And Now, For Something (a Guitar) Completely Different

It all started at a wedding reception.

I was sitting next to a friend from Newman Church, and we were reminiscing about what wonderful liturgies were crafted (and still are!) at that beautiful sacred house on Saint Stephen's Green.  Along with my friend came her partner, a guitarist himself.  The conversation turned to "road axes," those instruments that we dare put on an airplane, perhaps having to entrust them to the luggage gorillas that lurk deep in the bowels of the ship....

I explained that, since being at Saint James in Black Mountain, I had discovered an entirely new material for use in acoustic instruments: carbon fiber.  After years of not being able to play the Celtic Harp (in Ireland, of all places!), I looked around and found an instrument builder right under my nose (well, just south of Asheville):  Heartland Harps is the name of the company.  At Notre Dame, I played a Dilling Model Harp, constructed partly of rock maple.  Weight: more than 48 lbs.  Heartland's instrument, a thirty-six string, 52-inch beauty's weight: just under 11 lbs.  And it's sound is truly remarkable.

By now I'm deep into discussion with my new guitar friend at the wedding reception, and he describes a builder in County Donegal – who creates nothing but carbon fiber guitars.  God must've been laughing, because we had just recently been in that beautiful, northwestern corner of Ireland, but had never heard of such a place.  The name of the company: Emerald Guitars.  So I started doing my research, and what I found online was nothing short of remarkable.  

The instruments are designed to have the depth of sound whose equivalent would come from, say, a dreadnought guitar built by Martin, Gibson, and others.  They have onboard electronics as well, allowing the player to plug directly into an amp (or a house system) without a microphone.  

And because they are built of carbon fiber, they are just about indestructible.  No cracking of wood, no fears of too much or too little humidity, which translates into ease of tuning.  

But it is the sound of the instrument that is the most compelling feature.  After researching video after video, I came away with reviews from guitar nerds that were superlative – every one of them surprised that such a massive, rich sound could come from such a design.

In my next installment, I'm going to go into detail about this discovery from the land of my ancestors.  As you can see from the photo here, this instrument ushers in a whole new concept of both guitar building and acoustic sensitivities.  

Dear John (Henry Newman)

Newman University Church, 87a St. Stephen's Green, Dublin 2, Ireland

Dear John,

For five years, you and I had a morning ritual.  By virtue of living next door to the church built with your own funds, I would quietly enter by way of the sacristy, grab the church keys, and head out to the vestibule to open the front doors.  Sometimes I was surprised by what I encountered on the front stoop: homeless Dubliners, occasional sleeping bags, trash from the previous evening's revelers.  And then, after tidying up the entryway, I would head back into the nave of the church.

Often I would take a few minutes to simply sit in a pew, wrapped in solitude, and study your face, carved in marble and quietly presiding from your alcove about halfway down the aisle.  And equally as often, as I looked upon you, I always thought that you were carrying some great burden; your face appeared stoic, grimacing at the task you had been appointed to do.

You had reason for such a countenance.  You were sent over to Ireland as a converted Brit (that, in and of itself, would be a recipe for disaster amongst such a tribe).  You were commissioned to start an Irish Catholic University in a country that was still under the heel of the British Empire, and still coping with a population exodus, the result of widespread famine.  You were advocating higher education in a country that had been deprived of both letters and her own language.  No wonder for the look on your face, as noble as it was, and that it bore the shadow scars of torment and disappointment.

You left Ireland a failure as well, at least in terms of the judgments of your contemporaries.  The Catholic University of Ireland never came to fruition the way you had hoped.  In the end, you had to retreat back to England, where even there, you were shunned by some because of your conversion to the Catholic faith.

But John – the seeds you planted!  What you began on St. Stephen's Green is now commonly acknowledged to be start of Ireland's largest university, University College Dublin (UCD).  The lectures you delivered, which came to be known as "The Idea of a University," have only increased in their amplitude since you first gave them.  Your poetry has found its way into prayer books throughout the world.  (Indeed, it was one of those poem/prayers, "Lead, Kindly Light" that urged me to get to know you more than forty years ago).

So after five years of our little morning meditations together, it came as a total surprise to me that, when attending a wedding last weekend and looking up at that familiar marble bust, I saw the wee hint of a smile.  Not overt, mind you.  But undeniably there.  

Was it because I was sitting in a spot where I usually didn't perch, catching you from a different angle?  Was it the lighting of the day?  I think not for either of these excuses.  Rather, I believe, that after many long years, the fruits of your labour were finally becoming manifest, and that from your eternal reward you could, at last, utter your Nunc Dimitis.

There was no doubt in my mind that I caught the slightest, and yet perceptible, smile upon your face.  And how could you not?  Over the past month, the church was throbbing with life and promise and energy from the weddings of two committed, faith-filled couples.  And those were only the ones I knew of.  

There is reason here to rejoice.

So John, keep this little church of yours blessed with your continued advocacy.  We of the University of Notre Dame, along with parishioners and many other people, have thrown ourselves into the vision of what you created more than one hundred and fifty years ago.  Keep leading us, John.... leading us toward the kindly Light.

Scotland and the Second Yes

A few weeks ago, I had written about a married couple that, years ago (1988) had become a critical support for the tours of the Notre Dame Folk Choir.  That "yes" by two very charitable, gracious people led to more than a generation of pilgrimages to Ireland.

