O Antiphon, My Antiphon

1st three O Antiphons

Advent begins, if you will recall, with an invitation to meditation in preparation for the coming of Christ. This invitation is reiterated in the musical form of the Matin Responsory.  Advent ends with a period of reflection and a sense of calm, for all that needed to be done in preparation has been finished. Liturgically, the last eight days of Advent invoke the coming of the Messiah with the Great O Antiphons. As with responsories, antiphons offer an enrichment of music to the liturgy, not only in the use of the language, but the style of the music itself.

An antiphon is a piece of liturgical music (usually a psalm or anthem) sung by alternating voices. It is responsorial in style, in that one voice “responds” to the other. But the difference between a true responsory and an antiphon is that the responsory alternates the verses sung by a cantor and the refrain sung by the choir or congregation.  An antiphon can take on a number of different structures using two opposing vocal parts. For instance, one voice (say, a cantor) may begin a verse phrase and the other voice completes the phrase antiphonally.  More commonly, a cantor will chant or sing one verse and the choir or congregation will sing the next. Another option that became popular during the Renaissance in Italy is for two opposing choirs to alternate phrases within the verses. I’ll write more about this a little further on when I examine the antiphonal works of composer Giovanni Gabrieli.

Today, the most commonly recognized definition of antiphon is the common, or choral, phrase spoken or sung at the beginning and/or end of a psalm or prayer.  The Gloria Patri attachment is a prime example: the psalm is completed with “Glory be to the Father, and to the Son, and to the Holy Spirit. As it was in the beginning, is now and will be forever.” It is antiphonal in that the psalm or prayer is said or recited by a lector and the congregation responds with the antiphon.  In our Episcopalian worship, we use the antiphon in a number of places—the sursum corda (“Lift up your hearts.” “We left them up unto the Lord.” Etc.); the beginning and end of the Gospel reading are antiphonal; and the dismissal (“Go forth…” “Thanks be to God.”).

The liturgical significance of the antiphon is that they can be customized for the season. Probably the best known of such antiphons are the Marian Antiphons (sung on days dedicated to the glory of the Blessed Virgin Mary) and the Great O Antiphons of Advent. The former include chants that are more familiar to us as anthems, like Salve Regina, Ave Maria, and Regina Coeli.  But the Advent antiphons are best recognized in the adaptation of the hymn Veni, veni Emmanuel. Each stanza is one of the seven antiphons and are used at the beginning and end of the Magnificat during daily offices. These antiphons are over a thousand years old and are still used in regular service during the final week of Advent.   

symbols of the Great O Antiphons

The antiphons each invoke an epithet for Jesus and the first initials, working from the day closest to Christmas to the furthest back, create an acrostic that spells ero cras meaning “I will be [there] tomorrow.”

E=Emmanuel; used on December 23

R=Rex Gentium (King of all nations); used on December 22

O=Oriens (Radiant Dawn); used on December 21

C=Clavis David (Key of David); used onDecember 20

R=Radix Jesse (Root of Jesse); used on December 19

A=Adonai (Lord of Israel); used on December 18

S=Sapientia (Wisdom); used on December 17

You can hear the Gregorian chant for each one of these antiphons here. As the use of antiphonal music developed, composers created new music using the various antiphonal styles for the Advent Antiphons.  Healy Willan and Arvo Pärt (who wrote his in German) are two contemporary composers who set the antiphons to new music.

