Holy Week with Thomas Tallis

Thomas Tallis
There were no contemporary portraits made of Tallis,
this was painted over 150 years after his death by
 Gerard van der Gucht.

 As part of the Anglican tradition, Holy Week rarely passes without some deference to that great English composer, Thomas Tallis.  As the Chapel Royal composer from 1542 until his death in 1585, Tallis composed exclusively for liturgical settings. His music has never suffered a period of complete obscurity as happens with many early composers. Partly, this may have been due to his royal  position, but mostly his music owes its popularity to the beauty of the sound and ease of its performance.  It’s curious that in spite of the great volume of church music he composed, very little of it was specifically composed for Easter and Holy Week.  Yet that which was is very recognizable and familiar.

One of his most beloved compositions—at least, beloved of choral singers for is simplistic, yet rare beauty and ease of performance—is the anthem “If Ye Love Me.”  The words are text from the Gospel of John (John 14:15-17) and are used on Maundy Thursday to remember the events of the last supper. The polyphonic music (multiple lines of sound) may be considered a motet even though motets are technically defined as having Latin texts.  This particular piece of music was composed during the reign of Kind Edward VI who mandated that services be sung in English and that choral music must be brief and succinct—that each syllable be assigned “a plain and distinct note.”  Tallis considered the music as precedent to text, but used the text to describe the music when possible. In this anthem, the initial phrase “If ye love me, keep my commandments” has the notes rising in a fashion to imply a pleading.  Later, the phrase “he shall give you another comforter” soothes the imploring tone with elongated notes that provide a sense of that comfort. Over all, the piece captures perfectly the resigned and contemplative moment when Jesus lets his disciples know that while he may be gone, he won’t leave them without a presence of God.

Tallis was gifted with the ability to compose expressive, emotive music. He composed a set of nine tunes for Archbishop Parker’s psalter.  One of the tunes was composed in the third mode (and is in fact the third tune of the nine) which is a minor mode fraught with anger and tension.  The psalm set to “The Third Tune” originally was psalm 2.

Why fum'th in fight the Gentiles spite, in fury raging stout?
Why tak'th in hand the people fond, vain things to bring about?
The Kings arise, the Lords devise, in counsels met thereto,
against the Lord with false accord, against His Christ they go.

The words in and of themselves would be worthy of a Good Friday hymn.  Yet in the 1982 Hymnal, Tallis’ setting is used for F. Pratt Green’s very fitting poem “To Mock Your Reign, O Dearest Lord,” which fits the meter of the third tune very well.  Incidentally, it is this tune that Ralph Vaughn Williams composed his famous Fantasia on a Theme by Tallis, which was used as the soundtrack for a powerful storm scene in the film Master and Commander. It is clearly evocative of tribulation and death.

Very little of Tallis’ music specifically for Easter exists outside of masses and service music.  But one anthem that has resurfaced is called, “Christ Rising Again from the Dead.” This, too, was composed under the mandate of Edward VI, and so the text taken from passages in Romans and Corinthians is the required English.  The music demonstrates Tallis’ skill for interweaving multiple parts and strategic use of contrasting rhythms.  As is characteristic of renaissance music composed for hugely spacious cathedrals, the anthem uses long phrasing with whole and half notes bearing the weight of the piece and shorter notes with dotted rhythms to add a percussive element.  The end result is music that soars to the very rafters of a cathedral church space.  This piece in particular, emulating the resurrection of Christ, slowly works a rising pattern so that by the time it draws to its conclusion with the alleluia sequence, there is a clear upward stepping of each repetition of the word.  Not only does the pitch pattern rise, but the volume increases as well implying a universal joy—ALLELUIA! In fact, the story of the anthem itself emulates the music in a way, for it, too seems to have risen again from the dead.

“Christ Arising from the Dead” is a fairly recently rediscovered piece of music from Tallis’ repertoire.  It was one of the pieces found in the Chirk Castle Manuscripts which were rediscovered in the 1960s.  Chirk

Chirk Castle, Wrexham, Wales

Castle, located in Wrexham, Wales, was built in 1295 as one of the line of fortresses built for the defenses of King Edward I.  The castle fell into disrepair and in 1595, the Myddleton family purchased it and began with repairs to the chapel.  As part of the restoration, Thomas Myddleton ordered part-books to be compiled for use by the choir.  Those part-books (manuscripts wherein only one voice part is inscribed rather than a score with all voices; each voice would have its own part in a book) included popular pieces by the period’s most well-known composers, including Thomas Tallis.  They were later stored in the castle library during the Civil War.  As the castle is situated on the Welsh-English border, it sustained some damage during that time and the chapel was all but abandoned.  The part-books were forgotten and it wasn't until the 1960s that four of the remaining part-book manuscripts were found.  It was after they were purchased by the New York Public Library that research began on the music and the Tallis anthem was revealed.  The link above takes you to a site that has

an example of a part book

a recording of the piece performed by the Brabant Ensemble.

