The Lily Pool beats the Banana Boat

In recognition of tradition, mothers, familial relationships, and hymns, I am sharing below a short section written more than 60 years ago by the late Kay Moser.  His book Thorn in the Flesh was a kind of fictional biography.¹  In this passage, two young college students at Harding are enjoying each other’s company and reminiscing.

“I wonder who ever thought about writing a song about Mary Ann playing in the sand by the seaside?” Bill diverted, after she didn’t speak for a while.

“I’m quite certain I don’t know.  The ‘Banana Boat Song’ isn’t much better when making sense is considered.  I like to hear them, though, don’t you?”

“I like ‘My God and I’ better.  That is a different world, though, I guess.”

“I, too.  That is the most beautiful song I ever heard.  It seems to purify you inside.  I have heard so many students at Harding say it was their favorite.  It’s almost a symbol of Harding to me.”

“I like that narration by Brother Richland,” Bill said, reminiscing, “especially when we were all around the Lily Pool.  Those hymns being sung in the lunch line and around the Lily pool was one of the most impressive things of the year, I think.”

– W. Kay Moser, Thorn in the Flesh, pp. 73-74

I share this beautiful vignette from Harding’s halcyon days on the day that would have been the birthday of a dear longtime family friend, Todd Thompson.  Almost a year ago, Todd passed away unexpectedly while completing outside tasks at home.  He left behind a loving wife and four children, and also a mother and a sister, with her family.

Todd was a lifelong friend.  He knew my family, and I, his.  His sister is married to one of my cousins.  I count his cousins as FB friends and would recognize them anywhere.  Todd’s mother, with whom I’m still in touch, loved my family and would have experienced “My God and I” at Harding Lily Pool devotionals like the one Moser referred to in his book.  Like his dad and mom, Todd had a beautiful voice and spirit.

Chuck Smith, Dirk Smith, Todd Thompson, Brian Casey

The “Brother Richland” in the above passage is unmistakably my grandfather, Andy T. Ritchie, Jr.  At this juncture in my life, such memories—even those experienced vicariously such as the Lily Pool devotionals—draw my heart.  Nothing in my life has arisen to serve a similar purpose recently.  Those in our circles would go to some lengths to sing together.  Here, I think first of the New Hardels²—an octet that comprised the Thompsons, Smiths, Hladkys, and Caseys.  The group loved each other deeply and sang together often.  Rehearsal times in all the families’ homes were filled not only with music but with laughter and God-oriented conversations.  For select wedding and funerals, that group was sometimes augmented by Duzans, Barkers, Harrills, and others.  By extension, experiences at Camp Manatawny (the above pic is of the 2nd generation New Hardels male quartet at Camp) and, later, with the Lights group come into my memory.  In more recent years, we have sung in three Smith living rooms.  Often, Tanya (the eldest child of the group) will speak of the rich heritage of Christian singing that we shared.  “We didn’t know what we had then,” she will say.  And she is right.  But now we know.  And we miss it.

The New Hardels and their children singing “The Lord Bless You and Keep You.”  Back row: Brian Casey, Todd’s dad Dwight, Roger Hladky, Chuck Smith, Todd Thompson, Gerald Casey, Dirk Smith, Dwight Smith.  Front row:  Laura Casey, Jana Thompson, Holly Hladky, Carolyn Hladky, Greta Casey, Bettye Casey, Mary Lea Thompson, Barby Smith.  Missing: Tanya Smith Valls.  All the first generation except for Carolyn and Mary Lea are now gone from this life.

Now, about the place of hymns.  First off:  I like some jazz and fusion jazz, some older pop-rock sounds,  I don’t gravitate to choral music, but I listen to classic/progressive rock fairly often, along with a more dietary standard of all-instrumental art music (chamber, wind, orchestral, piano, etc.).  Once in a while, musical humor such as PDQ Bach or even Homer & Jethro is cool, but few of my choices are sort of “Sally by the seashore” songs, in comparison to the “My God and I” ilk.  If I had to choose, the Lily Pool beats the Banana Boat hands down.

Todd, your funny bone seemed a lot like your mom’s.  Silly was a good thing sometimes, and I feel sure you would have laughed together about “Banana Boat” songs.  But I believe you are having “My God and I” and Lily Pool experiences now, like never before.  You might well be smiling, or gasping in awe, and I envy you.  On this Mother’s Day, also your birthday, I honor you, your dear mom, our families, and good things such as worshipful singing.

I am setting this to post at approximately the time I’ll be playing the principal horn part on Percy Grainger’s mother-honoring Colonial Song in the Pinnacle Winds concert in KC.  I wish my own mom, now gone from this life for almost two years, could be present physically, but I think she would like this content of this blogpost—including the family connections and the thought of singing hymns together—even better than the concert.

Bettye Casey with Mary Lea Thompson, on the occasion of the passing of Dwight Smith

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¹ About Kay Moser:  I actually believe this book is autobiographical, but I’m not certain.  William Kay Moser, I think, was the “Bill” in the book.

