Into Great Silence

If you travel six hours straight south from the University of Notre Dame, you come into what is known as the Knob Country of Kentucky.  For quiet a few years, the Folk Choir has made an extraordinary trip into this neck of the woods, to continue a kinship that actually stretches back far into the past (well beyond the years of this group of singers).  It is a past that weds our University with another community, one that came into being at almost the same time as that of Notre Dame.

It was in the 1840's, and a lot of Catholic France was trying to figure out how to either adapt to or escape the fury of the French Revolution.  Two religious communities, the Cistercians (Trappists) and the Congregation of Holy Cross, decided that one of the ways to do this was to send a delegation of their men across the Atlantic, into the wilderness of a new country called the United States of America.  By that time, we were scarcely three generations old, and the frontier was everywhere.

Into that western frontier came the Holy Cross community, his band led by Fr. Edward Sorin, and the first Trappists, led by an equally audacious Frenchman, Dom Eutropius.  And early on, one of Notre Dame's famous first priests, Fr. Stephen Badin, had communication with this nascent community on the western edges of the American frontier.

Now, a hundred and seventy years later, Notre Dame's community visits the Trappists again.  We have done so every two years, for almost a generation.  And we do so for a very specific purpose.

It's getting harder and harder, with the passing of years, to actually find quiet.  Just like it's getting harder and harder to observe the stars in the expanse of the sky.  Our lights, our techie inventions, all these things block out the darkness, and block out silence, too.

The problem is – wonder is to be found in both.

So we travel to Gethsemani this weekend, in part, to rediscover the wonder of silence.

It is a movement into Great Silence, found in the low, rolling hills of Kentucky  (And to those who have never seen the movie about the Carthusians by the same name, it is a beautiful testament to both their life and to what the smallest of sounds can mean).

Perhaps it is a conundrum, but we travel to this quiet monastery to find out how to be better musicians, how to approach silence and sound in more profound ways.  Every time we make pilgrimage to this place, we come back, out of the silence, with a much deeper appreciation for the craft of music making.

And maybe – if we're lucky – we might just experience a little wonder at the stars in the heavens as well.

The reach of a thought, the reach of a song

Some might begin their writing today by saying "now that the holiday season has ended..." But that would not be me. I choose to say "now that we have entered the holiday season...."

Sure, the Christmas soundtracks in the shopping malls have all been thrown aside, so that we can now ponder the immortal truths put forward by pop singers. But for me, the days that follow the Nativity (what we call Yuletide) – and they are many – each contain their own wonder. Especially at a time of year when I can spend much more of my time with children and grandchildren, the messages of the Incarnation seem so tangible, so close.

It is a time, these holidays, when thoughts reach out across vast distances: cards sent by loved ones and friends, separated by miles and even by oceans, seem all the more powerful. Messages conveyed at this time seem all the more bright, even as the world slowly tilts its path away from the winter solstice once more. Light means more. Words, and music, provide that illumination.

Songs, too, seem to take on their own immutable power in the days following the Nativity: they announce things, bring hope, give listeners something tangible on which to place those hopes. And this year, I received something of a Christmas present, from a group of people I've never worked with, or even conversed with before.

It all started when one of my former choir members, Jeff Bray, wrote to me looking for some resources for the song, "O Mary of Promise." Years ago, I had written the text of this piece – not something I usually do – and joined it to the beautiful, ancient Irish tune Siobhan ní Laoghaire. Jeff pointed me to a You Tube website, and simply said, "have you seen this?!"



Well. I had not. And after seeing this post, a heartfelt note of congratulations was sent to the young men and women of the Bradford Catholic Youth Choir, in the Diocese of Leeds, far away in the Midlands of England, under the superb direction of Benjamin Saunders.

Such is the power of the Word became Flesh – that Words, and Songs, and Love itself, can leap over great distances, even over oceans, to gain a small but beautiful glimpse of the Incarnate Love so promised by this season.

For with God, there is no limit to the reach of a thought, or of a song. 'Tis the season when Love (with perhaps a little bit of help from the Internet) traverses the world in a heartbeat.


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Location:Crestmoor Dr, Boone, United States

An Irish Victory (sans football)

Yes, I'm writing this at the end of the formal football season at Notre Dame. No, this has nothing to do with that peculiar, cultic ritual that holds us captive from the end of August until the end of November each year.

Far from having to do with the events on the gridiron, this posting has everything to do with what is happening on other green fields – specifically, the fields of the Diocese of Ferns (Wexford) and the Archdiocese of Dublin.

Six years and some change ago, we blessed our first group of graduates and sent them to Clonard, a suburb of the very musical town of Wexford. Year after year, house directors and volunteers have labored intensely – assisting with liturgies, shoring up choirs, gathering musicians far and wide and getting music into their hands.

A few weeks ago, this year's volunteers were formally welcomed into the midst of their Irish hosts. And it was a big weekend, for it coincided with the forty-year anniversary of the founding of the parish wherein they serve.

And what a cast had assembled – parish priests and curates who had served over the years; concelebrants from the surrounding countryside of the Sunny SouthEast; musicians from around the city. And, to preside over it all, the Papal Nuncio to Ireland, Archbishop Charles Brown, himself a Notre Dame grad.



There was a victory that October night... and it was not an American victory. It was a victory led by the Irish themselves – led by our old, dear friend Ruairi Byrne and his left-handed guitar; led by Stasia Redmond and Emily and marvelous traditional Irish musicians; led by the sterling voices of the Clonard children's choir, and all the other parish choirs that joined forces – more than seventy of them. Americans were sprinkled in a few spots here and there. But the night belonged to this Irish parish, to Irish leadership, to this assembly. And that's exactly what was hoped for.

