Dear Friends,

It feels a bit like cheating (or goal-snatching?), but this ran across my desk and I felt the timing was meant to be. It is a copy of a speech that the British actor and comedian, Alexander Armstrong, gave at a concert at St. Paul’s Cathedral in London, organized by the Friends of Cathedral Music there. He is, of course, speaking about the immersive and intense experience of being a chorister in a boarding school. Nevertheless, I have found the stories of choristers from all types of programs to be similar, even if with varying degrees of intensity. It is true, belonging to a more serious choir is much like playing a team sport, yet no-one sits on the bench! And singing is one of the few activities I can think of where children can actually perform at a professional level (and be treated like young professionals, for that matter). As we wrap up the current program year and look forward to summer activities, we are already beginning to plan more substantial programming for young voices in the fall. Now is the perfect time to be thinking about which activities will be most beneficial long-term, worth the commitment of time and energy which is required.

Jeremy Bruns

"The Privilege of Choristership" by Alexander Armstrong

Your Royal Highness, my Lords, Ladies and Gentlemen: good evening! What a spectacular event this is and what a great honour it is to be a part of it. I am thrilled to be here. Moreover, I am delighted to have the opportunity to talk to you briefly about the tremendous privilege of choristership: the single greatest leg-up a child can be given in life. 

Now, I know that sounds overblown and, yes, it is a bold claim but the more I think about it the truer I realise it is. Someone made the mistake of asking me during an interview the other day what the benefits are of being a chorister. Well that interview ended up overrunning by half of an hour and I was barely halfway through my list. 

The most obvious benefit is the total submersion in music. This is a ‘compleat’ musical education by process of osmosis. When you come to hang up your cassock for the final time at the age of 13 you will – without even having realised it was happening because you were just having a lovely time singing – have personal experience of every age and fashion of music from the ancient fauxbourdons of plainchant, to the exciting knotty textures of anthems so contemporary that the composers themselves might very well have conducted you. You will have breathed life into everyone from Buxtehude to Britten to Bach to Bridge to Bax to Brahms to Byrd to Bairstow to Bruckner to Bliss (and that’s just the Bs I can think of off the top of my head). But you will know them, know them and love them in the way only a performer truly can. Choral music, to this day, has the power to move me so profoundly that I can lose myself in it for hours and just ride out the happy contemplations it evokes. It is a constant and lifelong tiding of comfort and – euphoric – joy. 

Then there is the musicianship you absorb as a chorister, not just the music theory, the maths (the Italian!) all of which is very useful, but elegant musical phrasing, the projection of good diction, the shaping of beautiful vowel sounds for optimum tone, the careful precision singing a psalm, which can only be achieved by listening intently to those around you and blending your tone and rhythm with theirs – all of these skills and sensitivities become second nature and all of them have strange and unexpected use and resonance in later life. 

And then there’s the language – and I don’t mean the salty badinage of the vestry but the liturgy you’re immersed in, the psalms, the collects, the canticles – the poetry you get to sing (Herbert, Donne, Milton, Shakespeare, Hardy, Auden are all poets I first learnt to love – Christopher Smart even – by singing and performing their words). Your lexicon at the age of 13 is astounding, and your turn of phrase, taught by endless psalms and hymns, and not just the range of your vocabulary but your innate sense of the poetic. You will have come to know only too well the powerful quiet of an evensong, the sumptuous echo of a final amen sung from an ante-chapel but rolling around the clerestory like wine in a taster’s glass. 

And let’s not overlook the discipline of choristership; the order it brings to a young person’s often chaotic life, the friendship, the focus. Punctuality is one of the first lessons you learn: the ignominy of arriving even a minute late is something no chorister wants to experience twice. Then self-possession, decorum and grace are all attributes you quickly learn to fake – in the first instance – before adopting them for real as you gradually mature. But where else in the modern world is a child taught gravitas? Where else is a child taught, for example, to bow with proper dignity and humility? 

I owe my entire career to my experience as a chorister. It was where I learnt to perform, where I learnt to use the full range of my voice; where I learnt to listen, where I learnt to write comedy, where I learnt to carry a pencil at all times – but most importantly it was where I learnt the wonderful truth that something exceptional, something as beautiful as anything anywhere, can be created just by you and your friends. I remember on a choir tour to Salamanca (ooh travel there’s another benefit!) exploring the old cathedral with a couple of friends and finding ourselves alone in some sort of chapter house, we fired off a Boyce 3-part canon just to test the acoustics. A terrible, toe-curlingly self-indulgent thing to do but what a sound we made! And what a thing to discover: that we three – children essentially – carried between us all the components of something so joyous, so perfect, so complete. (And Boyce! There we are, there’s another B for my list.) 

