Disorientation and Welcome

I like to plan. I appreciate having an idea of what is going to happen and I presume others appreciate these things too. I want to put people at ease so that they will know what is going on and what to expect. I believe it is a welcoming and hospitable thing to do.

And yet, I also know that my preference to plan and to anticipate what will happen can muffle my ears and blinder my eyes to what is actually going on around me. Expecting one thing to happen means I am not willing to engage when some other thing happens.

Feeling disoriented is, well, disorienting and it is not comfortable. It leaves me vulnerable to the unknown. I experience this also on behalf of the guests who come to visit The Hermitage. For some retreatants this is their first time here and it may be their first encounter with deep silence. A key part of my job of welcoming is to orient them to how things happen here and what to expect – to remove their own disorientation and dis-ease (whether it is real or projected.)

I remember a pilgrimage my wife and I took to Ireland. Travelling is hard for me, because there are so many unfamiliar things and all my planning can’t prepare me for them all. At the first gathering of our pilgrimage group our leader named the disorientation that many (all) of us were feeling, and the importance of accepting and living in that disorientation. That disorientation is necessary if there is going to be any kind of reorientation.

And so, I need to learn to allow some space for disorientation for our guests and for myself. The next time a guest arrives late for Saturday morning centering prayer after we’ve finished the introduction, (although I feel uncomfortable with the individual’s possible disorientation), I will pray that this be a time of reorientation – both for the guest and me. I will pray that we both are able to simply receive God’s reorienting welcome.

On People, Podcasts, and Being an Introvert

For nearly a year I have worked at a job where I need to be present to people in a way that I’ve never before been. As the Guest Services Coordinator at a retreat center part of my job is to be present to people – on the phone, via email, and in person. Even if there is not a lot of conversation – and being a gently silent retreat center, there usually isn’t a lot of conversation – I am conscious of being present to our guests. I am attentive to their reservation requests and the questions that usually follow. I am attentive to when they arrive and whenever possible, going out to greet them as they walk from their car. I am attentive to them as they join the staff for conversation after morning prayers. I am attentive to them as I prepare and serve meals taking into account guests’ dietary needs.

And my attention to people is not limited to our guests. My work colleagues include my wife and another married couple and our relationship is deeper than merely work-mates – and these relationships require deep attention.

This work of being attentive to people is in strong contrast to my previous job. In my previous work “behind the scenes” in a library, being attentive to others was not part of my job description, and not often part of my work life. My relationships with my colleagues were usually good but largely functional. I also spent a good deal of time working alone.

And podcasts?

In my previous job, and off the job, I listened to a lot of podcasts. While I tended to avoid overly long, overly chatty podcasts, I had people speaking in my headphones for several hours each day. I really enjoyed hearing interesting people tell stories, conduct interviews, and solve crime or science puzzles. There were a lot of people with a lot of words.

Since transitioning to this new work life, I’ve found my interest and desire to listen to clever and the wise words piped into my ears has significantly declined. The talk-filled programs now tire me more often than engage me. I feel bad about this, because I appreciate these podcasts and their creators, but I just don’t have it in me to give my attention to all those people and all their words. It’s not them, it’s me.

It’s not that the headphones have left my head. By no means. Spotify now pipes all sorts of sounds into my ears. But its all music. I’ve noticed that much of the music I’ve been listening to lately either has no words, or the lyrics are in a language I don’t understand. I’m also playing a ton more guitar.

As an introvert I am intrigued to see how I am responding to/coping with a job that involves me putting myself out for people. I love our retreat guests and am honored to offer them my attentive hospitality. And, this attentiveness to the people before me doesn’t leave space for me to give my attention to the people and their podcast world.

The Sounds of Pentecost

I’m increasingly attentive to the presence of sounds/hearing in the Christian scriptures, and today’s story of Pentecost is filled with them. From Acts 2

• there came a sound like the rush of a violent wind

• and began to speak in other languages

• And at this sound the crowd gathered

• each one heard them speaking in the native language 

• And how is it that we hear, each of us, in our own native language?

• let this be known to you, and listen to what I say

• and your sons and your daughters shall prophesy

• Then everyone who calls on the name of the Lord shall be saved.

This exemplifies that God’s presence is often an aural experience. It is in the various sounds, and the listening to the sounds that the presence of the Holy Spirit is made manifest.

This isn’t to diminish the beautiful and power visual imagery of the tongues of flame - and the joyous and powerful red of this Sunday, but the first indication of the Spirit was sound, and the result of the Spirit was more sound.

Notes on "Music and the Generosity of God"

Music and the Generosity of God, by Gerald C. Liu. Palgrave Macmillan, 2017

When and how does sound become music? And what does the ubiquity of sound tell us of God? These questions are pondered in the most fascination “Music and the Generosity of God” by Gerald C. Liu.

