Church News
Sacred sound—Reflections on a concert at Trinity Cathedral
By Amy Sander Montanez
For a little over an hour on Sunday,
January 28, just before twilight at Trinity Cathedral, I
was transported out of Columbia, SC. Perhaps I was in a
cathedral in London, or maybe even in the grand Notre Dame, on
the edge of the river Seine. I remember feeling this way in the
Basilica of St. Francis in Assisi, Italy. Cradled in a safe
place, sacred sounds filling my ears and my heart, sounds that
can only be described as perfect, whole, totally complete. I was
in a cathedral, I knew that for sure. The plaster walls and
large columns. The tile floors. More beautiful stained glass
than I can remember. A gorgeous altar. Flowers and candles and
brass. And for just the right medieval touch, a visiting bat,
flying around before the concert began, making the ushers
nervous and puzzling a priest as to what, if anything, could be
done.
I listened to the drone of the orchestra, as each instrument
whispered a few notes or phrases that needed a last minute
review or touch-up. I love that sound, one phrase, one melody on
top of another, none matching, each musician intensely focused
on some random section of a piece. The complexity of that sound,
the sheer confusion and fullness of it heightens my senses,
until suddenly it all stops and there is total silence. The
conductor and soloist walk in, the applause dies down, and the
breath of anticipation is released.
There was an organ concerto. Poulenc. It rolled around in my
ears like a sip of fine wine rolls around your mouth. I noticed
different things at different times…a fine viola section, the
humanlike voice of the cello, the organ, paradoxically light
and cascading one minute, layered and auspicious the next. The
timpani, offering an undercurrent, a vibration that went
straight to my core. The tension, the release. The perfection. I
wondered, as I often do when listening to the music of the
masters, about the brilliance and giftedness of the composer.
What kind of hearts and minds write music like this? How do they
imagine all the parts in their heads and in their ears when they
are writing it? Surely they have a direct line of some kind to
the Divine, I always think. And then my heart fills with love
and thanksgiving for the musicians. The sheer number of hours of
practice, training, devotion and coordination needed to
accomplish this moves me. And I know that somehow, through the
music, they remember what is important in the world and they
remind the rest of us of this. They say with the music that
which we really cannot say with words. I am reminded of a plaque
in my home that reads, “For heights and depths no words can
reach, music is the soul’s own speech.”
During the break as the organ was moved off center and risers
were set up for the choristers, new musicians joined the
orchestra. Durufle’s Requiem was the next selection. I noticed
the boys' and girls' choir in the left balcony. They buzzed with
smiles and excitement, and I was hoping they were somehow going
to be a part of the music. Again the silence, and again the
applause as we settled in to receive the next gift. By the time
the Kyrie was over, I was totally transported. Surely this was
the music of heaven. Is it possible that this is mostly a
volunteer choir? Just regular people like me, joining their
voices with the grace of God to make music that soars, lifts,
humbles, and inspires? By this time, I was so full I was
weeping.
It continued in this beautiful vain, and I kept breathing and
receiving and allowing myself to go wherever the music took me.
And then the children sang. Pie Jesu…sweet Jesus…sweet Jesus
indeed, must have been right there in the cathedral. Their sound
was compelling, crystal clear, one voice, one breath, coming
from on high, as it were. But what struck me the most was the
relationship these children seemed to have with the choir
director/conductor. They seemed locked to each other, joined by
eyes and lips and hearts and breath. Is it too much to say that
I sensed a love and respect for each other that was palpable?
The composition was perfection, the expectations were high, the
giving was mutual and total, and the result was nothing less
than stunning. Why do we think children have to be entertained
and distracted and coddled and dumbed down? Sweet Jesus was in
the synergy, I am sure, letting this be an example to all who
were present that our children are amazing when we give them our
best and expect their best in return. Isn’t this exactly what
Jesus modeled?
The requiem ended peacefully. Almost in silence. A full silence.
A perfect silence. May it be so for each of us at the end, I
thought. Wherever that is. Wherever I am. Columbia? London?
Paris? Assisi? Amen.
Amy Sander Montanez is a member of St. Mary's, Columbia.
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