I was lucky enough to be a chorister at St Mary’s Cathedral in Edinburgh which had a good mix of boy and girl choristers as is now fairly typical in cathedrals up and down the country. And both there and at Trinity College, Cambridge where I ended up as a choral scholar, I sang with people from all walks of life (many of whom had their entire educations – at some of the country’s best schools I might add – paid for by the music they had first learnt as choristers). I sang alongside some people of different faiths and plenty of none at all. And I am always heartened by the ethnic diversity in our cathedral and college choir rooms. So you see, you don’t need to be a boy to be a chorister, you don’t need to be a toff to be a chorister, you don’t need to be religious, you don’t even need to be Christian. Although as I say that I’m aware there is a certain spirituality that all choristers come to know well – something that lurks in the silences of a darkening nave while rush-hour traffic chugs about just yards outside the West door. A spirituality that is wrapped up in the ritual, the mystery and the beauty of this ancient tradition we have become part of. And I’m going to call that spirituality The Privilege of Choristership. That is what we are here tonight to celebrate and to preserve for the future, ‘throughout all generations.’

At our vestry retreat last month, we spent Saturday Morning in our chapel, praying the Morning Prayer service together. One of our readings was from Joshua 1:1-9, God’s commissioning of Jacob in the aftermath of Moses’ death.

After reflecting on the scripture reading, we shared how it resonates in our own lives now. Some shared they are motivated by specific words such as “be strong and very courageous,” and others are comforted by “I will be with you; I will not fail you or forsake you.” Some spoke of how the passage provides hope for the future, even during our challenging times. For me, it focused my heart and mind to lean into what’s next, trust in God’s presence, and remember our baptismal covenant. Easier said than done for sure, yet for me, a helpful reminder of how scripture comes alive and resonates daily in unexpected ways.

Next, we wrote down our thoughts on the following questions Rev Nick had prepared for us: 

1. Where have we been over the past year together? 

I wrote:

• We have been able to be together in our worship spaces again.

• God has provided new friendships.

• It has been hard and exhausting. 

2. Where are we now, and what crossroads are we facing? 

I wrote:

• We can see each other again.

• We can embrace each other again.

• New life can result from hardship, what do we want to do about it?

• How do we balance looking back and longing for what was, with what is forever changed?

How might you answer these questions?

Next, we each shared one answer to each question with the group, many with responses similar to the ones I’ve written above. The ensuing discussion led us to formulate a new question: “Who is God calling us to be now?” The surprise for us is that even though the questions were filled with where and what, our discussion led us to focus on our identity, who we’re called to be. 

While we had other work planned for the rest of our day together in retreat, we kept this new question in our hearts and minds. Having that question hanging in the air (and literally hanging on the wall) helped shape our work that day and will continue to do so. For us today, where and what is at the service of who.

We look forward to sharing more outcomes from our retreat time together in the coming weeks.

Dave McSweeney

One of my favorite parts of the day is walking early in the morning with my dog. The trails near our house take me past ponds, through stands of trees and fields, and past stone walls and other reminders of an earlier history. When you walk the same trails every day, the subtle changes as one season shifts to another float into the edges of your awareness. The air feels different, the light changes and the bird songs change. My favorite is the first day that I hear the frogs.

At some point this winter I started to head off on my walk with my mind full of lists of things to do and unresolved problems. I felt like I needed to use the time to work through things that needed to get done and was less and less tuned into what was happening around me. It was a gradual shift, one that I didn’t notice until one very cold day when the juxtaposition of a bird song that I associate with spring and my frost-bitten fingers was sufficiently jarring to push its way through the clutter of lists in my brain. It made me come to a full stop and just listen.

In the past few weeks, a line from a song I like has been surfacing in the background: “Peace, be still, be silent and you’ll hear the whispered roar …” I’ve been trying to explore the many ways to listen. What began as commitment to leave behind the day’s projects for the duration of a morning walk has grown to a practice of spending time being still and waiting to hear God’s voice in the silence. It’s hard for me not to immediately begin to fill silence by framing a question and turning over ideas in my head, but the stillness of listening has become a time I look forward to. Often, I hear something that couldn’t have competed with the chatter that I would generate on my own and sometimes the silence itself is enough.

I write this before we begin our journey together through Holy Week, knowing that it won’t be read until after we celebrate the Resurrection together. I look forward to once again walking these days together and to all of the moments that I associate with an Epiphany Holy Week.      

Nelia 

Here we are — our first Holy Week and Easter together, in-person, since March 2019. I am so very excited for this time together as a parish family. Even as some of us will be away, visiting family or traveling during the school break, I want you to know that the promises of Easter are yours. The things which have been cast down, are being raised up, and the things which have grown old, are being made new. 

I hope you can join us for our Maundy Thursday Dinner and Service tonight at 6:15 pm. We'll have indoor and outdoor seating, as we share a simple meal together this evening and are reminded of Jesus' central call in our lives: "Love one another, as I have loved you." On Good Friday, we invite you to come together at 7:30 am in the Chapel, or at 12:00 pm or 7:30 pm for Good Friday services as we remember both the cost and the gift of God's love in this world. At our Easter Vigil on Saturday, at 7:30 pm, we will hear and experience (think candles, incense, song, and bell-ringing) the fullness of the Easter promises as we tell the story of God's love-life throughout scripture and welcome the newly baptized into the life of faith.

