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.... 

Ain't Diversity Great?

One of the truly delightful things about the Irish culture is their ability to put a bit of amusement into a potentially divisive issue.  Or, when the world turns to an unholy mess, to find a way to spin a yarn and make it into a hilarious story.

Now, a couple of days ago, we were in Portstewart, in Northern Ireland. This lovely town, with a picture perfect beach, was a welcome stop in the midst of a particularly long driving day.  

But what goes along with particularly long driving days?  The inevitable search for the loo (trust me, over here, that can be an adventure).  As soon as we made landfall (beachfall?), the search began.

After a bit of exploration, we came across the Facilities, back behind the chipper (translation: french fries stand).  And lo and behold, there at the entrance to said Head was this SIGN.

Back where we come from, everyone is freaking out about your gender (and, if truth be told, a whole lot of other things, too).  But how delightful to be confronted with this bit of whimsy when in need of the Necessary Room.  

It served as a lesson we might learn from this land where humor is held in much higher esteem: smile, do your business, and get on with life.  

We leave Ireland soon, for our next leg: the Netherlands.  But make no mistake about it – the humor, the welcome, the tongue-in-cheek, wreck-your-head dry wit of this land continues to beckon us back.  And back we will come.

One Step and Two: Let go, let go!

Carrick-A-Rede, Ballintoy, County Antrim, Northern lreland

Everyone still has the stuff that emerges from underneath our childhood beds, the monsters (large or small) that, if successful, can keep us up in the night.  These fears can paralyze us, but they can also make us humble, provide insight into parts of our lives that are more fragile, more in need of holding and encouragements.

One of those, for me, is heights. Even though I grew up in the mountains, I learned quickly that my psyche didn't manage well – read: tended to shut down – when I was near a precipice.  Which is odd, considering the terrain that surrounded my younger years.

Continuing our journey clockwise around the Four Green Fields, we now ventured into Ulster, the northeastern corner of the island.  A treasure trove of destinations awaited us, but in my mind, the more cataclysmic of them was a place called "Carrick-A-Rede"  (Irish for "Rock of the Casting"). What is it?  It's a rope bridge, about 70 feet long and 100 feet above the North Atlantic Ocean, connecting the mainland to a small island that served as a fishing post years ago.  But it's the bridge itself that lures people to its gates.

I had known of this chasm and rope contraption for years.  In part, because of a playful song by the singer Cathie Ryan.  You can listen to the song here.  It's the refrain that's so compelling:

    One step and two, hold tight, let go

    Twenty and four, hold tight, let go

    I'm nearly there let go, let go – I'm nearly there let go, let go!

Sometimes, you just have to step out, trust to the rope bridge, look straight ahead (and not down), and steel yourself.  You can take these steps.  You can complete the journey.  You can hang out there in the wind, your creative self flapping in the breeze for all to see.  You can accomplish what it is you set out to do.

    I'll walk the miles from Ballintoy,
    No shining moon to light my way,
    Across the fields of Larrybane,
    And the rope bridge where my love waits....

I crossed the threshold of seventy this past year, and there are still a few dark things hiding under the bed.  As well, there a few bridges left to cross – things left to accomplish, love-goals left to strive towards.  More will be written about these things later, when the timing is right (as a musician, it's always important to be aware of the timing).  But for now, it's good to know that I can face a chasm and a rope bridge, make the crossing, let go of fear, move ahead – one step, and two, and more....

Sticky Toffee Pudding: Time Out!

Okay.  I don't usually post stuff about food.  What I eat (and especially what's for dessert) is my own %&$#!  business.  On most days.

But today we left Kylemore Abbey, and headed way, way north to County Donegal, staying at a "Country Manor" wisely chosen by my wife.  It's a good thing, too, because the closest town (Letterkenny) was busy being invaded by car enthusiasts, which meant that if you owned a car you could go absolutely nowhere.  

So tonight we stayed at this beautiful manor, that served award-winning food (one of the specialities, believe it or not, was their homemade brown bread).  Over dinner, my wife and I had a chance to review the last ten days – friends in Carlow, Dublin, Spideál, and Kylemore (our first day seemed like a month ago!).  

And then, in the midst of our reverie, came dessert.  

It is called "sticky toffee pudding," and the first time we ever tasted it was outside of Edinburgh, Scotland, in 2012 (yeah, it's kind of scary that I can report when this happened).  

Since then, this particular dessert has been rather like a holy grail of delicacies following a wonderful meal.  So the combination of wine, reverie, successful driving (on Ireland's N-59, which I must say is a real accomplishment when you live to tell the tale), and dessert at the end of the day – it made for a perfect set of memories for our first ten days on the road.