But the story wouldn't be complete unless we cross the Irish Sea, and examine our travels and spiritual trajectory in Scotland.  And once again, it was a married couple that opened up the doors to a country and a culture.  I write about them because they were the guiding hand to our journey to Iona over the past few days.

The year was 2007 and out of the blue one day, on the campus of Notre Dame, I received an inquisitive email from someone across the pond.  Her name was Maureen Bruce, and at the time she was working with a small choir in the suburbs of Edinburgh.  Somehow, she had gotten her hands on the score for Psalm 104: Send Forth Your Spirit, O Lord.  She was taking a chance, and (so she thought) being rather forward in asking, but by any chance was I the chap who had written this piece of music?

What then commenced was a rather extraordinary exchange of messages.  I conveyed that I was, indeed, the lunatic behind the song; I also explained that our choir was coming over to Ireland the following year, and might she be interested in a crowd of Yanks invading her parish?

To say Maureen was "gobsmacked" by this proposal would be rather accurate.  But once again, doors began to open.  Her parish at the time (Saint Kentigern's) became a base of operations and a hub of liturgical music for our days in Edinburgh.  It was also on this journey to Scotland that a formative ministry was hatched within the choir's circle – the notion of a postgraduate year or two of service in the field of music and ministry.  Inspired, in part, by the encouragements of Carolyn Pirtle, then a member of our ensemble, that program became known as Teach Bhríde, the House of Brigid.  It is still alive and a vital part of Newman University Church's operations in Dublin – now a fifteen year old program.

This second "yes" led to even more relationships – with the archdiocesan offices of Edinburgh; with the Sisters of Mercy (who faithfully fed hundreds of people a day in the downtown area); with Greyfriars Kirk; with the men and women who continued to cultivate Ecumenical dialogue, encouraged by the Church of Scotland; with St. Mary's Catholic Cathedral; and finally, with Broombridge's Church of St. Joseph, an incredible community committed to bringing the faith to many marginalized people in the area.  Each time we visited, there were beautiful evenings of song and dance, and as always, the welcome of host families.

As you are wont to say, Maureen: "Lang may yer lum reek!"  May your own commitment to the Church bring you a personal sense of joy and reward.  You assured, in your own humble way, the successful visits, over more than a decade, of dozens of college evangelists – an achievement that would challenge an entire staff to accomplish.

We were honored to be in your company on our first pilgrimage to Iona.  And no better companions than you and your good spouse.

When the Old Bones Speak

Iona Abbey Church, Isle of Iona, Argyle, Scotland

Call me crazy, but my approach to creating music in a church is rooted in several realities, all working at the same time.  The first, and probably the most interior, is a prayerful spirit – a sense of watchfulness, humility, and focus on listening.  The second, which is blatant and obvious, is musical and technical skill.  I wonder if many musicians have this as their sole criteria.  It would be lamentable if such were the case.

The third consideration for me is much more subtle.  Yet for the artist, I would venture that it is probably just as important as the ones mentioned above.  It is also, to my mind, the more slippery to put into words – in fact, sometimes bordering on the ineffable.  

For when an organist or a guitarist or a violinist or even a vocalist creates music in a sacred space, they are always working with two instruments.  The first is obvious, whether it be under their hands or coming from their vocal chords.  But the second instrument is the room itself, because the room speaks, responds, gives assent (or not, depending on many things, including acoustics).  One can approach this scientifically, by simply analyzing reverberation time, the surfaces involved, the kinds of music chosen for the space.  But I prefer another way – an encounter, a dialogue, between what is being created and what is being reflected back.

And so it was that, unlooked for, I was invited to play guitar for one of the Evening Prayer services at Iona.  The summer Director of Music is a person I've long admired – Sally Ann Morris, from, of all places, North Carolina!  We had an unexpected, happy reunion in that ancient church; I had no idea that she was there as a summer sabbatical.  Sally asked me if I would contribute on the guitar that evening.  

I had no instrument, but one was to be provided.  It's an enormous church, and the congregation seemed to appear out of nowhere – both evenings that we were in attendance there were close to two hundred people in the nave of the church.  And so some sort of acoustic amplification was also needed for such a group.  The electronic solution was simple; a pair of wireless lavalier microphones clipped onto a music stand.  

But when I began playing, the old bones of the church seemed to rise up and respond.  I played a medley to begin with – moving fluidly from an English folk tune to a Welsh one (Kingsfold to Ar Hyd Y Nos).  As I played, I got the undeniable feeling that the church itself was listening, assisting, rejoicing.  For this is a place consecrated to Celtic ways, and the selections I chose were deliberate, an homage to the spirituality and legacy of the place.

At the close, for meditation as the congregation dispersed, I played yet another medley, this time wedding together two contemporary pieces: first, from their resident composer, John Bell, came Take, O Take Me As I Am, probably one of Iona's best-loved pieces.  Wedded to this was Kathleen Thomerson's I Want to Walk as a Child of the Light, which seemed appropriate to the dispersing of the community into the evening dusk.

I played in a church whose footprints go back one thousand, five hundred years.  I listened to her responding back to me.  I had a song to offer, and she had one to share in response.  

Such is the world of those of us who create music, who listen for the Old Bones to rise up and speak to us anew.

The Abbey that Refused to Be Forgotten

Iona Abbey Church, Isle of Iona, Argyle, Scotland

If there has been one humbling thing about this journey thus far (well, there have been many, though!), it's the realization that, as a pilgrim from America, we are just young 'uns.  There have been visits through castles one thousand years old, hikes along the way that monks traversed fifteen hundred years ago, crossings of the water by ferry that, in another age, would've been life or death propositions.