I spent a little time with Kay and Annabelle Moser eight years ago.  The two had some fascinating life experiences, and I was so pleased to interview them, chiefly about having Kay’s having been jailed for being a Conscientious Objector.  That believe constitutes a relational point of connection with me and some of my family.  There is a transcript of the bulk of the interview in my book Subjects of the Kingdom.  That chapter is actually reproduced on my other blog, here.

² The group took its name from New Jersey, Harding, and Delaware.

The presence and fading of inspiration (whatever that is)

As I write this, it is April 22—the morning after my final ensemble concert here as conductor.  I will no longer be using these essential tools here.

Whatever “inspiration” is, I think it was in play most of the way toward this performance.  In fact, the way some of the peripheral cookies crumbled, I would have quit a while back if I hadn’t felt regular inspiration in doing music with these good people.  But the inspiration I felt actually began to fade even before the concert.  To an extent, I was just going through the motions.  I expected to be teary-eyed on multiple occasions, but I was not actually emotional. . . .

Not when I wrote a few emails to thank people for their extraordinary contributions.

Not during the final spot-check rehearsal.

Not when I gave the pre-concert pep talk.

Not during any of the beautiful music I got to conduct.

And not even when I spoke with people after the concert.

I did feel something later, while reading a couple of the notes I received, so it’s not a lack of emotive capacity in general.  I would guess, rather, that I was experiencing a fading inspiration with this particular music-making enterprise.

Even a lack of such inspiration is difficult to describe immediately after.  It’s a kind of emptiness, a lack of energy.  It could very well be that I’m subconsciously distancing myself, protecting myself from more pain.  I think I’m fearful of not having the opportunity to feel inspired over this kind of music-making again.  (I later enjoyed a couple of other music activities, e.g., poring over horn part assignments and related details for an upcoming Pinnacle Winds cycle, and simply playing some piano at home, but I don’t think those were “inspired” in the same way.  Maybe in a different way?)

Being “inspired” can carry more than one connotation, including these:

• a vague, “encouraged” or emotionally energized feeling
• a perceived deep or high quality in a work of art, e.g., a poem, a painting, or a piece of music
• a sense of how the scriptures came to be (i.e., “God inspired the scriptures”)
• whatever Paul meant with his single-use word theopneustos (God-breathed) in 2Tim 3

We might also probe by breaking the English word down:  IN-SPIR-ation.  An “in-ness” of the spirit?  When secular speech employs this term, what spirit is referred to?  And how is it “in” me?  We probably shouldn’t project this Spirit-in line of thinking back onto the unique NT word theopneustos carelessly.

I recall that I have an “Inspiration” blog category.  This post doesn’t neatly fit in that category, but I’ll check that box, anyway.  I feel myself getting off track, and that’s what one sense of the word “inspiration” can do when the context is suggesting a different sense.

What’s next, after this concert, and after the death of this particular kind of inspiration, for now?  I could seek to be enspirited differently.  Perhaps some composition and arranging?  I would like to be inspired, to feel inspired, to use inspiration, and to inspire others again soon.

On having been “inspired”

It’s May Day.  That means nothing to me, but it once meant something to my mother.¹  Regardless, it seems like a new-beginning-of-something day.  Perhaps a day to be inspired?

Below is something my grandfather wrote 80 years ago.  This brief article, whose title was taken from a poem by Percy Bysshe Shelley, was a part of an inspirational series in a periodical.  I hadn’t known anything about these articles until my late uncle bound them and made them available to the family.  This particular piece speaks eloquently of a kind of inspiration that’s much like what I have felt with music ensembles.  I’ll share this article today and then some personal musings on “inspiration” tomorrow.

When Soft Voices Die

On Monday night last fourteen voices blended in the music of “Now the Day is Over,” and fourteen hearts felt the significance of its words.  It was the last song to be sung publicly by the Lipscomb radio choristers of 1939-40.  The group had just concluded a tour cf a number of northern cities and was giving a farewell program for the homefolk at David Lipscomb College.  The voices of seven young men and seven young women united in

Now the day is over,
Night is drawing nigh;
Shadows of the evening
Steal across the sky.

When the morning wakens,
Then may I arise
Pure, and fresh, and sinless
In Thy holy eyes.

As on a single breath, then they sang “amen.”  Soft voices died and a never-to-be-forgotten trip was over.  A year of work was finished.

I was a fifteenth member of this group, its leader.  As such, when I remember the hours of work during the school year and the lives of these young people whom I have known so well, I am moved to pay tribute to Christian youth and to music which made them better.  In a world of greed and strife there remain noble hearts devoted to the cause of right.  Many of these are young hearts, hearts which beat high with love, hope, and devotion.  I have seen young people who are loyal; I have noticed them grow in unselfishness; in trials I have seen them go to God for strength; in joy they have thanked him for his wondrous care.  I have laughed with them and played with them.  We have worked and worshiped together.  Song united us and gave us opportunity to know each other and to be harbingers of gladness for many.  There is an uplifting and uniting power in music, particularly in “psalms and hymns and spiritual songs” which we used so much.

On our trip Christians made us happy by their kindness and hospitality.  These were abundant everywhere.  All of us felt, perhaps as never before, the warmth of fellowship that may exist between Christians, even among those who have not known each other before.