Tomorrow we head into Northern Ireland.  Beautiful places abound there as well!  More to follow; but for tonight, for all you wanderers who have never explored the gastronomical landscape of sticky toffee pudding – it's time to get out and explore!  Get beyond that cheesecake and apple pie, broaden those horizons, and make every calorie count....

Here, and Back Again

Kylemore Abbey, Connemara, County Galway

"Kylemore" is the Anglicized word for "Coill Mór" – the "Big Woods."  And if there was ever a place in Ireland that screamed "photo op!", it would be Kylemore Abbey, home to the Benedictine nuns since 1920.  

I first visited Kylemore in 1987, following an engaging encounter with one of their nuns at the Irish Church Music Association's annual gathering.  Her name was Sr. Noreen Peter Gallagher (that's pronounced "GAL-a-her" for all us Americans, I am reminded).  Noreen, herself a creative photographer and musician, welcomed me heartily into the joy of this remarkable women's community of faith.

Back then, there were no tour buses, no amazing craft shop or refectory, no restored walled gardens, no hiking paths through the woods.  The nuns supported themselves by running a boarding school, and it was an educational facility mostly for young girls whose parents were either significantly powerful heads of state or financial magnates.  It made sense – the place is so out of the way that no one knew where the kids went off to.  The boarding school closed down about a generation ago, but by then, the Abbey had become a significant tourist destination point.  And the rest, as they might say, is history.  Both spiritual and fiscal as well.

I stayed in the gardener's cottage with a priest from Glenstal Abbey, Fr. Bonaventure, who was on loan to celebrate the Eucharistic celebrations here.  In addition to being in the presence of an Irish scholar of folklore, I also received nightly instruction (following Vespers, of course) on the game of hurling.  (See?  It's not just the Americans that combine sports and spiritual journeys, you Notre Dame people....)

Kylemore is now not only one of the top-rated touring destinations in Ireland.  It is also the home of yet another center for overseas studies – the Notre Dame Kylemore Centre, under the wonderful leadership of Lisa Caulfield.  It's actually quite astounding to have witnessed the growth of all these programs through the years: first the Keough Centre, then expanded into the Keough-Naughton Institute for Irish Studies in Dublin; the Teach Bhríde (House of Brigid) program of volunteer ministerial service, the Notre Dame-Newman Centre for Faith and Reason.  All of these have come into being over the past two generations, bringing a depth and richness to the tradition we call the "Notre Dame Irish."

I am here, back again, tracing former steps of years gone by, with friends and colleagues who are walking an incredible journey of reinventing spirituality for a modern age....

It began with a "Yes"

What are the consequences of an open door, a gesture of hospitality, so many years ago?  What follows is a very short story of such a Yes.

In the spring of 1987, this weary traveler washed up on the shores of Edenmore Crescent, Raheny, Dublin 5, to the household of one Tony Murphy and Anne Marie Horan.  I had met Tony the year before, at the University of Notre Dame; he was part of a contingent of Irish Catholic Youth Conference representatives, on a fact-finding mission for his own programs.

Tony and I hit it off right away (it might've been because of my slightly irreverent, unabridged tour I gave of our campus). We stayed in touch for a year, and foolishly he offered the hospitality of his home the following spring, when I was slated to begin my first exploratory journey through Ireland.  

The welcome given by him and his wife, in many ways, changed the trajectory of my life.  The two of them agreed to let this American stranger use their home as a base of operations.  I traveled to see the Benedictines at Kylemore and Glenstal Abbeys; participated in a weeklong conference of Irish church musicians; visited with liturgical and parochial centres throughout the land.  But always I had the open door of Tony and Anne Marie, making sure that I had a place to lay my head.

Their "Yes" led to years and years of touring Ireland, England and Scotland by the Notre Dame Folk Choir, which exposed hundreds of students to the richness of Irish life, which led to our bringing Irish repertoire back to the United States, which led to the publication of said repertoire by World Library Publications/GIA over the years, which led to the founding of Teach Bhríde, the House of Brigid lay community in 2008....

....Which led to my wife and I moving to Dublin, Ireland, in 2016, well prepared after more than a generation's worth of travel with college students to many corners of this compelling land.  

And it all began with a Yes, with two people who offered the front room and futon of their home to an inquisitive soul, eager to know more about the unique history of a people who had contributed so much to America's own spiritual landscape.

I wonder, sometimes, if we take the time to think back on such Magnificats in our own lives.  Of how one simple invitation will change who we are and what we do with the rest of our lives. 

Today, hundreds of kilometers from Raheny, we are out in Connemara, just west of An Spidéal, where Tony and Anne Marie now live. From their kitchen table you can look across Galway Bay, and through the mist you can just make out Inis Mór, Inís Meáin, and Inís Oirr – An Oileáin Árann, the Aran Islands.  We drove up to their home, and knocked on the front door.  The door opened, and there was Tony Murphy.  "Ye knock, and then ye just come in," he said. "Because here, family need not wait for the door to be opened."