So when we crossed the threshold of Iona Abbey's Church, it was important to understand just how old were the bones of the place.

Saint Columba founded the monastery in 563 (do the math in terms of how ahead of his time was this man in terms of the civilization of Europe).  It did not take long for this foundation to become a hub of industry, education, art, and most important – prayer.  Any doubt about this legacy to a continent and its culture can be explored in Thomas Cahill's How the Irish Saved Civilization.

But a place of industry and success also becomes a place of potential gain for others, and such was the case when, about 200 years after Columba, the first Viking raid took place on Iona.  Three such raids took place; the second one, in the early ninth century, saw the slaughter of more than 60 of the community (the beach on Iona where this took place is now called Martyr's Bay).  

The church that we entered is not what Columba had created; by the early 13th century it had changed hands of several Scandinavian lords, but then Benedictines were invited to rebuild, and to do so over the ruins of what Columba had originally brought to life.  And then, once more, a raid took place – this time not by Vikings, but by Irish bishops who were laying claim to Columba's legacy.

Centuries past, but not before the Abbey, once again, was rebuilt – this time by the Macdonalds clan.  Then came another raid, but not by Vikings.  With the Scottish Reformation, most of the abbeys were broken up, their artwork and libraries scattered to the four winds.

Which brings us nearly to the present time.  A visionary Presbyterian minister from Glasgow, the Rev. George MacLeod, was convinced that his ministry wasn't reaching his congregations.  Considered to be the founder of the present-day Iona Community, he set out to rebuild the long abandoned church.  His efforts still go on... and even though it remains one of the more challenging places in the world to reach, on the days we were there we met people from Kentucky, from the Carolinas, and from all over Europe.  

Iona has now created a worldwide community of prayer. Even in my own parish in North Carolina, we use the music of their congregation.  What a remarkable legacy, all of which began with a monk in a leather boat, one thousand, five hundred years ago.  May we never falter when our turn comes to face the questions and challenges of the sea....

To Iona, By Way of a Hymn Tune

Iona Abbey, Isle of Iona, Argyll

It is an island off an island.  Getting there, even from Edinburgh, Scotland, is an adventure: more than three hours' drive through the Highlands, on to Oban, then a ferry to Craignure.  After this the fun begins, because for the next more-than-an-hour you're treated to a single lane "thoroughfare" which has little turn off bays every quarter of a mile or so.  Think of it as a long let's-play-chicken road.  This road leads you along the Isle of Mull, and heaven help you if you meet a lorry, farm machinery that's twice the size of your car, or a tour bus (which happens a lot).

For years, I have been following the trajectory of Iona Abbey, its witness to ecumenicism, lay ministry, and the music created by one of her contributors, John Bell.  (Look for the black dot on the map to the left to give you an idea of its location in the Scottish Hebrides).  But up until now, I'd never visited this place.  It is old – St. Columba (Colmcille) founded the community in the latter half of the sixth century.  Quickly becoming an industrious center, it then became a favorite raiding stop for a certain Nordic bunch of men with longships.

All along this present trip, I've been surprised by facts and happenstances over and over again, and here was another one along our route to Iona.  It seems that the road to the second ferry (Fionnphort) takes the pilgrim through a very, very little hamlet, which bears the name Bun Easain – or Bunessan, in English.  

For those who are sacred music geeks (or, actually, music geeks in general), you would know this tune, for it is the beautiful melody to hymns like Morning Has Broken, catapulted to fame by Cat Stevens in the 1970's.  But the hymn tune has also inspired new texts as well, like the one based on the Lorica of St. Patrick, Christ Be Beside Me, and another text by Michael Saward, Baptized in Water.

So here we were, on our way to a center for prayer on the edge of the then-known universe, and our way was marked by one of my favorite Celtic tunes.

The present church structure dates from the 13th century, and on the day we arrived it rose up out of the mists not unlike the mystical village of Brigadoon.  I kept wondering to myself "how did they survive here?"  We had a simple pod for four people, and walking the mile up from the ferry were blasted with gale winds and horizontal rain.  The fact that a thriving monastic community, one that went on to illustrate manuscripts and serve as a template for other communities throughout the Isles, is a miracle in and of itself.  

Upon arrival, we set out to explore.  The Abbey Church itself was a welcome respite for the weather, so we headed there first.  More on that amazing house of prayer tomorrow.....

Call of the Crown of Thorns

6 Parvis Notre-Dame, Pl. Jean-Paul II, Paris

Most times, I can show up at a liturgy and know what's going on: Trappist Lauds, a Parish's Evening Prayer, a service of the Word, Eucharist (in whatever language, with or without a priest). But on Friday, the fourth of July, we stumbled into Notre Dame de Paris, the newly reopened Cathedral.

And I had no idea what was taking place before my eyes.

Liturgy at Notre Dame is a unique thing, in and of itself.  Any kind of prayer has to take place while there are thousands of pilgrims swirling around the periphery.  The actions of these pilgrims can cover the entire behavioral spectrum: some are waiting in line to purchase a bauble from the gift shop; some want to jump the ropes and join in the prayer; some are taking selfies (watch out for those accurséd sticks!); some are wide-eyed and intent on the sacredness of the moment; some are playing word games on their cell phones.  Holding back this tide of humanity is the happy task of dozens of docents, and their job is to both firmly but compassionately keep these hordes in line.