We went away from home having thought of serving others, desiring to take hope and joy through song, we prayed earnestly for the care and overruling power of the Almighty that we might grow in his grace, that we might be a blessing to others, and that he might protect us and use us to his glory.  We believe now more than ever, having seen another evidence of it, in the providential guidance of Him who doeth all things well.

As I sit here musing and missing those who grew so deeply into my life and are now gone, I hear their songs, their laughter, their conversations, their prayer; and as I recall the people we met on our trip, I feel all the joy that song and youth gave them, and the joy they received from serving the members of our group.

Having lived with youth while youth was endeavoring to live for others, and having felt Christian fellowship from many who were strangers, my faith is stronger and my life richer.  To the Lipscomb radio choristers, my old friends, to my new friends, and to God, I am grateful.  – A.T. Ritchie, Jr.

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¹ Once upon a time, more than six decades ago, my mother was May Queen at the May Fete at Harding.  That meant they did the “winding the May pole” thing.  Later, the tradition was scuttled, presumably because it was discovered that it had pagan (and inappropriately sexual, and even wicked) origins.  My mother never knew any of that.

Bits and pieces (6): free my soul

I did not know the song “Drift Away” before the animal known as “show choir” was foisted on me in 2004 at a two-year college.  I don’t remember whether it was the closer or opener, but it became, as far as I remember, the strongest tune that group performed.  It’s catchy, and this song is, in a limited sense, a lasting “bit” from life.

I wasn’t sure why a show choir existed at a college; such groups are more about competition and show than music.  (In interviewing prospective students during my time at Houghton College, from time to time, a student from more southerly climes would register disappointment that we didn’t have marching band competitions in college.)  In fact, my predecessor with this show choir school had already moved away from having this “choir” singing any harmony at all, and she was reportedly going to have them merely lip-sync and dance the next year.  Unbelievable, I know.  I digress.

Anyway, anytime I hear the tune “Drift Away” in Walmart (it would not likely be on my radio), I am transported to that time in Missouri, now two decades ago, and a few “bits and pieces” come to mind:

In the show choir itself, I recall young lady named Jessica, who seemed almost obsessed with looking at herself in the mirror.  Her goal was to be a performer in Branson.  I had never seen a choir room with mirrors like that, and I’ve been averse to them ever since.

James, a young man with energy and a terrific attitude, married Audrey, and they seem to have a fine family now.

Sandy, the recently retired high school choral director who became the adjunct show choir lead, and I had a conversation on the phone in which I registered some concerns about dancing.  She assured me she was “a Christian person” and would uphold family-friendly standards.  I noted she had not said “a Christian.”  Ever since, I have thought the distinction was important.

P.C. Thomas, a Christian colleague, and I were sponsors of a weekly Bible study.  One of my music students attended.  His name was Jeff, and he was a sincere, hard-working guy.  He is a family man and a deacon in his church.  His girlfriend at the time did not maintain her life of Christian morality.  An older student in this Bible study group reacted quite negatively to my questioning his sense of what “anointing” meant then and how it has been co-opted today.  I can see the ire today.  He seemed to be upset to the point that he thought I was blaspheming God.  P.C. and his wife Thankam has us into their home for a delicious Indian meal, and they took us to their church once — a conservative, nondenominational “Bible chapel.”  I recalled the thoughtful hymns and atmosphere there and visited the same place a couple of years ago.

All these are bits and pieces of life:  students in a Bible study group, faculty colleagues with whom I can share faith, and a few students who have stayed with faith or grown in it.

There are some bits and pieces from which I would prefer my soul to be freed.  Some positive bits are seemingly minor, yet they play a role in our spiritual consciousness.

Previous Bits and Pieces blogposts

No longer

The note I’ve reproduced below refers to a bygone era, and the book in which it was inscribed is not likely to be read again.  Still, the note itself is beautiful to me. I don’t want to part with it, so I’ve decided to save just this one page. 

Although not related by blood, the writers (and the givers of the gift-book) feel like first cousins once removed, and they were on my mailing list for the worship digest newsletter I sent out during the 90s.  Because of that and other interactions, they recognized a desire in me; at the time, I was very active in worship leadership and was relatively effective in carrying on a portion of my grandfather’s work and message.  At this point in life, however, that is no longer the case.

Now, I am deeply hurt over the current state of affairs with my extended family, for several have shown no regard (and worse). A decade ago, one of them overtly attempted to reprove me for “associating myself” with my grandfather.  I don’t recall ever making statements to the effect that I was like he was, although I did desire to carry on his influence. 

The image below tells the story of a portion of Granddaddy’s influence. A few years after he was told¹ he was no longer directing the Harding Chorus, his successor (who, incidentally, was a good deal more technically qualified, and who also influenced people for good) honored him with this tribute on the cover of a hymns record. 

[Please ignore typos on the name of Andy T. Ritchie, Jr.  I imagine those occurred during the later transference of these words to a CD liner.]

Today would have been Granddaddy Ritchie’s 115th birthday. 

A little more than forty years ago, he died. 

About thirty years ago, the above note of affirmation was written by family friends. 

Twenty years ago, my leadership opportunities were already drying up, but they still came once in a while.