Now perhaps you may think this was no big deal, this vigil mass on a Saturday night in a corner of Ireland. But in a land where hymnals are as scarce as hen's teeth, in a land where two whole generations have been disenfranchised from the Church, where a once-proud faith is on the ropes ... this was a big deal. Mass parts sung by everyone. Flutes, violins, guitars, organ and piano – all joined in the chorus, and the chorus was a four-part choir. They sang songs from Ireland, from America – but everything they sang were songs that bolstered their hearts and strengthened their faith.



And at the end, the good archbishop, before the final blessing, looked around at the assembly, and proclaimed: "Never, in all my years of traveling the length and breadth of Ireland, have I experienced a liturgy such as this."

This would be the time to recite the litany of all those incredible young graduates, men and women from Notre Dame, from Saint Mary's College, and now from Marquette, who contributed to the Irish victory that night. But I know that they would simply step aside, with grand smiles on their faces, and simply gesture to their Irish colleagues, insisting that the accomplishments were their own.

In what most professional church observers have described as one of the bleakest landscapes – a Catholic church overrun by scandal, sorrow, and demoralized leaders – there was much hope to be harvested in Wexford on that October night. People would do well to pay attention to the beacon that is beginning to burn there.

And now, another torch has been lit – at Harold's Cross Church, in the city of the black pool, Dublin. More songs to be shared, more hope to be announced, and Irish victories to announce. You'll never see these scores on ESPN. But in the last analysis, I wonder which are the more significant?


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Location:Clonard Church of the Annunciation, Wexford, Ireland

About Turkeys and Number 622

For the past seven years of my life, I've been absorbed with an immense project, entitled the Newman Hymnal of the University of Notre Dame.
It features more than eight hundred carefully selected hymns, psalms, and spiritual songs, an anthology created for the faith journey of our ND students.

One of the greatest tasks associated with this project was the assembling hundreds of sidebars – excerpts from the catechism; poems, historical and liturgical goodies; Scripture passages. Each piece of music had a companion sidebar, a commentary or perspective on the song with which it was paired. It was a staggering task. But now it is completed, and I am happy to report that one can frequently walk through the Basilica of the Sacred Heart or one of the residence hall chapels, and simply observe people reading the hymnal. It was one of my great hopes with this collection.



There's a hymn that I'm particularly fond of in the hymnal, Number 622: "God, Whose Giving Knows No Ending." We paired this text with the beautiful pentatonic melody, Beach Spring. A sample of the lyrics:
Treasure, too, you have entrusted,
Gain through pow'rs your grace conferred.
Ours to use for home and kindred,
And to spread the gospel word.

Eloquent words... and a straightforward celebration of stewardship.

So it was imperative to match up these sentiments with words that were also filled with gratitude, simplicity, and a sense of stewardship.

So I went back to the wisdom of St. Paul, who, in equally eloquent form, provided the sterling commentary:

What do you have, that you did not receive?

What do any of us have, except what was given us?

Thanksgiving – it's more than a day, more than a feast, even more than an attitude. It's a decision, a decision to recognize that the way I live, and move, and have my being, all came from other places besides myself.

And that is a humbling thing.



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The Red Zone

To the Notre Dame reader, it might appear that I am writing about what happened yesterday on Our Lady's campus – the Blue/Gold game (in which Brian Kelly gets to play Project Runway and preview The Shirt, and fret about his squad's performances in the terrain he calls the "red zone.")

But those who know me well know that I am not commenting upon "the other liturgy."  Especially at the outset of Holy Week, which is the liturgy at this place.  I write of another red zone.

This morning, at the helm and standing in the loft, I must admit to a certain amount of overcome-ness as we made our way through the Solemnity of Palm/Passion Sunday.  Every aspect of it seemed to cut through me like butter.  I was just overcome, over and over again.

It happened as I was entering the Basilica at the tail end of procession, when I heard "Sing Hosanna!" being proclaimed full tilt as the assembly marches in with their palms.

It happened again as the choir broke into the proclamation of the Gospel with their annual angry mob interpretations ("Barrabas!"  "Crucify him!")  While I can never see it myself, my choristers told me than more than a great handful of people seemed visibly disturbed by these bursts of riotous, shameful witness.  As they should have.  An angry mob screaming for capital punishment should never make us feel at peace.

It is a week of full-on, convoluted fury:  Triumphant hosannas followed by the dejection of the Twenty-Second Psalm;  hundreds of students carrying a splinter-laden, enormous cross around campus (that comes on Tuesday) followed by the solace of an Ubi Caritas on Holy Thursday.  The achingly empty, entrance drumbeat of Good Friday, only to blossom a few days later in the tympani parts of "Out of Darkness," that fabulous anthem that has become an Easter tradition with us.

And then there is this song called Cross Cry.  It was sung today by the choir as the anthem for Palm Sunday Mass.  The song keeps coming back to this disturbingly human thought, put on the lips of the suffering Jesus on the Cross:  "Take my mother home."  Could there be no more significant act of compassion by the Son of God that to say such a thing?  Get my Mother out of here.  Do not let her see this.  At the end of the thing, I could barely look at the choir – they had poured such heartbreaking emotion into it.  All I could do was fight back tears, overcome, yet again.

And yet, soon, coming out of this cross cry, there will be another song lifting through the air – the song of the Easter Sequence, in which the Marys come running back from an empty tomb, with impossible news.

How blessed are we, that we have such song to accompany us through all these convulsions of faith.  Watching the seniors in the choir right now, it is downright heartening to watch them passing on their enthusiasms to the freshmen: "You don't know it yet, but your world is about to change.  You haven't experienced Holy Week at Notre Dame."  The upperclassmen speak in hushed wonder, and they are wise to do so.  Today, the freshmen made their first step upon that journey –

– the journey into the Red Zone on Our Lady's campus.