He states the basic theme of his book, “I propose that the generosity of God manifests in the music of sonic ubiquity. Where music never ceases, God gives.” (p. 3) Through exploring the person and work of John Cage, especially his piece 4’33’’ Liu invites the reader to encounter our sonic landscape as music, and this music is an ongoing gift of an ever generous God. Liu place a wonderfully strong emphasis on sound/music as a means of God’s expression, and our encounter of God. “God may manifest beyond measure in current encounters with the music of sonic ubiquity, especially for those unable to grasp the elocutions of speech or other discursively tied ways of communicating holy grace and love.” (p. 10) “Sonic ubiquity” is a recurring concept in this book which develops into the idea of “given music.”

It is hard for me to imagine people not familiar with Cage and his most noteworthy piece, but for those people, John Cage was a composer of what could be considered avant-garde or experimental music. He was also deeply influenced by Zen Buddhism. Performance of his 4’33’’ entails performer(s) not “performing” on their instruments for four minutes and thirty three seconds (although Cage says the piece can be performed for any length of time.) The music of the piece is all the sounds that the audience is exposed to during the time of the performance.

Unsurprisingly, initial response to this piece was uncertain and often unwelcome. Theological response to Cage’s 4’33’’ was disdain. “For [Nicholas] Wolterstorff and [Jeremy] Begbie Cage musically undermines God’s intention for humanity to create and order the materials of the earth.” (p. 16) Music, for them, can only be properly and intentionally human authored sound. “Begbie emphatically claims that God has freed human beings to create music purposefully, not randomly, and that music only happens when human intent is present.” (p. 123) Begbie’s idea of music can only emphasize preconceived ideas of order, and these ideas of order are so culturally based that his approach will crush non-dominant ideas.

Liu counters Begbie stating that “Cage uses his ‘freedom’ and ‘intent’ as an author (to use the language of Begbie and Wolterstorff) to frame what otherwise would go unrecognized – that music is everywhere sounds are.” (p.17)

Cage, perhaps reflecting his Zen influence, understands music with a stance that that doesn’t try to grasp, control, or preserve the music that is heard. It is also important to remember that Cage’s piece is not about the absence of sound. “The quiet withdrawal of 4’33’’, however, does not emphasize rest or silence against sound. 4’33’’ asserts that sonic ubiquity gives music superabundantly and without limit.” (p. 54)

Liu and Cage’s understanding of the generosity of the ubiquitous sonic environment is deeply dependent on the listener’s capability to receive it as such. As Cage writes in a letter to a friend that recognizing the sonic density of his piece depends on “our own emptiness, our own receptivity; we receive to the extent that we are empty to do so.” (letter to Helen Wolff quoted on p. 54).

“Confounding the expectations of its listeners, 4’33’’ promotes hearing musical content that is ‘hidden in plain sight’ and that saturates their entire field of audibility. It displays unbounded, free sound. This same sound announces a more radical freedom, a giveness, a giving of God, or what Christians micht call ‘grace’ or ‘love’ perceived within but irreducible to audible content.” (p. 81)

This is an academic book, and the presence of French philosophers and “phenomenology” were littered throughout the book. This is not particularly familiar territory for me, but John Cage and his ideas of music and sound were familiar to me and this helped make the book feel more accessible – and truly it was an enjoyable read.

Reading this was a great gift as I delve deeper into understanding the relationship between sound and theology – or more precisely and personally – my experience of God through sound. The discussion of the superabundant generosity of music, and a stance of open receptivity resonated deeply within my own experience. This generosity and receptivity encapsulates my understanding of the human/divine relationship at its best. God is the ever abundant giver and we are the receivers – who are not merely receivers of divine generosity but also participate in it as co-creators. We are part of the divinely offered “given music” of our world.

“With or without human awareness, God gives in music: noticeably and unnoticeably, impossibly, indulgently, and even overwhelmingly.” (p. 124)

Reading "Our Sound is Our Wound" by Lucy Winkett

Our Sound is our Wound: Contemplative Listening to the Noisy World – The Archbishop of Canterbury’s Lent Book 2010” by Lucy Winkett. London: Bloomsbury, 2009.

If I recall correctly, I have Amazon algorithms to thank for my discovering this book. I’m glad I did. It is an intriguing, if a bit quirky book. (Some of its quirkiness is its Britishness.)

“It is the suggestion of this book that the sounds we make raise questions not only about how we live and about why we have created the environment we have, but that these soundscapes start to reveal deeper theological questions about who we are, of what we are afraid and in whom we trust.” (Introduction)

In the introduction of the book she describes a deeply moving concert she attended. About the concert she writes “I experienced musical sound which seemed to be a wound, in that it embodied vulnerability and personal exposure for the sake of the music itself.” And later “Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that the sound is an audible scar of damaged tissues underneath; but the sound has substance in itself, in that part of its nature is that of a wound which reveals depth and trauma under the surface.”

The title and this introductory material connecting sound and woundedness captured my attention noticing in myself both intrigue and resistance to where the author could go with the idea. Having now read the book, I didn’t find the wound theme as present as I expected, or at least not present in the way I expected it. This is still an engaging book about the relationship between sound and faith.

What follows are a handful of quotes and notes from the 6 chapters. Nothing terribly profound on my part, just some content to give the reader a flavor of the book.