Flourishing again seems possible only in the next life, as far as I can see.  Survival and maintenance are the order of the day.  Thriving is no longer in view, but man, would a return to thriving be a welcome change, if God wills it!  As for Granddaddy and my mom and dad, they would have loved me, anyway.  As for some others, I’m not so sure.  I depend on the grace of my Eternal Father, whose love never has a “no longer” attached to it.

Of takers and givers

 O Lord of heav’n and earth and sea,
To thee all praise and glory be!
How shall we show our love to thee,
Who givest all?

. . .

To thee from whom we all derive,
Our life, our gifts, our pow’r to give;
O may we ever with thee live,
Who givest all!

– Christopher Wordsworth, 1863

That song was a bit too poetically high-sounding for most leaders to choose it, but it was sung in my congregation a few times when I was young, and it still inspires.  How can we give to God?  As recipients of all good from God, we are forever in the spiritual position of the requiter.  But how can we really requite?

Indeed, how could anyone undertake to give anything to God?  He is the ultimate Source, the ultimate Giver.   Of course, we cannot in actuality give Him anything He needs, but we will still want to do for Him, to give to Him.

We give thee but thine own,
Whate’er the gift may be;
All that we have is thine alone,
A trust, O Lord, from thee.

– William How, 1858

We humans could and should be giving of ourselves to God and to others.

But we are takers.

And, man, there are lots of dyed-in-the-wool takers around me.  Mostly I think of a few parents, some of whom I’ve never met.  They seem just to take, take, take all the time . . . to reap the benefits of others who give, give, give to the idle takers’ children.  Ideally, sharing can occur.  Sharing of rides, reciprocation of gifts, meals out, and more.  But some parents never seem to realize what’s happening with their own children:  how much is given to their children, how much they are missing out on!  And how much the children too, are in a position of taking!  In this scenario we are talking about humans taking from other humans, and the humans are actually in a position to be able to give in return, to give something needed.

I try to be a giver, and I enjoy being able to be generous here and here, but sometimes it just feels that I’m being taken advantage of.  When a friend of my son needs something bought before her game, or needs a ride, I’m happy to provide if I can, but then I find out a parent is just sitting at home doing nothing, and I start to feel that parent is a taker.  And I hope the daughter learns to be a giver instead.  I want to be helpful, and I want to be an adult that can be depended on, but I don’t want to enable a behavior pattern that will create irresponsibility in the next generation.

A third song of which I’m reminded is from yet a third middle-19C poet.  (This concentration in another era leads me to wonder whether anyone thinks much about giving anymore.)  In my experience, this song was often used as a contribution-motivation song, and I rather wish this song were used more overtly as a catalyst for deeper thought about a deeper kind of giving.

 I gave My life for thee,
My precious blood I shed,
That thou mightst ransomed be,
And quickened from the dead;
I gave, I gave My life for thee,
What hast thou done for Me?
I gave, I gave My life for thee,
What hast thou done for Me?

-Frances Havergal, ca. 1860

Truly, what have we done?  What have we given?  The prophet said all our righteous deeds, even, amount to nothing but “filthy rags.” (Isaiah 64:6)  The ultimate giver is God.  Both before Jesus lived and became Christ, and through Him now, we find the Example of giving.  We take from Him; we receive from Him.  And all we have to give is nothing  . . . and everything.

Whatever, Lord, we lend to thee,
Repaid a thousand fold shall be;
Then gladly will we give to thee,
Who givest all!

– Christopher Wordsworth, 1863

Reflections of a similar kind:

Of wine and whine

It’s not about ____; it’s about _____

It’s not about age; it’s about dementia
Folks should stop talking about President Biden’s age.  (This is one of the 184 reasons I abhor, detest, and otherwise hate the news media.)  The issue has only an indirect connection to age, and the media’s insistence on using the term “age” obscures the problem.  Quite a few 81-year-olds could have functioned as president.  (Former President Trump’s age doesn’t appear to be a factor in consideration of him; it’s more that his megalomaniacal character is thoroughly repulsive, making any positive ideas he has seem negative . . . plus and the fact that more than 50% of the country will be reduced to tears or violence if he is elected again.)  President Biden is clearly suffering from dementia, and it will not get better.  It will continue to get worse.  The Democratic party must do something else if it wants to make any sense to those citizens who have sense.  Now, on to things with more lasting significance.

It’s not about “respect for ‘the Bible'”; it’s about responsible treatment of scriptural texts
This distinction is only one reason I’m not returning, on a nationally significant Sunday, to the church in which the nature of a scriptural text was treated with disrespect last week.  (See here for some detail.  It’s not about upholding a particular creation theory as though the Bible taught that theory and required believing people to believe it.)  This Sunday for us will involve portions of four assemblies, with brass-playing at 7:00, then again at 8:45 and 10:30; then at another location at 10:50.  I hope I have the conscious thought of giving a musical sacrifice to God through my playing.  If not, at least I will have done the thing that serves others.  It’s not about the music, really, although the music is fine; it’s about honoring God and serving others.

It’s not about religious observance; it’s about Jesus
Although we should make opportunities and keep commitments to be with other Christians, it’s not about where we are and whether we observe things in a traditional/religious way.  It’s not about doing “Easter,” in other words.  It’s about the Lord Jesus, who, after his sacrificial death and resurrection, received the “name above every name.” ¹

This is why I often keep my Kingdom New Testament in sight.  Even seeing its cover can lead me to a thought of Jesus the Christ.