Giovanni Gabrieli

The antiphonal structure is musically captivating for both the listener and the performer. To include it in worship involves all participants in the glory of creation as prayer.  Thus, it has become a curiosity for composers who want to find new and creative ways of expressing the antiphon.  As I mentioned earlier in this article, Giovanni Gabrieli was one such composer.  A composer and organist from the Venetian School during the Renaissance, Gabrieli was one of the most influential composers of his time. In 1585, Gabrieli became the principal organist at St. Mark’s Basilica in Venice and dedicated much of composition to sacred music.  He experimented with the antiphonal structures and composed his version of O Magnum Mysterium which uses two choruses in antiphon. As an experiment in sound, this work describes antiphon as more responsory, or two voices in opposing corners than antiphonal as defined by a precedent or antecedent phrase to a psalm.  As you listen to the piece on the above link, you’ll hear three distinct parts (Gabrieli was greatly influenced by questions of the Trinity). Each segment is also divided into three segments and uses the two choruses in a responsorial manner where the higher voiced choir leads the phrase. The second choir of lower tessitura replies, and in the third rendition he uses both choirs in harmonic polyphony.

For this final week of Advent, the use and structure of antiphon evokes a contemplative mood for the final period of “hurry up and wait” in anticipation of the coming Lord. As we worship together, consider the verses of “O Come, O Come Emmanuel” and each name attributed to the greatness of our God. Consider the power of the music as an invocation.  And wait.

Gaudete! Rejoice!

We refer to the third Sunday in Advent as Gaudete Sunday, or “Rejoice” Sunday.  It takes its name from the opening word of the introit for the day’s Mass: Rejoice in the Lord always, and again I say rejoice! The Episcopal lectionary is on a three year rotation, and the reading from Philippians from which the introit is taken falls on the third year of the cycle (this year, as it happens).  Regardless of the year, the lectionary readings for this week all exhort us to rejoice.  One can expect the music for the day to be bright and, well, rejoicing. 

As is the case for many, many liturgical texts, the passage for this week’s reading from Philippians has been set to music by composers for the past fifteen hundred and more years. A chanted Mass which would use the afore-mentioned introit became popular in the monasteries and divinity schools from the 10^th through 13^th centuries. Gregorian chant was not actually invented by Pope Gregory I, but he was responsible for first organizing and notating which music was to be used on various occasions in the church calendar. His cataloging system was extensive and included chants for all eight divine daily offices sung in the monasteries. His method of musical notation became the precursor for modern music notation. (You can see an example of Gregorian notation when visit the above hyperlink for the introit.) One of the more prolific schools of composers for Gregorian chant and chansons—that is, secular songs using that notation style—was the Notre Dame School in Paris.  In the early days, chant was monophonic, having only one line of music in a plainchant based on the old Roman rites or Gallican chants. (Gallican chants were use in Roman Christian worship, mostly in France and northern Spain.) 

Gothic cathedral mathematical ground plan

The composers from the Notre Dame School, being progressive and liberal as is wont in an educational institution, began developing enhancements to the music, oft times out of sheer necessity when all voices could not comfortably sing the same monophonic line of music.  But mostly, their compositions were such to complement the mathematical rules and structures of the sacred spaces in which the music would be sung.  The architecture of both the space and the music was for the glory of God.  They composers of the Notre Dame School composed chants (only Léonin and Pérotin, who composed most of the famed Magnus Liber Organi, remain known composers of the institution) with melody or cantus firmus carried by the lower voices and the harmonic line by the voices in higher register. Initially, this radical polyphonic sound was shocking to hear in a religious setting.  But as these gothic churches continued to be built with precision and innovation, so too was the building of the structures of sound used to fill these spaces.  Later polyphonic chants would employ intervals to mimic not only those proportions of the building design, but the intricate and ornate innovations as well. [You may be interested in viewing the BBC 4’s Sacred Music Series 1, the first episode of which delves into the specifics of Gothic sacred music.]