I was part of that horde last Friday, watching what appeared to be a Communion procession.  But there were no vessels on the altar, and the color being used that day was red – even though in the liturgical calendar there was no martyrdom intended to be observed. 

Carefully acknowledging the docent who had his eye on me, I moved closer.  Then I realized that this was not a Eucharistic procession – yet it was a procession.  It was the first Friday of the month, and on those days, at three o'clock, the encased crown of thorns is taken from Notre Dame's reliquary.  It is then held such that all the faithful can come before this relic and either kiss or touch its glass encasement.

The liturgy that was taking place was a Veneration of the Crown of Thorns.

By way of background: the Crown of Thorns came to Paris through the efforts of King Louis IX (sainted by the Church), who somehow managed to bring it to France by way of Constantinople.  He then built the Church of Sainte Chapelle to house this and many other relics.  

My wife and I managed to join the procession that was unfolding before us.  Step by step, we approached this ancient artifact that was so intimately a part of the Crucifixion.  I bent down, lightly kissed the glass protective ring, and touched it with my hand.

What did this mean for me?  What did I take from this moment?  

For years, I have been toiling to create a musical setting of the Gospel of Saint John – the Passion for Good Friday – one that could be used in a liturgical setting.  I started out with the NABRE, which was accepted by Oregon Catholic Press but ultimately rejected by the copyright holders of the text.  After more negotiations, I am now using the ecumenical translation, the NRSV, and publishing the work through Simply Liturgical.  

There was a personal rededication that took place last week, being in that procession, and reflecting on the action of reverencing the Crown of Thorns.  It was a rededication to the task I now am facing.

Our liturgy is filled with stories, with music, with actions.  To restrict those artistic endeavors is to restrict the movements of the Spirit.  I came away from that procession all the more dedicated, as both an artist and a person of faith, committed to the task of setting this pivotal story to song, such that it could be proclaimed by most parish choirs.  

The Arms of a Mother: Cradle and Bastion

6 Parvis Notre-Dame, Pl. Jean-Paul II, Paris

I was first here in 2012.  Back then, the walls were covered in a greyish-yellow hue, a silent witness to the centuries of dust, devotion, incense and incantation that had beckoned pilgrims from the start.

But then came April 15th, 2019. And just as Parisians were on their way home from work, fire became visible to onlookers along the Seine.  Quickly burning out of control (there were never adequate fire notification devices in the ceiling before the blaze), the temperatures soared to more than 800ºF, vaporizing the protective lead that sheathed the forest of oaken timbers.  An hour and a half later, the spire was totally engulfed in flames, while thousands upon thousands of city dwellers gazed on, helpless.

By the time I caught up with the news feed, the cameras were focusing not only on the inferno, but on the faces and reactions of the witnesses.  Those faces – young and old – told as much of the story as did the flames shooting up from high above the sanctuary space.  No matter what the age, no matter the faith stance (or lack thereof), it was like the heart of the city was being destroyed before their eyes.  The interviews were telling – most responses were bordering on the ineffable, with lack of words speaking more than any description could provide.

What was happening here?  It wasn't just a fire.  It wasn't just a big fire.  It was the city becoming a bystander while the flailing arms of her mother were reaching out for help.

Paralysis seemed to grip the city and her inhabitants (save for the first responders).  People were kneeling in the streets, tears in onlookers' eyes.  This time, incense was not swirling around the altar.  It was billowing up above the city, a lead-laden pall of noxious fumes.

Yet we have seen how communities react to paralysis before: that, in the face of tragedy, the response can exhibit a face of humanity that illustrates just where one's priorities lie.  

Within days, French President Macron made an appeal, and the subsequent international response yielded more than a quarter of a billion euros within twenty-four hours.  And while some experts predicted that the damage could take up to 40 years to repair, Macron pledged that Notre Dame de Paris would be reopened in time for France's 2024 Olympics – a mere five years away.

That takes me to today.  When we crossed the portal into Paris's Mother Church, I was taken aback.  The walls were gleaming (in part due to the cloudless day outside).  The clerestory windows were trumpeting their colors to the thousands of pilgrims below.  We had arrived in the middle of a service packed with congregants, (more on that tomorrow), and surrounding this was a constant, clockwise flow of people, something like an enormous tide of seekers, moving as if they were water current around the mysteries taking place in front of the sanctuary.

For centuries, it would be safe to say that relations between church and state in France have been standoffish at best.  Municipalities own all Catholic churches built before 1905; all cathedrals are owned by the State. The Catholic church maintains these houses of prayer, but she does not own them.  Yet when faced with the destruction experienced at Notre Dame de Paris, the government was an unquestionable advocate.

Call it what you will, but I would maintain that this cradle of spiritual comfort, this bastion of protection for weary pilgrims, occupies far too great a place in the hearts of those who wander upon this earth.  She is far too valuable to be abandoned by any tragedy.  The doors of Notre Dame were reopened on December 7th, 2024.  Part of the Opening Procession was to pay tribute to the first responders.

She is the Mother Church of a City of Light, her foundations laid in the thirteenth century, built in the heart of a nation that has given the world Genevieve and Joan of Arc and Thérese of Lisieux and Bernadette Soubirous.  Where would the world be without such women?  And crowning them all, the Mother of God....