This is why I have two hymnals out and have had been intending this past week to create some new music for words that worship Jesus.

This is why I have talked about Jesus more with my son recently—and why we shared some thoughts and a brief-but-meaningful memorial time on Friday afternoon.

The early Jesus movement—before the Christian church started becoming more institutionalized—was quite devoted to Him in worship, as documents and artifacts show.  (Please see here and here for links to Larry Hurtado’s scholarly articles on the nascent Jesus movement.)  Disciples today will also naturally worship and devote ourselves to Jesus if we understand who He was, what happened while He was on earth, and who He is now.

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¹ This is the “naming” that rightly, finally and inextricably declares that Jesus Christ is God, one with the Father.  Philippians 2:9.  In other words, Christ is κυριός | kurios (Lord), and that selfsame word had been used to translate the Hebrew YHVH in the Septuagint that Saul-Paul knew.  https://hopeondemand.com/what-is-his-name/kurios

Bits and pieces (5): incapacity, envy, and judgment

In several respects, yesterday was a difficult day—a day in which I experienced little good news, and felt no real reason for being, and no capacity for spirituality (whatever that is).  I have little capacity for prayer° and no capacity for being what I should be.  Yesterday, I had no interest in being around anyone and even felt something like mini-guilt myself for the little moments of laughter and one encouraging word that came through Facebook.  If the above does not make any earthly sense to you, count yourself blessed.  (But do not reprove me for saying such things.  Trust me:  that would not be helpful.)

No way was I going to set an alarm this morning.

I slept till just after 8:00, got up, and piddled around a little, continuing to shirk some responsibilities.  I thought of someone I know whose friendship I have been feeling is very one-sided.  I think now that I presumed a simpatico relationship not in evidence, and I don’t think he knows what to do with that.  This person writes regularly of devotional practices, and of his family, and of the wonderful things he experiences at his church, and I wish I could write similarly.

Anyway, this morning, I made coffee and thought I would try to something good.  I made a positive decision to take out the gospel of Matthew and read that before something else. The last reading, several days ago, was Matthew 1 through 4, so I started into chapter 5 and fell on the first beatitude.  “Blessings on the poor in spirit.”  Immediately I recalled the expression “poverty of spirit,” which was a noun-phrase chosen by someone I once knew.  Problem is, that person had none.  No poverty of spirit whatsoever that I can recall, anyway.  He was an oaf who ran over people inter-personally and sometimes spiritually.  Including me.  I will never be able to read this beatitude without considering the source of an expression I would otherwise like to have taken into my vocabulary.

No way am I going to read Matthew 5 now.  So much for trying.

The “bits and pieces” today are in evidence above, but I will share them more according to the pattern below.

He was about 4 years older and was not a Christian at the time, although his family was part of my church.  I didn’t really know him, but we’ve spoken a few times and communicated during the last few years.  His life has turned out to be more or less what I once assumed and desired myself.¹  This person is at peace and has purpose.  He has a church scenario to which he and his wife are able to contribute, and which ministers to them.  Still, thoughts of him can be demoralizing.  I think part of what I feel is called envy, and I don’t know what to do with it other than to name it.

I have written more than once about the other person but will not use his name, either.  His influence in my life was for a short time encouraging.  It was shallow, though, and I . . . I was young and relatively untarnished by emotional pain.  I can see his face as clearly now as if I had seen him in real life in the last 20 years.  And I wish I couldn’t.   This is a “bit” that has done nothing ultimately but sour my stomach.  I’ve been unfairly judged and poorly treated by many, but I’m hard-pressed to find anyone who should have known better, and known he should do better, whose judgment was so harsh, one-sided, and completely ignorant.²  And yet he was one who purported to minister to others, both in a local church and in the broader sense to a class of people who were hurting.  Realizing such an inherent contradiction in this person leads me away from Matthew 5 today.  This is of course a “bit” that I wish I could excise.  (And please do not judge me for saying such things.  Nor should you presume to advise me on a method, despite the possibility that there might be one I have not found through years of trying.  Trust me:  that would not be helpful.)

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° Someone asked me for prayers, and I responded that I have no capacity for prayer, and the person later thanked me for prayers.  I do not understand this response.

¹ That was before the betrayals of 1991+ and 2016-18+.

² It’s my understanding that those who lash out at others—and make no mistake that these can be people who are “close” to us—can be dealing with their own emotional baggage, perhaps accusing themselves by proxy.  I would not be surprised to find out that this oaf had committed an egregious sin previously.

Bits and Pieces (4)

Some “bits and pieces”—which might also be thought of as a sort of residue from life’s intersections—are quite inspirational.  Others are not at all positive but may still serve.  Negative bits can be cautionary signposts and opportunities for instructional pondering. 

I don’t strongly believe in “God’s master plan in lives,” as the poem has it, but I do think there are strings of bits and pieces that help to form us, for better or worse.  Here are a few more. . . .