Join us on Easter Sunday at our 9:00 am or 11:15 am services, when we will have a festive Eucharist with wonderful music led by our Parish Choir and brass ensemble. We will have an Easter Reception and Egg Hunt between the services at 10:00 am. 

I am absolutely thrilled that we will be together, in-person and online, during this Holy Week and Easter. Our life together is one small, but significant, manifestation of the new life God promises our world through Christ. Amidst the turmoil and violence of our world, the discord and disdain, in the face of the worry and the challenge, it is absolutely necessary for us to stay rooted in the life-giving power of relationship and community we find and create together. We may not be there yet, but isn't that the point? We are rooted in hope and faith and joy that the old is being made new and the cast down is being raised up — to new life. New life. Now. Together.

Blessed Holy Week and Joyous Easter to you, my friends,
Nick

“I expected the worst, and it was worse than I expected.” ~ attributed to Henry Adams

I was probably eight years old when my parents first took me to a Six Flags amusement park in my native Texas. My mother loved roller coasters, and managed to convince me to ride the Runaway Mine Train with her — hardly a roller coaster by modern standards, but scary to a youngster nonetheless. Though only a bit over three minutes, the ride felt endless! The initial slow tug up what seemed to be an enormous climb produced much anxiety, and then the ride ‘proper’ began. Many screams and heart palpitations later, we were finally thrust up to what I thought was the loading/unloading building; I had survived. Another slow tug up to the building ensued, as I pronounced how glad I was that the ride was finally over. Just as I started to breathe normally again, I realized the building we were pulling into wasn’t the loading/unloading building, but rather a pretend Saloon with plastic people and decorations. Suddenly, there was no floor in front of us, and our train was heading straight down toward a lake! We went through an underwater tunnel at what seemed like lightning speed, and then did indeed reach the final destination.

For much of the early stages of the Covid-19 pandemic, it felt as if we were riding together on a train, in the back car, unable to see forward. More recently, we seemed to make our way to the front of the train, and ‘thought’ that we could at last see where we were headed. However, as we approached what seemed to be a stopping point, we instead found ourselves in the make-believe Saloon. The ride continues, and sometimes it feels as if the floor has dropped beneath us yet again, as we plunge into a dark tunnel. Where will we be when we emerge this time? Perhaps Jesus felt the same way as the time for his final entry into Jerusalem approached.

“Courage is not the absence of fear; it is a commitment to something greater than fear.” ~ Robert Holden

How easy it would have been, at many junctures, to just throw in the towel, overcome with frustration and uncertainty. Cory Muscara, former monk and author of Stop Missing Your Life, says this: “The most difficult moments of life can bring the greatest growth, perspective, and insight. They can also drop us into vulnerability, making us more receptive to things like love, connection, honesty, and authenticity. We’re more likely to connect to the people we care about and reprioritize what is most important in life.” Friends, I hope that you’re holding on to what you find most important, and that you will stay in touch and connected during the seasons ahead. Whatever the path forward turns out to be, and however long this journey takes, I am glad to be in good company for all of the challenges and thrills along the way!

All best wishes for a meaningful Holy Week and a joyous Easter Day,
Jeremy Bruns

Grief: Great sorrow, especially that caused by death.
Grace: The free and unmerited favor of God.

Where is God in the face of grief? Have you recently experienced God’s grace? These questions that Rev. Nick asks us to reflect upon this Lent are ones that I have been turning over in my mind. 

My friend Chris Marrion died suddenly on December 30 of last year. Those of us who knew and loved him are still reeling from this loss. Chris was one of those friends who “got me” — I could just be myself with him and vice versa. His absence over the past months has only added to this sense of isolation I’ve been sitting with for so long. I’ve written before that our faith reminds us that God shows up, we just have to notice. I’ll admit that I’ve struggled to see God in the midst of this grief.

Chris’ memorial service was held on March 12, and his husband Randy asked me to plan the music for it. Chris and I were musical colleagues as well as friends, and I knew that he particularly loved art song and opera. So, I got to work and selected a combination of pre-recorded and live music, each chosen with specific purpose and meaning. Along the way, I offered to take on creating the service bulletin, obsessing about every revision, making sure every detail was covered, working with the technical team at the church where the service was being held to ensure that the pre-recorded materials would be available not only to those in person but also to those attending via Zoom, and so on.

Clearly, this was my way of showing how much I loved Chris, and yet, for one reason or another, every step of the journey to the day of the service felt as though I was pushing a boulder up a mountain. Why was this so hard? Why was I so frustrated? Was everyone else’s grief part of a larger puzzle? Were we each pushing our own boulders to the point where we couldn’t see anything or anyone else?  

Grace within my grief finally arrived on the day of the memorial service. Witnessing and participating in the love and care Chris’ family and friends showed each other through our collective grief was that grace. Whether through the service bulletin, the prepared prayers and remarks, the remembrances, the music, the flowers, or the reception, we showed our love. And it reminds me how important funerals and memorial services are to the grieving process.

God showed up, in community, connection, remembrance and grief, and I noticed. For that I’m grateful.

Where is God in the face of grief? Have you recently experienced God’s grace?

Dave McSweeney, warden