Henry Purcell

As time progressed and rules and protocol for what was divinely inspiring changed, sacred music invariably matured as well.  During the Renaissance, harmonic lines ventured into strategically derived dissonances designed to be quickly resolved according to the rules of counterpoint.  By the Baroque era, those dissonances were composed to provide texture and color to the harmonies and enhance the text.  Harmonies became intricately ornamented—yet those same ornamentations followed precise structural rules.  Composers of Baroque music began with an emotion as foundation.  Using our Rejoice in the Lord Always text as an example, Henry Purcell began the composition with the emotion of the word “rejoice.”  That uplifting, joyfulness is imitated in the structure of the music as can be heard in the rising pattern of the musical phrase accompanying the text.  Still, Baroque composers approached this expression of the foundational emotion with objectivity and deliberate calculation, i.e. joy rises, therefore the music should reflect that with a rising pattern.  The emotional foundation is not that of the composer’s, but of his intellectual analysis and artistic expression of the emotion.  He will use all the mechanics of music, like pitch, volume, tempo, to express an emotional text.  As you listen to Purcell’s Rejoice in the Lord Alway, note how the “rejoice” passages use a more detached, brisker tempo compared to the passage that discusses the peace of God.  This section is more legato—smoother—and gentler in volume.  Also, the intervals of the harmonies are tighter, reflecting a lack of conflict.  Peace. (This gaudete Sunday at Trinity Church in Rutland, the choir will sing the abbreviated version of this anthem.)

Gospel musician, Israel Houghton

Since I seem to be in a pattern of jumping every 400 years or so in sacred music, let’s take a very quick peek at a version of our text in a modern gospel-music setting.  Music doesn't reinvent itself over time; it evolves, hanging onto elements that work.  What you hear in the plainchant of ancient Roman Mass is the basis for the beginnings of sacred harmony in the Gothic rites.  That is built on and embellished in the sacred music of the baroque.  All of those elements can be found in the expression of sacred music in a modern setting.  Israel Houghton, a composer of modern sacred music who set the same Rejoice in the Lord Always text to music, uses modern instrumentation and style.  Repetition is a popular devise to express the emphatic.  Sheer volume and quantity of musicians expresses the abstract of the vastness and diversity of God’s creation and His heaven.  There is also the added physicality of the music, the aspect that compels one to dance.  Yet, even in this very new music, you can hear the elements of the old: the single line of melody that becomes enriched and empowered with the layering of harmonic lines and voices (borrowed from the gothic period); the deliberate utilization of musical devises to expresses the foundational emotion (as practiced in the Baroque era) and various stages not even considered in this article.

Regardless of the historical time period, the text that drives the music is of itself a linguistic work of music.  Take the words and grammar away, but leave the meaning and concept of the expression, then “rejoice in the Lord always, and again, I say rejoice” remains as music of God’s spirit within us.  And we become the voices and instruments of God’s divine music.  When that happens, it’s easy.  Gaudete!  And again. Rejoice!

Prepare, Prepare, Prepare!

John the Baptist’s call in the desert, “Prepare the way of the Lord!” resounds with its simplicity in the hearts of all who listen.  It’s a familiar message and for many evokes a memory of some musical passage, be it a Broadway tune, a hymn, or a famous oratorio. Perhaps this is because of the simplicity of the statement.  Perhaps it is because of the emotion poured into the admonition. Regardless, we react with a visceral response when we hear it. For this second week of Advent, the liturgical lessons speak to us about the coming of our saviour, cautioning us prepare. It is not your typical and ordinary statement of an upcoming event—this is a warning! This warning is reiterated again and again in the music of the Advent season.