Ville avec Lumière à l'Intèrieur

Maison Saintonge, Paris 16, France

It is impossible to convey the character of a city in a single blog of some few hundred words.  I shall not attempt such a thing.  But for now, after two days of roaming this ville métropolitaine, I can marvel at what I have encountered.  Now granted, the heat wave broke, and we were treated to walking (about 10 miles a day) with temperatures in the high 70's.  But regardless, what we encountered were cafés bursting with energy and good humor, a city still basking in the success of the 2024 Olympics, art exhibits and a pulsing, creative culture that quite deservedly should be the envy of the world.

Some have described Paris as the "City of Light."  My experiences would be on a deeper level than just storefronts or illuminated bridges, or a spangled Eiffel Tower.  It comes down to a reverence for beauty, a holding up of the pursuit of creativity, a dogged devotion to the arts and to the artist.

We started out our day by crossing the city by Métro and arriving at the former Hôtel Biron – otherwise known as the studio belonging to one Auguste Rodin.  A fun fact to consider: the mystic and poet Rainer Maria Rilke and his wife were the pair who first introduced this hotel to the renowned sculptor.  The rose gardens were in full bloom, matching the perfection of cooler temperatures and cloudless skies. I had been here once before, but was glad to retrace my steps in artistic pilgrimage!

Later on, that first day, we went to a museum that has a deep hold on my heart: the Musée d'Orsay.  Let's first note that this incredible bastion of beauty, once a burned out train station, then rebuilt as part of the preparations for the 1900 World's Fair, is now breathtaking both inside and out.  There, within this sanctuary of artistic endeavor, thousands of pilgrims stood in line to see the largest collection of Impressionist and Post-Impressionist paintings in the world.  Van Gogh, Degas, Gaugin, Renoir, Cézanne, Toulouse-Lautrec – these and their counterparts can be found under one roof. From the fifth floor (the floor that houses most of the works of Van Gogh), you can look out across the Seine: there is the Louvre, the Jardin de Tuileries (where the 2024 Olympic flame and its balloon are perched), the View Ferris Wheel, and far away, Montmartre and the spires of Sacre Coeur.  

My observation: this is a young city.  Most of its inhabitants have not known a global depression, nor have they known war, at least the likes of WWII.  They have, however, experienced terrorism: the attacks of November and December 2015, attacks that left 130 people dead in coordinated attempts throughout their city.  A decade and a memorial garden later (in front of St. Gervais church), there is, nevertheless, a sense of welcome, diversity and tolerance, a love of food and a delight in gathering that is sadly lacking in other places we've visited over the years. Whoever said that Parisians are rude and abrupt probably never spent a few hours learning some basic words and phrases to help convey their desires.  

It is good to be here! To look upon the Eiffel Tower (and the balcony, where Celine Dion came back from a long illness to christen the '24 Games with her achingly beautiful performance of Hymne à l'Amour).  To walk along the Seine – probably not as clean as last summer, but nevertheless shining as the life-blood of the city.  And yes, to visit the temples of extraordinary art, held holy in shrines like the d'Orsay.  It is not just a City of Light.  It's a city that cultivates a sense of interior light, keeping sacred a joy of life, the need to respect diversity, and celebrating humanity as only this remarkable city can do.  

Tomorrow: a recap of our pilgrimage to the Cathedral of Notre Dame de Paris – one of the compass points of our journey to France.

So Many Castles. So Much Wine. So Little Time

The Rhine and Moselle River Valleys

Question: Name a place where you can point your iPhone at any given time and make it look like you've got a photographic career with National Geographic?

Oberwessel, Rhine gorge

That would be the UNESCO World Heritage Site of the Middle Rhine Valley.  We've been told that this is called "Father Rhine," and that the company partner is "Mother Moselle." Traveling through this medieval, romantic countryside is nothing short of a wonder.  

So many castles!  We've been on fairytale overload floating by these stunning fortresses – even though they have long lost their military significance.  Some have been repurposed as event facilities, some have been turned into "family adventure castles."  Some have even stayed in, or been passed on to, members of a particular tribe or family unit for generations.

Burg Eltz

For instance, let's take a peek at Eltz Castle. To put some perspective on the place, it has a wall clock (still operating) that came into the family's possession and was mounted in their drawing room in 1502 – yes, that is not a typo.  They were decorating their place ten years after Columbus laid his little European claim to fame on the North American continent.

Eltz Castle has been in the same family for 34 generations.  Do the math, and compare it to our adolescent timeline of the United States.  The fortress (for that's what it was originally designed to be) was built in the 11th and 12th centuries, and is one of a very small handful of castles that was never destroyed by any of the never-ending wars that were hatched in Europe over the last millennium.  

Bernkastel

Then there is this wonderful little hamlet called Bernkastel.  I say "hamlet" because that is, indeed, what it is: it has a population of about 800 people. In addition to castle ruins, it also has some of the most extraordinary Riesling wines in the world, as was evidenced by our sampling them.  (Bonus: on the day of our wine tour, the temperatures soared to about 94 degrees, so it made a great deal of sense to take shelter deep in the coolness of the wine cellars!). This shot includes both the vineyard cellar's sign and the cliffside remains of Burgruine-Landshut, hundreds of meters above.

This is the kind of town that you'd love to just hang around in, especially when it comes to harvest time. You could get a sense of just how intimate and appealing the place could be, populated with stalls from the dozens of vineyards all offering their wines for the tasting, the reward of a hard years' worth of work on the valley hillsides.