Very little is known about Thomas Tallis’ personal background. He was a devout Catholic, yet his music transcended the political and religious squabbles of the monarchs he served.  He served as a composer in the Chapel Royal for more than forty years, through the reigns of four monarchs and come through them all unscathed.  This perhaps is telling of a quiet, unassuming life and a great talent for musicianship.  Maybe it is best to simply let his music speak for him.  It speaks of a divine gift from God!

Into the Woods My Master Went - Preparing for Holy Week

Palm Sunday, the most frantically manic-depressive Sunday of the year, presents a conundrum for church music directors.  Does one choose music for the joyful and triumphant entrance into Jerusalem, complete with hosannas and rocks a stones alertly standing by for their chance to sing praises to Jesus should those fool humans neglect to? Or, given that the Passion Gospel is read fairly early on in the service, does one choose the more melodramatic music in keeping with doleful Lent and the dour anticipation of Holy Week events? Those who do not attend worship services during Holy Week miss the resigned serenity of the Last Supper, the dark angst of the forsaken and crucifixion, the vigilance of Easter Eve that breaks into wondrous splendor at the empty tomb. They miss the varied and beautiful soundtrack that accompanies and enhances the events of the story that unfolds over the course of a week.  Palm Sunday and Easter Sunday offer little more than a glance at the message, so it behooves the music director to make the best possible selections of music to convey the emotions and atmosphere of the week. 

Olive tree in the Garden of Gethsemane

This Palm Sunday at Trinity church, Rutland, the choir will sing an anthem called, “Into the Woods My Master Went” with music by Gilbert Martin.  The words are a poem by Sidney Lanier called “A Ballad of the Trees and the Master.” The anthem takes the congregation to the halfway point of Holy Week—to Jesus’ vigil in the garden.  The poem does not take us inside Jesus.  We do not experience his emotions as he prays in the garden.  Rather, we are merely given a glimpse of divine.  The poem is narrated in the first person, implying that “I” is watching and noticing the events from afar, yet doing nothing to alter them.  As with Peter, John and James, we are asleep. The poem has only two stanzas. The first stanza, using the word “forspent,” evokes the fatigue and anxiety that leads Jesus into the garden.  The second verse shows him leaving the garden resigned to his sorrowful fate. 

Gilbert Martin, composer

Gilbert Martin’s music expresses the still quiet of the night.  The minor key of the first line implies the emotions: anxiety, serenity, the mystery of the unknown-yet-predicted future. The divine insight mentioned earlier comes in the form of a major key when the trees, right down to the olives and “little gray leaves” attend to Jesus’ words. The music darkens again with the second stanza when “death and shame woo him…from under the trees…they slew him.” Yet in spite of the drama, the music ends with a gentleness—still minor, but less traumatic—that speaks of hope, hope to be realized in Jesus’ resurrection. Gilbert Martin is a modern American composer, born in 1941, who is a prolific composer and arranger of piano, organ and choral music. His compositions have been used in churches and schools for more than forty years. He earned his degree in music from Westminster Choir College in Princeton, NJ and has been the recipient of numerous awards. Martin’s style of composition is varied, but tends toward emoting the texts for which he composes.

Sidney Lanier, circa 1866

Sidney Lanier, on the other hand, was a Civil War veteran and died of tuberculosis in 1881 at the age of 39. He was born in 1842 in Macon, GA and graduated from university shortly before the Civil War began. He fought for the Confederate Army in the signal corps, mostly in the tidewater, Virginia area. At one point, he and his brother served as pilots aboard English blockade runners. During one run, his ship was captured by Union naval soldiers.  Having refused the protection of the British officers by not donning one of their uniforms as disguise, Lanier was incarcerated as a prisoner of war. He contracted tuberculosis at Point Lookout Military Prison and suffered from the disease for the rest of his short life. Sidney was a studious and sensitive boy and youth.  

a live oak in the Marshes of Glynn

He grew up in Glynn County along the coast and spent a great deal of solitary time in the marshes.  He was deeply inspired by the beauty of the marsh and composed his most famous works about them, including “The Marshes of Glynn” and “Sunrise.” These selections, along with much of Lanier’s poetry, were composed in a meter and style reminiscent of the ancient Anglo-Saxon bards.  Lanier had a strong attraction for ancient Anglo-Saxon history and many of his personal choices were patterned on Anglo-Saxon honor.  Besides being a gifted poet and scholar (he entered Oglethorpe University at the age of 14), Sidney Lanier had a strong proclivity for music. He learned to play the violin, piano, guitar, banjo, and his personal favorite—the flute.  He composed a solo piece for the instrument, called “Wind Song,” in which the flutes dances and twists, soars and glides in imitation of the wind patterns in his beloved marshes.