If you grew up in the 60’s and 70’s (or are a child of parents of that time), you will no doubt have heard and even chanted the opening theme of Godspell[1].  The elegant phrase is set to an equally elegant and haunting tune of 10 notes repeated over a number of keys and tempos. The song opens with attention-grabbing blasts on a shofar (very loud instrument made from a ram’s horn) and slides into the tune sung by one single voice. The tune is then taken up by additional voices until the whole world is singing it! Stephen Schwartz composed the music for Godspell in 1971, when he was just 23.  He won a number of awards for it including two Grammys (best producer and best composer). Yet the original productions did not begin with “Prepare Ye the Wayof the Lord”.  In fact, two other openers were tried and found to be ineffective to the producers’ intent.  For what they wanted was a powerful device to get people on the edge of their seats and to understand instinctively that the message coming is BIG NEWS.  Eventually, show designers realized that audiences thought of John the Baptist’s cry in the wilderness as the beginning of the story and they simply dropped the other opening tunes and began the show with a great (and often comedic) baptism.  And the sound advice to prepare the way of the Lord. The text of the score is based mostly on the Gospel of Matthew, although three of the parables are found only in Luke. Most of the lyrics not composed by Schwartz are taken from hymns found in the Episcopal Church Hymnal (the one used in the early 70’s). Around the same time that Stephen Schwartz composed the Godspell rendition of “Prepare Ye the Way of the Lord,” there was another very popular song in the contemporary Christian music scene. Does anyone remember “I Hear a Sound Coming from the Mountain”?

A number of Advent hymns in our 1982 Hymnal are also specific to John’s cry in the wilderness. One such hymn is #67—Comfort, comfort ye my people.  Claude Goudimel composed the meditative Psalm 42 whose second stanza directly refers to John’s cry in the desert, rebuking us to repent. Claude Goudimel[2] was a French music theorist from the 16^th century whose most well-known work was to compose four-part settings of chant psalms for the Genevan Psalter. During the renaissance, generally the melody was sung by the tenor voice. Since most choral works were sung exclusively by men and boys, the more powerful man’s voice would be tasked with carrying the tune.  However, in one of Goudimel’s volumes, he set the melody of his hymns in the top line usually given to the sopranos. This method of hymnody has prevailed, and today almost all hymns have the melody set in the top line. Of course, there are a number of other familiar “voice in the wilderness” hymns as well: # 75—There’s a voice in the wilderness crying (the tune is called “Ascension” and was composed by Henry Hugh Bancroft), and #76—On Jordan’s bank the Baptist’s cry (this particular hymn setting uses William Henry Monk’s “Winchester New” tune which is used for a number of different hymns). The words for this hymn were written by Charles Coffin and set to a very popular Early American tune by William Billings. Billings, who was born and died in Boston, spent much of his time in Vermont and loved the people and mountains of the area.  Thus, many of his tunes are named after favorite places in Vermont, i.e. Chester, his most famous tune, a Revolutionary War tune.

Arguably, the most famous musical setting for this week’s Advent message of preparation is part one of G. F. Handel’s Messiah. While the first part of the oratorio deals with Jesus’ incarnation, it takes its text (compiled by Charles Jennens—poor, underappreciated man) from prophesy of the messiah.  The actual birth is of little consequence; it is his death and resurrection that are important. In fact, Charles Jennens’ intention when he compiled the libretto was to acclaim the “mystery of Christ’s divinity” rather than to dramatize his life and teachings. Jennens was a supporter of the Stuart line of monarchy and became a “non-juror”, that is, he refused to swear an oath of allegiance to William and Mary and aligned himself with the Episcopal Church in Scotland.  His work as a librettist gave him an avenue by which to express his views as an anti-deist and Jacobite.

The Old Testament selection for this year’s second week of Advent is taken from the book of the prophet Malachi—“Who can endure the day of his coming….for he is like a refiner’s fire and will purify the descendants of Levi.” The passage, however, begins with the announcement that a messenger will be sent to prepare the way of the Lord, thus modeling for us that we do the same. With the liturgy of the week being repeated in so many varied and beautiful musical renditions (something to appeal to everyone), it is to our own shame that we don’t get the message!

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[1] The word godspell is an old English word meaning “good news” and is the derivation of the word “gospel”.

[2] Goudimel composed the bulk of his work as a Roman Catholic.  But he converted to Protestantism in 1557, and as a Huguenot, composed his most popular tunes for the Genevan Psalter, a Protestant hymnal (Geneva being the center of the Calvinist movement).  He was killed in 1572 during the aftermath of the St. Bartholomew’s Day Massacre.