And finally, as a sort of surprise gift deep within the wrapping paper of this little town, I offer this picture.  Rumor had it among the locals that it was used as a model for the home of Luna Lovegood in the Harry Potter books.  But then again, I had heard rumors of similar things regarding South Dining Hall at Notre Dame, which of course was pure Hog(wash).  Regardless of whomever created this wonderful fantasy: never, as the Irish would say, let the truth interfere with a good story!

So now, saturated and glowing with the white wines of these glorious valleys, we move on toward Paris tomorrow.  Please God the temperatures will be forgiving....

    
    

Step Right Up, Folks!

 Rüdescheim am Rhein, Germany

Of all the surprises that have sprung up before us on this trip, it would be fair to say that none have been as delightful  – or remarkable – as the visit to Siegfried's Mechanical Music Cabinet.  Rüdescheim is a quaint village in the Rhein river valley, an area that is well known for its production of superb Riesling wines; across the river is the town of Bingen, from which came the medieval mystic, Hildegard.  So this little corner of the UNESCO World Heritage river valley has quite the claim to fame.

We'd been told of this historic, ancient house in Rüdescheim, a house whose inhabitants are remarkable pieces of both musical and mechanical genius. This picture on the right shows the exterior of the place; if you look closely, you'll see the glockenspiel perched on either side of the family's crest in the center.  It's an indication of what surprises await you when you cross the threshold of this extraordinary temple.

There were original gramophones, ones that played the original, waxed discs (think of the cardboard roll that holds your toilet paper together).  A further advance with this gadget was changing the discs and making them flat – what we eventually came to know as LPs – vinyl recordings.  Somehow deemed ancient on the part of the curator was a disc with the earliest version of Doris Day's Que Sera, Sera – the whole place ended up singing along!  I'll speak more about the gramophone below, for it figures into the history of all the other musical contraptions we witnessed this day.

There were armoire-sized cabinets housing an entire array of mechanical instruments that played themselves; this one had a whole collection of organ pipes, a keyboard, even an entire percussion section.  Perfectly maintained and serviced, it blew the listener out of the room with both the volume and the breadth of sound that could be produced.

Another cabinet was comprised of nothing but violins – the entire string family of a string quartet, contained in a single box!  It was a mechanical engineer's magnum opus come true, because the instruments not only had to be bowed but the plane of the violin needed to be shifted depending on the notes being sounded.  To watch this automated wonder at work was just jaw dropping.  

So who does the service on these relics?  We were told that the mechanics (because that's what they really are) are a dying breed.  The waiting time for service is about a decade; the most renowned repairman is now 92 and living somewhere in Switzerland.  These are not the kind of apparatus that you can just swing into your local hardware store and pick up a missing bolt for!  

One of the last exhibitions was dedicated to something that was ubiquitous in just about every major city in Europe in the middle eighteenth and nineteenth centuries. 

These, of course, there were the organ grinders.  According to our guide, no less than 800 of these guys roamed the streets of Germany at one point. (You can still see them at the renowned Christmas markets throughout the countryside). The stuffed monkey was there just for amusement, but the instrument was real, a fully restored and working model.

So what ended up being the silver bullet, terminating the legacy of these wondrous mechanical concoctions?  

That would be the gramophone.  And let's face it, what eventually became the record player was a heckuva lot easier to care for than an armoire full of hardware....  So many thanks to Emile Berliner (and step aside, Thomas Edison).

One Small Act of Martyrdom

Börsenplatz, Köln (Cologne), Germany

You would've expected this memorial to be in a place of prominence for the city of Cologne; instead, it is a few kilometers away from the heart of the city (Cathedral Square), assigned to a humble street where the tourist buses unload their passengers.

What I speak of is the memorial to  Sister Teresa Benedicta of the Cross, otherwise known as St. Edith Stein.

First about the cathedral.  The mighty Cathedral of St. Peter was started in the middle of the thirteenth century (Approximately 500 years before things started to get interesting in the soon-to-be United States).  The completion of the project took place in the 1880's, only to be nearly undone in the 1940's by World War II.  More than a dozen bombs fell on the church, but somehow the walls remained intact.  (The Allies had quite the pragmatic reason for leaving the cathedral intact: it was a massive marker for the rest of this industrial city).

All major cities in Europe have their crests; Köln (Cologne) has an insignia with twofold significance. The upper portion has three crowns, a reference to the Reliquary of the Three Magi enshrined in the cathedral.  The lower portion has eleven tears, indicating the fabled thousands of virgins and St. Ursula who were murdered by Attila the Hun (and by this sacrifice claiming the city for Catholicism).  It's a fantastic story, and regardless of its veracity assured the footprint of the faith – the Cathedral of Saint Peter stands in witness to this.

But as I said, a few kilometers away, standing only about six feet tall (as opposed to the 515 feet of the Cathedral) is this striking monument.  

Created by Bert Gerresheim in the 1990's, it shows the evolution of Edith Stein from a young Jewish woman to a divided soul searching for truth, and finally, to a Carmelite nun carrying forward the crucifix of her dying Savior.  These three figures are clearly on a journey, which is represented at the other end of the statue's platform. What appears there is both appalling and immediately recognizable as the piles and piles of empty shoes – sole evidence of what took place in the gas chambers built by the Nazis.