Her name was Amanda.  I don’t even remember her last name, but I could look it up.  She was a student in a small music department, was moderately talented, and had a chip on her shoulder.  At one point, she complained to another faculty member about how challenging I was making the music history course.  It had been assumed to be more of a music appreciation course, although it was for “music majors.”  She was also brash enough to challenge the fact that a professor had some say-so over her time on a practice piano right outside his office in a makeshift setup.  Her “technique” included banging very loudly, and it could even be that she intentionally started practicing during my office hours, saving her fortissimo, con fuoco passages for the time I was there.  (Given how rude she was, it was not a big leap to think she would do that.)  She was a piece of work in her zebra pants and her attitude in clear view.  I think I see Amanda in some young people today, and I think it hampers my potential influence with them.  Truth is, this kind of bit in my life causes me to keep my distance from teenagers sometimes.  I still enjoy knowing a few, supporting them, and teasing them good-naturedly.  My dad did that kind of thing, and I think of his good relationships with teens (and that is of course another “bit”), but times were simpler then.

His name was Eddie.  I haven’t had any contact with him in years.  He was a congenial saxophone player.  I can almost see him over there in the sax section, either outdoors in the football stands or indoor in the sax section, smiling and grinning with glasses on.  Eddie now calls himself “gay” and is a decorated professor of English and a poet laureate in his locale.  Based on a few searches, I’d say he seems to be something of an activist, and he is also the interim director of some program related to “gender studies.” ¹  He was among the first to be married to a man in his state.  Despite my general feeling that civil and economic rights in our country may extend to those living a gay lifestyle, Eddie’s activities embarrass me.  If I ran across him today, I think I would be able to talk with him candidly and with civility.  I believe he would receive me the same way.  I don’t know that we would enjoy any meeting of the minds, but it would be illuminating.

Her name was [withheld], and she was emotionally abused at home for years, in a hypocritical family that went to mass regularly.  She experienced some escape and fulfillment in other activities.  She later found her home in a high school group of friends.  Soon after that, she got into a very negative relationship.  She later became a Christian, turning fully from former ways and appearing fully to accept normative Christian beliefs and behaviors.  It would seem that previous experiences, combined with the lack of a supportive home, were key factors that led to a serious downfall in later life.  I am far more attentive now than ever before about negative home situations and the moral mistakes of youth.

Their names were [withheld], and I was accused of thinking one of them was evil.  I pretty much did think that, and I’m not unconvinced.  In a town that boasts multiple “haunted houses” and that once sponsored an annual “witches’ night out,” it’s probably not uncommon to find multiple people who like dressing up as a witch, and at least one of them does.  Both of them were Satanic instruments in family upheaval.  Ironically, I once thought of one of them as a friend.  I stood supportively by her more than once and was criticized for that in a rant.  I wish my family had never crossed paths with these people.  These bits injected into my life have rendered me more wary of certain alliances, and averse to an inbred town’s sites and events.  (The presence of paranoia is not proof that the issue is imaginary.)

Bits and Pieces series

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¹ I wonder aloud what it would take to become credentialed in the growing, viable field of Anti-Nonsense Studies or Social Media-Induced Contagion Studies.

Bits and Pieces (3): ethic and activity

Here are some more “Bits and Pieces” people and remembrances.

His name was James, and he managed a grocery store in Newark.  He had three other managers under him, but he ran the show.  My mom knew the asst. manager’s wife, and I applied for a job there.  I was offered a job, but I didn’t want to start in June because going to Senior High Week at Camp Manatawny during the last part of June was important to me.  When I expressed that somehow, he retorted, through my mom, “Well, does he want to work or not?”  I did go to Camp, and I did start working there immediately after, but I learned that sometimes ideas and priorities can clash.  (And James was my least favorite of the four managers for the next two years.)

Her name was Sylvia, and I haven’t seen her in 15 years or so, but I still respect her.  She and her husband hosted a Bible study on a weeknight at their home, southwest of Newark.  We struggled through traffic to drive about as far as you could go in that county, and we walked in just in time.  She welcomed us, and I indicated something about how hard it was to get there during a late rush hour.  Sylvia offered, bluntly and on-target, “Well, if it’s important to you, you’ll do it.”  I still think about that, but I must admit I’m not as likely to do things that seem difficult or annoying these days.

His name was Jerry.  He was a good man, a prolific father of believing children,¹ and a consistent, dedicated servant of God and of people.  He was a below-average preacher, but his smile was genuine, and he had a way of making everyone feel special.  I worked at the church building one summer and spent more time around him than usual.  He helped me fix a church lawnmower, and he bought me my first Greek New Testament at a flea market nearby.  At a camp, when several friends and I were working as staff members (dishwashers and the like), he once wryly commented, “Staff (staph) is an infection!”  It was funny.  The later preachers there were seemed more articulate, more impassioned, and more equipped to teach, but they were not better men than Jerry.  A couple of them did seem to be more oriented to being church “staff” members, which had a negative, complicating effect overall, in my estimation.  I don’t recall that Jerry was looked to as an adult Bible class teacher:  others were more equipped for that.  He had a file of sermons he would pull from, and I don’t think he spent a whole lot of time in study.  The church times might not have been as deep with Jerry, but they were simpler and better in some ways.  Jerry helped provide some very good and decent bits and pieces of my life.

