The
Lesson in the Clay
Resting at the center of our kitchen table
is a large pottery
bowl. It was thrown by my wife who
(among her many other talents) is a skilled potter. The bowl is sensuous and
broad, with a subtle and complex gray glaze (much appreciated by her color-blind
partner).
Coming home from an extended work trip and unable to sleep
while I occupy the wrong time zone, I sit here in the kitchen and see the beauty
of this simple bowl in an entirely new light.
This is art very much like the art that we liturgical musicians seek to
create. For those of us who aspire
to write liturgical music or those of us who dare to lead others in singing
their faith within community prayer there is much to learn from this humble
pottery:
It is functional
art. Although the bowl
currently sits empty on our table, you sense that it is waiting to be
filled—with fruit or salad or chips or popcorn.
Its beauty is secondary to—and to a large degree determined by—its
usefulness. This is not “fine”
art—it is folk art, functional art.
How often do we liturgical musicians lose sight of this
simple truth? Choosing (or writing)
music, preparing and rehearsing our ensembles or performing music within
worship, we get caught up in music for its own sake, forgetting that the reason
for all music within liturgy is to help our assembly in their prayer.
The greatest Lutheran liturgical musician of them all, J.S. Bach, often
wrote: “Soli Deo Gloria” (“To
God alone be glory”). Every
liturgical musician is called to help all those in their community express
this profound truth with power and integrity.
Our music and our music-making is never for us; it is always for God’s
people and for their praise and petition.
It is (essentially)
anonymous art. Like the unknown
craftsperson who carved a bird’s nest on the roof of Chartes Cathedral, the
bowl on our kitchen table is work that does not easily reveal its maker.
If you look carefully on the underside of Linda's pottery (which is normally unseen) you can
make out the initials “LH”. The
identity mark is more for the sake of the potter, who often must share a kiln
with other potters, than it is for the consumer, who is normally not interested
in or aware of who made the pottery.
Throughout much of Christian history (and still today in
many Christian cultures around the world) music has been created by someone for a
specific community and a specific occasion.
The person who first sang the music was not remembered; the song (that
now became the community’s song) was all that mattered.
Those of us who create and lead the music of Christian
communities would do well to remember this history.
While we live within a culture in which art is licensed and bought and
sold, we must never presume that we can claim ownership of the song of God’s
people (even when we ourselves have crafted tune or text).
It is imperfect art.
In the traditional Japanese method of pottery, the potter will often deliberately create a flaw in the work. This
comes from the belief that asymmetry and imperfection is more beautiful than
perfection. The bowl on our
kitchen table has this wonderful and playful asymmetry.
Like every human being, it evokes an ideal, but in the end expresses our
imperfect, fragile and beautifully skewed realities.
When we seek perfection in our music we will inevitably be
disappointed by the sound of our congregations.
Only when we come to see God’s holiness in human imperfection will we
truly be pastoral musicians, servants of the Gospel and of God’s people in our
music and in our music-making.
The beautiful pottery on our kitchen table sings to me of our calling, of its importance and its gift..