of money, could ever concoct.  And this story continues, and will, far beyond this day.

We would do well, in this age of fake news, arms and aggression, to consider the stories that have prevailed, to acknowledge where true might resides, to put no trust in the princes of this earth (as is recommended by the psalmist).  We would do well to consider that two thousand years later, this implausible story of poverty and God-becoming-man still holds us to its challenges.  

Nollaig shona duit – a happy Christmas to all our friends, to those who have kept us in prayer far across the waters, to all who have been an encouragement in this grand venture of following the Voice far beyond what is known and comfortable.  



Thursday, December 7, 2017

"Lady Bird" and the hermit

From here in Dublin, it appears that a joyous kerfuffle is brewing across the Atlantic – a particular anthem from Songs of the Notre Dame Folk Choir has made its presence known in the new movie Lady Bird, with Saoirse Ronan in the title role.

For the record, I haven't seen this movie yet. So this post is generated based on rumours, always a somewhat cautious task. But this is what I've heard: that the NY Times is howling Oscar choruses for Ronan; that the Catholic Church, finally, is shown in a rather kindly fashion; that this coming-of-age chronicle nails it, in all its messy, vulnerable, grace-filled humanity.

On Thursday morning, November 23rd, I got a crazy e-mail from my dear friend and former president of the Folk Choir, Colleen Moore.  Have you heard?, she said, "Rosa Mystica" has made it into the movies! I just about jumped out of my chair. Steve, it's OUR version!

Hit pause.  Rewind to 1982.

That year, a bunch of us took a field trip six hours south, to the Abbey of Gethsemani, nestled in the knobs of Kentucky.  It was on that trip that I met a man who would become one of my closest friends, a mentor, a partner in the crafting of sacred music. It was the most unlikely of collaborations: he, a hermit and a Trappist monk, trained as an organist, composer and Cistercian scholar; me, a liturgist and guitarist, working almost exclusively with college students. For some inexplicable reason, we hit it off from the start.

Over the years, I grew to love and admire this man all the more. We'd talk often (How he was able to use the phone so frequently?).  At the outset, I'd always ask "how are you?"  "Miserable!" he would chortle.  And I knew all was well (as a matter of fact, it was only when he stopped this exclamation that I knew things were not).

His voice resembled that of a baritone, oversized Yoda; when traveling to Europe, somehow he managed to get a night in NYC, finagling standing tickets at the Metropolitan Opera; he found innumerable, creative ways to hide soda cans (and probably other stuff) in his monastic garb; one year, while at Notre Dame to participate in a recording session, he stumbled onto "Buffy, the Vampire Slayer" on TV – and stayed up all night watching reruns.

And despite, or maybe because of, his extensive training in music, he had an ardent love for the length and breadth of sacred music styles, choosing no priggish attitude toward a particular genre, but unequivocally embracing all that was good and glorious – what Keith Kalemba would later, poignantly describe as "honest liturgical music."  It was, perhaps, one of the reasons why he dearly loved the diversity of the Folk Choir.

A joyous custom soon began, of sharing liturgical compositions.  We'd seal off the chapter room at Gethsemani and throw scores at each other. One fine spring day, he pulled out an old, weather-beaten manuscript. "I wrote this just before taking my vows," he said. The piece was called Rosa Mystica. He played the whole thing through, and I simply sat there at the end of it. I remember two things: the sound of a robin outside the chapter room window (joyous in ovation); and himself, staring down at the keyboard, almost embarrassed by what he had just shared. I was blinking back tears.

Years later, heading into Thanksgiving week, I got a rare phone call from Gethsemani. It was not from Chrysogonus; it was one of the brethren, Thaddeus, telling me that my friend had suffered a major stroke. "Steve," he said, "he hasn't much longer."

In desperation I called my publisher, Mary Prete, in Chicago. Her counsel: "Steve, you must write to him. Write to him now." And so I did. I called the Abbey, and asked if I could fax my letter, to which they immediately acquiesced. Closing my office door, I spent the next few hours crafting one of the most important epistles of my life.

I went to Gethsemani a few days later, arriving just hours after he had passed. Chrysogonus was laid out in choir, and as is the custom with the Trappists, all one hundred and fifty psalms were being proclaimed over his body, a monk seated on either side of him.

But there was a third chair, empty, placed there by the brethren. That chair was for me.

The blur of emotions, the requiem mass, the slow procession to the graveside, the empty hole, the slow lowering of his body into the earth (Trappists use no coffins) – all of it washed over me with deep and enduring power.

As we were walking away, Thaddeus came up to me quietly, and whispered in my ear.  "Steve," he said, "that letter you wrote to Chrysogonus....he couldn't talk after the stroke, but for those three days before he died, he used sign language to tell us that he wanted it read to him. Every day."

Fast forward to now. I weep – albeit with joy – as I recall the fullness of my days with this amazing friend. It is the most ironic thing that a movie depicting all the struggles and moral choices of a young woman (at least, so I'm told), has as its epilogue an anthem to the Blessed Virgin Mary, written by a Trappist hermit cloistered in the foothills of Kentucky. He would've laughed out loud (as he often did with me) over such a happening.

Oh, and there's one other thing.  Colleen notified me of Rosa Mystica's place in the movie on November 23rd.

That date was the anniversary of his passing into eternal life.