To these two amazing, generous souls: thank you for the Yes.  Your Yes changed our lives.

Where the Soul Meets the Sea

Indreabhán, County Galway, on the way to Connemara

It is rare that this part of Ireland is without the strong presence of the wind.  Walking out past the stone walls, the brambles, the reeds and marshes, one comes across the meeting place of land and sea.  And even in its quietude, the signature of the wind can be seen in the whitecaps on Galway Bay, by the wisps of fog dancing around the Aran Islands, by the straining wings of gulls as they try to make headway through this mighty breath.

Walking along the shore of Loughaunbeg, there is this overwhelming sense of yearning, of stretching, of solitude, and yet of comfort, too.  "From the sea we came, and to the sea we shall return."  A truer phrase was never spoken by a politician (the man who uttered it was the slain American president, John F. Kennedy).  Looking out upon that vastness heading into the western, sinking sun, you get a sense of how the worldly and the beyond-the-worldly intersect.

Perhaps it is because of this landscaped coexistence of yearning and consolation that memorials have been erected along the shoreline, testimonials to people whose lives were lost in incomprehensible ways.  There is a marker for men and women who were blown up by a leftover mine from World War I; another – surrounded by a sanctuary of beach sand – commemorating all the lives of the men, women and children who died of starvation from the Great Famine.  

And there is also a poignant, now-consecrated site where lie the remains of unwed mothers and their children from the agonies of ages past. 

This long strand of shoreline is where the soul meets the sea, where the infinite continues to beckon, where the restless, relentless search for sacred sanctuary is illustrated before our very eyes.  

Years ago, I was on the Burren (which can be seen from the place of these memorials, beyond the southern shores of Galway Bay).  I was there with a Catholic priest, and dusk was approaching.  The wind was moaning around us.  "Can you hear, Steven," he said, "can you hear the souls of the dead, those that died starving in this land?"  I will never forget that conversation, the notion that the wind carries our sorrows, our lamentations, out to the sea.  

It is not for nothing that the very start of our Scriptures begin with the image of the Spirit hovering above the waters.  It is to that breath of the Author Life, please God, that we shall return.

When Home Is a Nuptial Liturgy

I had been watching this relationship unfold for years: James, a brilliant, talented, thoughtful, God-centered Irishman; and Katherine, equally brilliant and creative, sensitive, deeply committed to the Church.  I'm no Yenta, but back when they met at Newman University Church in Dublin, there was a voice inside my head that said "Surely these two would be an amazing couple, if their paths converged...."

Well.  Yesterday, at the very church where they first met, their individual paths merged and became one, and what an amazing day it was to behold: years of familial ties and friendships remembered and celebrated once more.  Toasts and speeches were made deep into the night.  Colleagues had a chance to compare notes on where life had taken them.  And as the capstone of it all, there took place a breathtaking wedding liturgy, assisted by a choir of fabulously talented voices, including a dear friend (now medical doctor), who was an exceptional Irish fiddle and violin player.

James & Katherine

The church where they met was also my home for years.  When we arrived in 2016 paint was peeling off the walls in footlong swaths; the heating system hadn't worked for more than a year (professional violinists refused to play there in the winter, complaining that the building was too cold for their instruments); the choir gallery hadn't been cleaned in years.  But from the start we knew the old bones of this church would spring back to life once more.

Over the next five years, lighting was improved, surfaces were cleaned, sound systems and video cameras were modernized, and the gallery became a place to store and catalogue precious scores. A much needed library of sacred music began to unfold, one that might befit any cathedral.  

Much more than this, the church had become a beehive of activity, welcoming back wedded couples through the ages, creating a community around prayerful gatherings in the spirit of the Taizé community, and offering both lectures and concerts to inform and inspire Dubliners of all walks of life.

And yesterday, all of it came together to help celebrate the union of two exceptional people.

There is something quite breathtaking when, sitting in the midst of a congregation full of strangers, you become aware of how sacred music washes over every single soul, melding voices and hearts together.  You become cognizant of the power of song as a unifying foundation for communal prayer.  And you see, from your pew, the almost hidden moments of a man or woman, whose name you do not know, wiping tears from their cheeks and eyes, the result of some stony part of their hearts being made sensitive and caring once more.

While we were serving at Newman Church, John Cardinal Newman became Saint John Henry Newman, and we traveled to Rome to celebrate the man who had sacrificed so much of his own life, leaving the land and people he knew, moving from one faith family to another, tasked to build a Catholic University for a people who had been suppressed for three centuries.  I couldn't help but think of how joyful this priest, philosopher, poet, and visionary would've been, seeing what has become of his dream.