Chapter 1 – The Sound of Scripture. She writes of the Bible not only as a collection of silent words, but as both a product of sound and as a script or song that needs to be performed. “As well as our hallowed book, Scripture is also the God-breathed soundscape of human history in which we listen for the word and the Word to speak and sing.” (6) Winkle writes a lot about music, and her particular fondness for “classical” music as one of the best means of capturing the truths of scripture. She does make off-hand references to pop songs/artists, but their inclusion feels a little forced. But her celebration of the power of music and how it can express theological concepts is welcome. “It is not appropriate that before God every cadence resolves, or that every rhythm is comforting. We must allow for dissonance in our worship.” (24) This presents a challenge to the seemingly endless triumphant hymns and ceaselessly joyous praise songs. “Our harmony is not real harmony if it is bland resolution that trivializes the singer and the song.” (26)

“It is a harmony that is made when we listen to the dissonances of Scripture and experience and deepen our understanding of another. It is the harmony that is made when we listen for the voices that is singing a different part, even one that sounds contrary to the part we are singing. It is a harmony born of an attentiveness to God and to each other that means we will listen and take our rest as well as play and sing the part we have been given. This is the harmony that takes account of the suffering of God’s broken world, and as we listen for the profound song of love, we can invite others to sing.” (26)

Chapter 2 – The Sound of Lament. “[The sound of lament] is both a protest against the pain of the present time, and also a timeless expression of the weeping voice of God, in whose image and likeness we are made.” (28)

Chapter 3 – The Sound of Freedom. Both sound and silence can be tools of oppression, as well as liberation. We need only thing of the U.S. military’s use of loud music to “break down” prisoners of war. But music is also one of the most characteristic sounds of freedom. “The very act of making music together is a protest against the inequalities and divisions that human beings create in every country.” (67)

Silencing someone else’s voice is way of diminishing and damaging them. But, choosing silence can be a powerful tool for the individual. “Jesus’ journey through the days before he died is the ultimate example of God’s choosing to be silenced by the violent cruelty of humanity.”

Chapter 4 – The Sound of Resurrection. Death is the great silence, the great silencer. In Jesus we see the use of sound, to undo the silence of death. “It is into this silence of all silences in John’s Gospel, that Jesus speaks to raise Lazarus – Jesus cries with a loud voice, ‘Lazarus, come out.’” (89)

Chapter 5 – The Sound of Angels. I will admit, I don’t think much of angels, and I’m not particularly drawn to the ideas of those who do give their attention to angels. Winkett gives a chapter’s-worth of attention to angels, and I was able to ride along without rolling my eyes. She takes note of the role of angels in most biblical accounts – “The angels sing. That’s what they do. It’s what they’re for. They also play trumpets and harps, and in Renaissance paintings they recline in the sky, making music for God.” (102)

This chapter includes some fascinating imagery from the bible, and other religious texts connecting music to being in relationship with God. “According to another Jewish text, Adam had heard the song of the angels before he sinned: I [Adam] used to hear, before I sinned, the sound of their wings in Paradise, when the seraphim would beat them to the sound of the threefold praise. But after I transgress, I no longer heard the sound.” (108)

“Sin had separated humanity from hearing the liturgy of heaven and it was only as the restoration of the new covenant with the birth of Christ that this was restored.” (109)

The act of listening is essential to the act of making music. “the Church too can be a community of people who listen together for the unfathomable songs of eternity sung in praise to the Creator by the created, led by the angels. In this contemplative listening, the Church translates the song and teaches it to others that we can become more than observers, and participators in the music of the cosmos.” (117)

Chapter 6 – Our Sound is Our Wound. “The Christian Church has an historic role express in this story – to call people into silence in the presence of God.” (124) And she adds “The churches’ wounds are on display when we are unable to be silent or to invite others into such a silence.” (126)

One suggestion she mentioned that caught my ear as a spiritual discipline I will consider is keeping a sound diary. This shouldn’t simply be a list of sounds, but could become an examen focusing on the sounds of our day. Where did I hear God today? What did I learn about God from what I heard today? What were the happy sounds, angry sounds, sad sounds of the day? Where was silence a gift, and a burden?

Winkett is a professional church person described in her bio as a “Rector-designate” and former “Canon Precentor.” [I’m not certain what those titles involve, but it seems like they involve church leadership.] Accordingly, this book speaks out of, and into a church context. The church as receptacle and resonator of sounds and silences, profane and divine.

This final extended quote includes an important series of questions concerning the character of the church and it’s relationship to its aural environment.

“The character of the Christian vocation emerges in the midst of this hurting world. Are we a body of people whose instinct is to fall into the silence of waiting on God with a willingness to listen with our whole bodies for the presence of the Holy One we will recognize in that sounds of sheer silence? Are we a body of people who know in our own lives the value of silence in a noisy world and teach this to our children and grandchildren? Are we a body of people at peace with our own death? Are we a body of people whose visceral compassion for a suffering world is expressed in our actions, our words, and the tone of our voice? Are we a body of people who know the language and music of lament, who have learned how to sing out our own pain? Are we a body of people whose worship of God is in tune with the songs of the angels rooted in the groans of the earth?” (131)