Bits and pieces (2): with a mini-theme of gratitude

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¹ Six or seven out of seven, with the last one adopted, is not a bad record for faithful children!

Early efforts of gifted composers

Edvard Grieg.  On Jan. 27, I had the distinct pleasure of being in the audience for my students’ master-class performance of Grieg’s Sonata No. 3 in C Minor for Violin and Piano.  I consider myself something of a Grieg fan, but I do not know the violin music and had not heard this piece before an advance listen and then the live performance.  The work struck me as a bit thematically scattered, so I suspected it was an earlier work.  Would my conjecture, if true, render Grieg a less gifted composer on my theoretical, tiered list?  Not necessarily.  Like Chopin and Schubert, one could be more skilled with some genres than others.

I turned out to be wrong.  The 3rd sonata was written in what should be the prime of life, when the composer was 44.  (Grieg’s first two sonatas for violin and piano were written about twenty years before.)  There are some fine moments, and the performance by Kathleen and Elias was excellent, but I suppose the piece felt a little like what I know of Mahler and Bruckner:  too many ideas struggling to be related to one another in a short period of time.

A “scattered” quality doesn’t require a negative judgment of the work, though.  Musical content of even a scattered or bipolar work, such as with Mahler, can be so very inspiring.  A composer might well possess craft and technology, but those who have sufficient artistry to fuel the craft are the great ones.  From creative gifts come creative, compelling expressions, and musical expressions might meander a bit and still be compelling.  A skilled, gifted composer does things that garden-variety composer-arranger-transcribers like me simply can’t.  (This paragraph is an example of having some ideas that I didn’t have enough craft/skill to put together.  Fail!   I’ll leave it as is and hope readers understand both my intent and the meta-illustration of not being gifted.)

Sir Malcolm Arnold.  In my rehearsal a couple weeks ago, I spotlighted the early work of another artistic composer:  Sir Malcolm Arnold.  His English Dances (two sets) were written when he was about 30, yet they strike my ear as the work of a mature, settled composer.  While most ordinary humans are presumed still young and undeveloped at that age, some, such as Schubert and Mozart, barely lived past 30.  Mozart wrote his first symphony when he was 9 or 10, and the most famous ones while in his late 20s and early 30s.  Beethoven, for me a more imposing and daunting figure, wrote his first symphony when he was about 30.  I suppose we shouldn’t try to pin down when a composer comes into his own artistically.  Each one is an individual.  Regardless of whether Arnold was mature or yet youthful when he wrote these English Dances, I love them, and am glad to be working with them with my own two ears and hands for the first (and probably only) time.

Antonin Dvořák.  I also consider myself a fan of Dvořák, but I really only know a few pieces and styles, namely, symphonic and the dumka.  I’m embarrassed to say that I’ve really only listened ardently to the two most famous symphonies—the 8th and 9th.  I have some tone poems, chamber music, and piano music on CD, too, but no other symphonies.  I didn’t even know there was a No. 1, to tell the truth!  Come to find out, it had been essentially lost for about 70 years.  I was pleased to find that I had a complete vinyl set of Dvořák’s symphonies that I’d rescued from a college’s discard pile.  I pulled out No. 1 and began to listen.

As expected, the music was immediately attractive.  For me, Dvořák’s music is more broadly “sweet sunshine” than Mozart’s, although Dvořák had used that compliment for the earlier prodigy.  While attending to this music’s beauty and expressive qualities, though, I couldn’t seem to grasp the form.  I left it on my record player for about a week and returned to it from time to time, with basically the same results.  Then I pulled up a score and followed along some.  I had the same trouble.  Then I read this.

Dvořák’s Symphony No. 1 is typical for its youthful flights of fancy and the rousing expression of the work as a whole, although the individual movements still demonstrate a tendency to ramble.  Antonin-Dvorak.Cz

And I feel justified.  The “tendency to ramble” can be attractive and annoying at the same time, and I had perceived just such a quality.  The 2nd movement is also very attractive, with some moments bordering on the sublime, but it too seems to possess too much content, too many ideas.

Dvořák’s Symphony No. 1 was written when he was but 24.  The tonal structure of the movements of this early symphonic effort would appear to be a sort of homage to Beethoven’s Symphony No. 5

• I in C minor
• II in A flat major
• III, a scherzo, in C minor
• IV in C major

Since it was an early work, and Dvořák, a thoughtful person, it stands to reason that he would pay tribute to the master who had died 14 years before he was born.

I learned that the score for Symphony No. 1 had at one point been lost, and  Dvořák had referred to it as having been “destroyed,” during what would be known as a “sharply self-critical period.”°  The score actually turned up in a bookstore a few decades later, was purchased by a stranger, and was never given to the composer.  He never heard it performed, and it wasn’t premiered until 1936. more than two decades after the composer had died.  If I’m alive in 2036 and can still conduct, I’d love to give a centenary performance of this early work!

Speaking of early efforts—and in no sense do I feel these are gifted or artistic writings—I thought I’d link to some early blogposts.  Here is the “earliest effort” on this blog:

Starting out at the beginning

And a couple more, from August 2008:

Request-Prayers for each day (in no particular order)

The central logos

On the clergy-laity system:

The hierarchical “we”

And, finally, still from my first month or so of blogging, this one expresses what would still be my heart for Christian gatherings.