Lanier was a deeply religious man and felt a great connection to God’s divinity which is reflected in his poetry. “A Ballad of the Trees and the Master” is but one of his poems examining the events of Jesus’ life and sacrifice. It is a poem that has been set to music by a number of composers and is set to the hymn tune Ridgefield that may be found in over fifty different hymnals. You can hear the poem set in a beautiful anthem composed by Jane Hawes by clicking on this link. But to hear the Gilbert Martin setting, you’ll just have to come to church this Palm Sunday!

The Lore of the Lyrical Lorica

It is a familiar hymn in our Episcopal Church, and one that is used on Trinity Sunday, for confirmations and renewal of baptismal vows, and of course for the Sunday nearest St. Patrick’s Day—March 17.  We know it as St. Patrick’s Breastplate.  It is also recognized as The Deer’s Cry and The Lorica of St. Patrick.  It’s a rather unique hymn in our collection because its verses vary so much in length and meter that it requires two hymn tune settings. St. Patrick is the tune setting for the “I bind myself” stanzas and the tune Deirdre is used for the “Christ be with me” verses.

The words are steeped in history and in Celtic legend and mythology. The original Old Irish poem is called “Faeth Fiadha.”  These words translate literally as “mist-knower” but idiomatically mean “invisible to human eyesight.” Faeth fiadha was a magical mist that arose to protect and render invisible those faithful to the ancient Celtic goddess Danu. The Tuatha Dé Danann were a race of ancient Irish that appeared from the might of druidry out of a black cloud to conquer the previous inhabitants of Ireland. It is from this legendary group that mythological characters such as the Morrìgan, Lughnasa and Aengus, the god of love derive. Legend has it that when certain runes and druidic incantations were recited, the protection of the goddess Danu would surround them with a magical mist that would cloak them in invisibility. 

A similar story is attributed to St. Patrick. King Lóegaire mac Néill was a constant antagonist to St. Patrick and refused to let him preach Christianity and convert the people of Ireland. The king sent out troops to hunt down Patrick and his followers. Patrick, familiar with the ways of the ancient druids and the structures and poetry of their incantations, adapted the style to a poem of his own invoking the protection of Christ and the Trinity. As attack was imminent, one could hear the powerful rumble of Patrick’s prayer over the charging hooves of the attackers.  A heavy mist thickened to an impenetrable fog as Patrick continued his recitation, allowing Patrick’s disciples to escape. When the prayer ended with the invocation of Christ to surround him, the fog lifted and the saint appeared to the soldiers as a deer bounding away into the heath.  For this reason, the Lorica is also called “The Deer’s Cry.” These verses became a prayer for pilgrims in medieval times against the perils of travel—a prayer of protection. (The word “lorica” derives from an Irish word and means “breastplate.” There are quite a number of Irish loricas, including one from whence comes the traditional Irish hymn “Be Thou My Vision.”)

The Lorica of St. Patrick is included in a two-volume medieval collection of Irish  and Latin hymns and devotional texts called Liber Hymnorum.  Robert Atkinson, who in 1898 published a translation with editorial annotations of each entry of the Liber Hymnorum, had this to say about the Lorica, “It is probably a genuine relic of St. Patrick. Its uncouthness of grammatical forms is in favor of its antiquity. We know that Patrick used very strange Irish, some of which has been preserved.” Atkinson further noted that the poem “Faeth Fidaha” was composed without meter and perhaps was structured in a visual representation of a breastplate. It includes five iterations of the phrase “atomriug indiu” which means “I arise today.” However, when Cecil Frances Alexander translated the poem in 1889, she used the phrase “I bind unto myself today.” Her translation and adaptation of the poem was less a literal translation and more a lyric for a children’s hymn. The Lorica is reminiscent of bardic poetry of ancient Ireland, yet is creed-like in its comprehensiveness. It’s stanzas hearken to the ancient celtic pagan traditions of holistic and universal worship while weaving in Christian dogma. (You can read a translation of the whole Lorica of St. Patrick by clicking on the hyperlink.) Even so, modern scholars express skepticism of the attribution to St. Patrick. The first reference to the poem doesn’t appear until the middle ages, some four centuries after St. Patrick is said to have composed the prayer.