Edith Stein was drawn deeply into the Catholic faith after reading the works of the woman she chose to name herself after: Teresa of Ávila.  After joining the Carmelites, the order sent her to the Netherlands to escape the grasp of the Nazis, but this proved to be futile, for in 1942 all baptized Catholics of Jewish origin were arrested and eventually transported to Auschwitz.  

Sr. Teresa was given an opportunity to escape before the Gestapo got their hands on her.  But she refused.  She died in the gas chambers of Birkenau in early August, 1942.

I ponder the immensity of this woman's witness, her refusal to abandon the road that would lead to her martyrdom, and the fact that this memorial to her bravery sits, almost ignored, near a bus depot.  Our world is filled with both atrocities and absurdities, especially when it relegates its heroines to a place that would seem to be an afterthought.

Car Talk

Heading out of Amsterdam, the Netherlands....

Now, about those "quadracylces that I spoke of yesterday – they are these measly little things that look like a cardboard box on wheels, usually painted a mettalic grey (or another equally depressing color).  Too small to be a car, too big to be a bicycle, it is a "vehicle" in the loosest sense of the word, with an amazing identity crisis.  But hey, you can park them in about the same amount of space as a garbage can.  They make Smart cars look like Cadillacs..

I think, though, that I'd rather not shell out for such a contraption.

Oh, and I mentioned the vehicles that looked like they stepped out of a Star Wars set.  That would be called the "Microlino."  Talk about small... try stacking this up against an American Ford F-150!  I think you could fit four of them in the bed of that pickup!

Over the next few days, my words will be written from the Rhine River, as we continue on to the Continent.  To all of you who have been reading and sharing my thoughts, thank you for taking the time to do this!  Click on and become a follower  – in that way you'll not miss out on my musings.

What You See When You Look Up

Bloemgracht, The Jordaan District, Amsterdam

Amsterdam (the city that grew up around the dike of the Amstel River) is reported to have about 900,000 people in it.  It is also estimated to have about 800,000 bicycles as well.  Which means that, if you're walking throughout this city, you'd be very wise to keep your eyes to the right and to the left of you: cars, bicycles, trams, motorcycles, vespas, quadracycles (more on this tomorrow), vehicles that look like an afterthought from the set of Star Wars –  they all move around this city at a dizzying pace.

But if you have the courage to look up, if only for a moment, you'll see some curious things gazing down on you. Whales, references to the Bible, Latin inscriptions – they are all here just begging for you to notice them.

However, in order to do this, you need to look up – which means taking your life in your hands when wheels are flying all around you.

In the Jordaan section of Amsterdam, where we are staying, the majority of the homes are hundreds of years old.  And the vast majority of these are crowned with gables as unique as the buildings are ancient.  At the top of one, I saw a huge, half-story statement: "AMOR VINCIT!" it proclaimed – "Love Conquers!"  

At yet another home, perched on a street corner, was a Biblical reference looking down on us, something that would've totally been missed had I not stopped and taken in my surroundings.  There, emblazoned in Dutch, was a huge tile labelled "Noah's Ark;" above the craft sat a huge dove, holding an olive branch.  I wondered: Who decided to interrupt the brickwork of this building to make such a proclamation?  Why this Bible reference?  Did it have anything to do with flooding (and the fact that where we were standing was below sea level?)

Every building tells a story.  You just have to slow down and listen to what they're saying.

And watch out for the bicycles.

A Teenager vs. the Reich

Anne Frank Huis, Westermarkt 20, Amsterdam

Of course I read her diary in high school.  Didn't you?  But there is the aspect of being here, walking through (and under) the doorjamb behind the fake bookcase that led to the Secret Annex: the three story bungalow that served as the hiding place for the Frank family for more than two years. 

When you arrive, you can choose between two handheld audio guides.  The first choice is a sort of professional documentary, dispensing facts as you move through the old house and Annex, given in a professorial manner.  But the second audio guide is perhaps the more powerful, because it is narrated by a young girl, a voice that would've been the same age as the adolescent who endured living through the reality of a Nazi invasion.

Her young voice sets the stage early on: you hear her cheerfulness as she describes her classmates; you comprehend her love of socializing with her young school friends; you participate in her cautious dread as she begins to understand (especially after Kristallnacht) the kind of societal evil that was headed toward the Netherlands. 

This child's voice takes you through the ground and first floors of the Frank business and home.  But when the threshold is crossed into the Annex, her voice becomes silent, just as Anne's own voice had to be silenced throughout the day, in order not to be heard by the workers below.  The effect is both ominous and reverential at one and the same time.

Kristallnacht, the November pogrom, took place in 1938.  Anne was nine years old at that time, and by then Jews in Germany began to leave the country en masse.  The Frank family was no different, choosing Amsterdam as their city of relocation.

To hear an innocent voice narrate the litany of restrictions placed upon their faith and culture was chilling in its own right: shopping at restricted times; no provision for transportation (bicycle or automobile); Jews fired from their jobs, both artistic, professional, and administrative; no athletic facilities or parks to be used; curfews were set; and, of course, there was the accursed yellow star.

For more than two years, with the assistance of a handful of highly trusted friends, the Frank family hid under the noses of the Gestapo.  Food stamps and necessary goods were purchased by their secretive supporters on the black market.  But in early August, 1944, the Annex was raided.  The family was sent first to Auschwitz, where they were then separated from one another.  Only Otto Frank, the father, survived the concentration camps. (His own odyssey back to the Netherlands after being liberated, and discovery of the deaths of his wife and daughters, is its own heartbreaking tale).