It’s not that I didn’t feel like greeting them

 

 

 

Unsafe people

I had not considered the idea of whether someone is or isn’t a “safe” person until I met Craig and his wife Jane (not their real names).  Craig became a friend, and, almost two years later, he relayed to me that Jane had said someone was not a “safe” person.  This designation appeared to have arisen out of instinct:  only minimal observation would have played a part, without anything obviously negative.  It must have taken some courage for Craig to mention this, and I value the kind of friendship that allows for that kind of openness.  We both smiled a little, and we tried to downplay the whole thing.  I took that comment with me, and it eventually became clear that Jane had been onto something . . . or at least I think so, not knowing exactly what she meant by “safe.”

A college friend once sincerely invited me to live in a certain town because it was “a great place to raise a family.”  I rejected the offer out of hand for other reasons, but I now realize so much more about a safe or unsafe environment.  All over my town, there are people I would and/or do consider unsafe.  Some people are genuinely nice and good; others are simply undesirable to one degree or another; many of them seem very risky to be around.  Two people have recently given me cause for concern.  I very much feel that one is an unsafe, unstable person.  I wasn’t quite sure about the other, but signs have indicated I have been wise to keep my guard up. 

There are various kinds of safety and un-safety.

Spiritual safety is beyond the scope of this essay.

I’m often hyper-aware of physical safety.¹

Emotional safety is mainly what’s in view here.

People who are unsafe to themselves tend also to be unsafe for others.  Say a person is hurting, or acting illegally, sinfully, or in a way that harms the self.  That person might well be nurturing emotional problems and might lash out in one way or another, causing risk to others.

It’s important to mention a small but extremely significant subgroup:  those who harm themselves physically.  Being a person who cannot stand digging for a splinter, I cannot relate to cutting oneself, but that is a very real thing, and my son has had multiple friends show him evidence that they have cut themselves.  I have no doubt that this practice is made more common because of social-media spread, but there are deep traumas set within some people that lead them to hurt themselves by cutting—or through eating disorders, overdosing on a drug, or in other ways.  Someone who cannot keep himself safe is not likely to be safe around others.

What makes a person unsafe for me might not mean that s/he is unsafe for other people, though.  Again, I’m dealing primarily with emotional risk here, and my own emotional makeup is not the same as that of others.  Which person might present personal risk to me?  This is a difficult question for me to deal with, because I wish I didn’t even think in these terms.  Would Jesus think like this?  I could attempt to justify caution and distrust by appealing to one or two times Jesus decided not to interact or to avoid conflict, but that’s not the same thing.

I am beset by nagging senses of ineptitude, lack of fortitude . . . general weakness . . . and a distrust of myself as well as others.  Previously, I would have thought I could handle situations with many “unsafe” people.  I didn’t think I was impervious or invincible; I just figured I could handle it.  And I did, sometimes.  One older teen spent the night in my house once when he had nowhere to go.  He was potentially dangerous, having been arrested previously (for what? I don’t remember, but I think it was assault).  But I let him stay, and it turned out fine.  Another time, I tried to break up some “domestic” violence outside a motel room.  That was not too smart, but those in my care didn’t meet any danger.  I’ve confronted terribly painful, personal situations resolutely and courageously.  In one of those, more than 30 years ago, I rest assured that God used me well.  In another, I did perhaps half as well.  In more recent situations, it’s been more a matter of survival and avoidance than confronting proactively.  There is a trend here.  (In a sense, the lack of safety I feel and describe here is the result of “Bits and Pieces” of other people, but these perceived threats are not what I had in mind with that nascent series.)

Perhaps this whole line of externalized, internal questioning is about my current lack of willingness to be poured out in service to others.  I would probably not do the same kinds of “unsafe” things today.  Here’s how I account for the change:

• I am more fearful in general, having come to know some terrors and fears¹ first-hand.
• The world around me now seems far worse than it seemed a couple decades ago.

So . . . how might I begin to change my outlook, my sense of risky people that keeps me protecting myself?  How might I keep Jane’s intuitively correct “unsafe person” observational skills in mind and yet act more openly?  How might I recover some willingness to reach to others who seem unsafe and/or undesirable, while still protecting my own health and that of others?  How to act better while acknowledging reasonable desire for self-preservation and protection of others?  The Mark gospel comes to mind, because I could find strength in attending to the actions of Jesus.

I close with one more reference to a past blog:

Jim Woodroof’s discovered reality

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¹ In part, the reason physical safety is in my consciousness a lot is because it’s not in my son’s.  He seems to have been in a phase for 3-4 years now, so I have to be extra vigilant at times.  I do take risks myself in vehicles, including enjoying motorcycle rides, mostly helmet-less, so I’m a hypocrite.

² To an extent, I also blame some of my fearfulness on the government agencies and media organizations that caused many of us to clam up during the pandemic, even though we knew in our guts that something wasn’t right.  It went on for far too long, and even though more of the terribly bad missteps and misrepresentations are being revealed, I’m afraid I won’t recover.