St. Patrick’s Breastplate has been a literary inspiration to a number of authors.  Its connection to so much of Irish and Celtic mythology is one draw, but Patrick’s own history is also appealing as an entertaining story.  Madeleine L'Engle alludes to it in her book A Swiftly Tilting Planet in which Charles Wallace must learn “Patrick’s Rune” a brief adaptation of the lorica that is meant to invoke protection. As a particularly beautiful and lyrical prayer, St. Patrick’s Lorica has often been adapted and set to music. If you clicked on the above hyperlink, you’ll have heard the Shaun Davey song performed by Rita Connolly. The Estonian composer, Arvo Pärt, composed a haunting piece called “The Deer’s Cry” using just the “Christ be with me” portion. Steve Bell composed a very fun, upbeat song adapting both the C.F. Alexander translation and the traditional translation called, “The Lorica.” This Sunday, March 17, the choir at Trinity Church, Rutland will sing “Christ Be Beside Me,” a setting arranged by Craig Kingsbury. But you will have to come to church to hear it—no hyperlink here.  Happy St. Patrick's Day!

A Singer's Encounter with God

Last week we looked at music, particularly chant music, as a catalyst for a discussion about meditation.  This week, I’m going to delve a little deeper into the subject matter from a deeply personal perspective, that of a singer.  So here’s the qualifying disclaimer: this week’s issue you may expect to be full of bias and opinion! What you will read in the following essay comes only from my personal experience and reflects my own unsubstantiated thoughts.

Music, especially singing but not exclusively so, is my method of worship. No; rather it is the vehicle for my interaction and dialogue with God. The prayers, the rituals, Holy Communion, fellowship—these are all important elements in how I worship and relate with God, but they are ultimately nonessential.  Music is essential. I am much more open to the presence of God through the sounds and mechanics of music. Music also serves as a centering focus as I deepen my relationship with God. I’ve found that the genre of music, the quality of music or any other variable of music really doesn’t matter: God speaks to me through all of it.  And I’m more inclined to allow the Holy Spirit to work through me via music.  (I say more inclined, because even with music, I have my limitations on how I’ll let God work through me.  Don’t we all have our barriers!)

In a worship service in which I experience an authentic encounter with God, it is without a doubt because all the music in that service has centered my focus and prayer.  The prelude (of which I’m rarely a participant) invites.  It’s sort of a lure. It almost never ceases to fail in capturing my attention and drawing me into the conversation.  The opening hymn is my first response. Most of the time, I’m still very much a separate entity from God and am simply speaking to God through the hymn. Then comes the first iteration of the service music—that music we sing every week that prays a part of our liturgy.  Sometimes it’s the Gloria. During Lent, we sing the Trisagion.  Singing those words in repetition allows my mind to sink into an easy, mindful meditation.  And when that happens, even the spoken word begins to take on musical qualities.  Voices rise and fall in pitch and volume and the meanings of the words take on greater depth of meaning. At this point, I sing the anthem with the choir and become entrenched in the conversation.  I am no longer responding to God, but now am speaking with God.  Sometimes, by this point in the service I am so open to God that I honestly believe I speak for God through the music. But it’s a gift when that happens.  More hymns and service music reinforce the meditative prayer of the service and brings us to Holy Communion. Here’s where God speaks and I respond. The music played as I receive communion requires my response in the hymn. This part, for me, is just God and me in dialogue. I sometimes find it ironic that the most intimate part of the conversation I have with God should occur when the whole congregation is in communion together. Finally, the closing hymn is my acknowledgement that for the purpose of our conversation (God’s and mine) during worship, my part is finished. And in the postlude, God says, “Sorry to see you go; come back soon; be happy!” Notice how the mood of the postlude is always upbeat while the prelude is mostly meditative and serene? It serves very well to the purpose of conversation. Without the music, I remain outside of the service, like an observer and not a participant.  Without the music I can’t “hear” God.  Or rather, I stubbornly neglect to hear God.

So what are the implications for music when NOT in a worship service? To me, music is always a conversation with God.  Even when the music is unappealing, God speaks to me (usually saying something like, not everything is about you!). 

My Encounter with God

Sometimes I sing with others in chorus. 

Sometimes I sing in a place all by myself. 

Sometimes I sing with others and no one is there to listen. 

Sometimes I sing by myself for an audience. 

Sometimes I sing consciously, practicing and preparing. 

Sometimes I sing just to hear myself sing. 

Sometimes I sing without being aware of singing. 

Sometimes I sing with no voice.

Always when I’m not singing, I anticipate when I will next sing.

Sometimes I see a song in the colors and sights that I see. 

Sometimes I feel strains of music in the air and textures that brush my skin. Sometimes I sense a melody in the corners of my imagination.

Sometimes I smell harmony in the aromas of life all around me.

Sometimes music is a science.

            Sometimes music is art.

            Always music is the voice of God, and it fills me.

Music is both breadth and focus.  It’s just there and it’s the centering device I use in meditation and prayer. Music is intimate and superficial. I find that because of music, my relationship with God is constant.  That is, God is with me all day and night (you should hear my dreams!) regardless of whether I’m in worship or not. Sunday worship services are special because the structure lends a certain authority to my conversation with God, and with others who share my faith.