Anne's notes, her diaries and her short stories, were miraculously saved by one of those confidantes – Mrs. Miep Gies.  The courageous salvaging of a teenager's journal served to inform the world of atrocities from a completely different perspective than those reported by the liberators of the concentration camps.

Just how much money, GDP, propaganda, paper and ink, matériel and pure bloodshed was let loose by the Third Reich?  None of it endured.  But a simple, naive and thoroughly honest journal by a young teenager has now been translated into 70 different languages; the Secret Annex that they once called home for more than two years has become a place of international pilgrimage, drawing more than a million people annually.

This teenager did, indeed, make her voice heard around the world.  Though she lost her life in Bergen-Belsen, her writings have, indeed, gone out into the world.  There, they continue to witness and to work for all humankind.

Through the Eyes of the Artist

The Van Gogh Museum, Museumplein 6, Amsterdam

When one embraces the labors and identity of being an artist, there is much that comes from such a decision.  In the early unfolding of such a choice – dare I say vocation? –  there are all the carrots that might seem alluring: the admiration of others, the chorus of praise, the attempted contributions to an ever-evolving landscape of beauty.

But not long into the journey, one finds that there are many other truths, perhaps even shadows, that lurk around the bend.  Artistry is a lonely place, a desert place.  Your ideas, even if they need a group of people to carry them out (e.g., with a theatre or musical work), can haunt you constantly, waking you up in the middle of the night, pulling the rug out from underneath whatever security your psyche has managed to cobble together.  You begin to hear not just from the admirers, but from the critics.  In the realm of sacred music, you also begin to hear from the hierarchy, some of whom most definitely have agendas that perhaps do not match your own.  

But you accept this, because in the end, the only goal is the sacred pursuit of beauty.  "Find beautiful things as much as you can; most people find too little that is beautiful."  These are the words of Vincent van Gogh.  Or, in the simple words of Dostoyevsky: "The world will be saved by beauty."  The desert is indeed tolerable, even needed, when the goal is to bring more beauty into the world.

We have just spent half a day in the Van Gogh museum in Amsterdam. For reasons that I think can be legitimately blamed on Don McLean (Vincent: Starry, Starry Night), I have always been drawn to this artist, to his work, to his story, and to his singular, artistic vision.  But today, partly as a result of the superb presentation of this world-renowned museum, I was drawn all the deeper into the vision of an artist. Which meant partly that I was also exposed to the crosses he had to bear.

Van Gogh did many self-portraits.  And part of the reason for this was because he was so broke that he couldn't afford models to sit.  

He was also deeply enamored of peasants and their own labor intensive lives.  He often did works on the backside of these self-portraits, because he couldn't afford canvasses upon which to work.  

In the end, depression took him from the world – he was just thirty-seven when he took his own life.  Of the more than 850 oil paintings he created (the majority of which were done in the last few years of his life), only one was sold during his lifetime.  Recognition came only after his death, a reputation stewarded by his sister-in-law and nephew (whose name was also Vincent).  The museum we visited today is the living legacy of these two people.

Those of us who work in a community of artists – mine would be with composers of sacred music – we would know something of these crosses that must be borne.  To have music rejected.  To work very long hours in solitude.  To put forward ideas that ultimately are deemed inappropriate by people who are not musicians.  To be placed at the heart of both praise and blame, and to be sought out by strangers at conferences, especially when blessed with an introverted soul.  

For they could not love you, but still your love was true.
And when no hope was left in sight on that starry, starry night,
You took your life as lovers often do.
But I could've told you Vincent, 
this world was never meant for one as beautiful as you....

                                      - Don McLean

The world is saved by beauty.  

Ireland: One Last Look (for now)....

Giant's Causeway, near Bushmills, County Antrim

For now, one last post from Ireland (actually, from Northern Ireland, to be more precise).... 

The picture you see was taken at Giant's Causeway, one of the more stunning geological formations found on the northern coast of Ulster.  This was a longed-for destination for my wife, which had to be scuttled a few years back because of this little thing called a global pandemic.

The mythic stories of the Causeway abound: of Fionn MacCumhaill (Finn McCool), the giant who thought he'd bully his Scottish counterpart, Benandonner.  As with many male myths, there's a lot of chest thumping and bravado – which eventually disappears like fog in the hot summer sun once McCool sees exactly who he's up against.  Wit, as always, wins the day (and saves his Irish hide).

But apart from the tall tales, what's mostly compelling about this National Trust site (along with an ingenious welcoming center that blends in perfectly with the landscape) is the presentation of the tectonic plates that shifted, collided, and drifted apart – over the course of 500 million years.  There was something incredibly humbling about looking at those timelines, when viewed from our ridiculously brief stay on this worldly sphere.

For we are but a nanosecond in Mother Earth's scheme of things.  And if, as we profess and sing, God is the Author of All Time, then taking in these basalt formations as a sort of time capsule gives a vivid illustration of just how vast that creative hand must be.  

We humans build things, write books, try to conquer the air and space, continue to try to unravel the puzzles of our universe.  I wonder, though – are we any less barbaric now than we were when giants were picking fights across the waters? Solve that one for me, if you can.  That would be the true shifting of a tectonic plate, in my humble opinion.

We'll be back in Ireland in a couple of weeks, for yet another wedding at Newman University Church!  In the meantime, our travels take us tomorrow to Amsterdam, to the ingenious people of the Netherlands – the culture that figured out how to raise a nation from the sea....